This series is currently in progress
Check back to see new scenes as I complete them!
Chapter 1: The Dream Girl
You drag yourself out of bed, groggy and disoriented after another restless night. The dreams have been plaguing you for weeks now - always the same mysterious girl with the intense eyes. In your dreams, you watch her from afar as she goes from class to class, or walks home. But when you try to approach her, to speak to her, you always wake up in a cold sweat.
As you stumble through the halls of Hawkins High on your first day, everything feels surreal. The fluorescent lights are too bright, the lockers too loud as they slam shut. You drift from class to class in a daze, barely registering the droning voices of your teachers or the excited chatter of your classmates.
But then, as you round the corner towards the cafeteria, your heart stops.
There she is - the girl from your dreams.
She's standing at her locker, head down, wearing a blue shirt and cut-off jean shorts. Your breath catches in your throat as you stare at her in disbelief. It's impossible, and yet...
She hasn't noticed you yet. You duck behind a row of lockers, mind racing. How can she be real? How can she be here, at your school? You peek out again, half-expecting her to have vanished. But she's still there, now walking towards the cafeteria.
You follow at a distance, heart pounding. You have so many questions, but you're afraid to approach her. What if she disappears? What if it's all just a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep? You pinch yourself, hard, but she doesn't fade away.
As she enters the crowded lunchroom, you lose sight of her momentarily. Panic rises in your chest as you scan the sea of unfamiliar faces. Then you spot her again, sitting alone at a table in the corner. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing thoughts. Should you go talk to her? What would you even say?
You're so lost in your internal debate that you don't notice the student behind you until you collide. Your tray of food goes flying, splattering across the floor. As you scramble to clean up the mess, your cheeks burning with embarrassment, you glance up. The mysterious girl is looking right at you.
Your heart leaps into your throat as she stands up, her eyes never leaving yours. Time seems to slow as she weaves through the crowded cafeteria, heading straight for you. You clumsily try to wipe ketchup off your shirt, but only succeed in smearing it further.
"Hey," she says softly, kneeling down beside you. "Need some help?"
You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out. Up close, her presence is overwhelming. Those eyes that haunted your dreams are even more striking in person - deep and soulful, with flecks of gold around the pupils.
"I'm El," she continues, grabbing some napkins and helping you mop up the mess. "You're new here, right?"
You nod mutely, still unable to form coherent sentences. Your palms are sweating and your heart is racing. Does she recognize you from the dreams? Can she somehow sense your connection?
"First day?" El asks gently. You nod again, feeling like an idiot. She gives you a sympathetic smile. "I know how hard that can be. I was a new kid at another school not too long ago."
"I'm Adam," you finally manage to croak out. "Thanks for, uh, helping with the..." You gesture vaguely at the mess on the floor.
"No problem," El says. "First days are always tough."
You let out a nervous laugh that comes out more like a strangled hiccup. El doesn't seem to notice, or if she does, she's too polite to comment.
"So, where are you from?" she asks, helping you gather the remnants of your lunch.
"Oh, uh, Chicago," you stammer. "My dad got transferred here for work."
You're trying desperately to act normal, to have a regular conversation. But your mind is spinning with questions. How is she here? Why were you dreaming about her? Should you say something?
"Chicago, wow," El says. "That must be a big change, coming to a small town like Hawkins."
You nod vigorously, probably a little too enthusiastically. "Yeah, it's definitely... different."
There's an awkward pause as you both stand up. You rack your brain for something clever or interesting to say, but your mind is blank. El glances at the clock on the wall.
"Well, I should probably get going," she says. "But maybe I'll see you around?"
She gives you a soft, almost shy smile that makes your heart skip a beat. You want to say something - anything - to not seem like such an idiot.
"Yeah, see you around!" you blurt out, much too loudly. Several nearby students turn to stare. "I mean, uh, that would be cool. To see you. Around. Here. At school."
El's eyes crinkle with amusement. She lets out a small giggle, quickly stifling it behind her hand. Your face burns hot enough to fry an egg, but you force yourself to laugh along, trying to play it cool.
"Smooth," El teases gently. "You'll fit right in here."
As she walks away, you want to sink into the floor and disappear. But a tiny part of you is elated - you made her laugh. Sort of.
* * *
The rest of the day passes in a blur. You drift from class to class in a daze, barely registering anything the teachers say. Your mind keeps replaying that lunchroom encounter on an endless loop. You mentally kick yourself for being so awkward, then imagine witty responses you could have said instead.
In your head, you have entire conversations with El. You picture yourself being charming and funny, making her laugh for real. You imagine bonding over shared interests, becoming friends, maybe even...
The shrill ring of the final bell snaps you out of your daydreams. As you gather your things, you realize you haven't absorbed a single thing all afternoon. You'll have to borrow someone's notes later.
Your head is pounding from the stress and lack of sleep. You decide to splash some cold water on your face before heading home. Lost in thought, you push open the nearest bathroom door without looking.
Then you stop in your tracks. Your eyes widen as you take in the pink tile, the mirrors, the poster about feminine hygiene products.
Oh no. God no. You've wandered into the girls' bathroom by mistake!
Panic seizes you as you hear footsteps approaching the bathroom door. You dart into the nearest stall, slamming the door shut just as someone enters. You hold your breath, praying they won't notice anything amiss.
The newcomer is humming softly, a haunting melody that sends shivers down your spine. As they move further into the bathroom, the humming transitions into quiet singing. Your eyes widen as you recognize the voice - it's El.
Your pulse quickens, thundering in your ears. You're trapped, with no way to explain your presence if discovered. The sound of her voice, so close yet unaware of your presence, makes your skin tingle.
El's footsteps draw nearer. You watch through the crack in the stall as she passes by, her profile briefly visible. She enters the stall next to yours, the metal door clanging shut.
You hear the rustling of fabric, then the unmistakable sound of a zipper being lowered. The soft trickle of urine follows. You squeeze your eyes shut. This is wrong. You shouldn't be here, shouldn't be hearing this.
But at the same time, you can’t help but feel turned on. It reminds you of the dream, of watching her. But in the dream, you feel powerful, invincible, like you could do anything…
Suddenly you hear, "Um, hello? Is anyone there?"
You freeze, not daring to breathe.
"I hate to ask, but... could you pass some toilet paper under? There's none in here."
Your mind races. If you don't respond, she'll know something's wrong. But if you do...
With trembling fingers, you unroll some toilet paper from your stall. Holding your breath, you reach down and slide it under the partition.
"Thanks," El says gratefully.
You hear her stand, adjusting her clothing. Your heart pounding, you peer through the crack in the stall door.
She emerges from the stall. Through the narrow gap, you watch her approach the sinks. She turns on the faucet, the rush of water filling the tiled room. El pumps soap into her palm, working it into a lather as she hums that haunting melody.
After rinsing, she shakes excess water from her hands, droplets catching the fluorescent light. El reaches for her backpack, unzipping it with a metallic rasp. She rummages inside, eventually pulling out a white uniform with red stripes. You catch a glimpse of "HAWKINS HIGH SOFTBALL" emblazoned across the back as she shakes it out.
El glances briefly at the restroom door. Your breath catches as she grasps the hem of her shirt and lifts it over her head. The movement causes her hair to cascade down her back in mesmerizing waves.
She turns slightly, giving you an unobstructed view as she unhooks her bra. It falls away, revealing the gentle curves of her breasts. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of her bare skin, smooth and pale in the harsh lighting.
Suddenly, El's head snaps up, her eyes locking onto the crack in the stall door. You jerk backwards, heart leaping into your throat. Did she see you? The silence stretches on for an eternity as you hold your breath, not daring to move a muscle.
After what feels like hours, you hear the rustle of fabric as El continues changing. You remain frozen, afraid to risk another peek. Eventually, you hear the zip of her backpack, followed by retreating footsteps. The bathroom door creaks open, then swings shut with a soft thud.
You wait several more minutes, ears straining for any sound. When you're certain the coast is clear, you finally emerge from the stall on shaky legs. Your reflection in the mirror is pale and wide-eyed. As the adrenaline fades, a mix of guilt and exhilaration washes over you. You hurry from the bathroom, praying no one saw you exit.
* * *
That night, sleep eludes you. You toss and turn, sheets tangling around your legs as your mind races. Every time you close your eyes, you see El's face - her enigmatic smile in the cafeteria, her startled gaze in the bathroom mirror. Guilt and excitement war in your chest, making your heart pound.
You replay every moment of your encounters, analyzing each word, each gesture. What if you had said something different? What if she had caught you watching? The possibilities spiral endlessly, keeping you wide awake long past midnight.
When sleep finally claims you in the early hours of the morning, you slip immediately into the familiar dreamscape. The school materializes around you, but this time you recognize it as Hawkins High. The hallways are eerily empty, your footsteps echoing off the lockers.
An urgent need fills you - you have to find her. You sprint down corridors, throw open classroom doors, search every nook and cranny. But El is nowhere to be found. Panic rises in your throat as you burst out of the main entrance, eyes scanning the grounds desperately.
Then you spot her. She's sitting on a bench near the bus stop. Relief floods through you as you approach. El looks up, meeting your gaze with those mesmerizing eyes.
At school, you'd felt so nervous seeing her.
But in the dream, you feel different - confident, assured. Power thrums through your veins like electricity. You know in that moment you can do… anything.
You stand above her and feel your cock hardening.
Suddenly, it’s out, naked before her, a full 10 inches at least. She looks shocked to see it, but you feel no shame at all.
You order her to touch it.
She flinches slightly at your command, looking a bit scared.
But then, hesitantly, she reaches her hand towards you, and you feel her soft fingers curl around your cock...
You gasp as sparks of electric pleasure course through you.
She's looking at you with fearful eyes. You wonder what you look like to her. Are you Adam? Can she actually see you?
No.
It's just a dream.
You can do anything you want.
You reach out to grab her...
Chapter 2: The Friend
You jerk awake, lungs burning, sheets twisted around your legs. For a second the world is silent but for your frantic heartbeat. Then your alarm blares, shrill and merciless, and you grope for your clock to silence it. 7:48 a.m. You’re already late.
You brush your teeth with one hand and shove books into your backpack with the other, all the while replaying the dream in your mind, trying to forget the way El looked up at you, afraid and obedient and so, so real.
You dress in a daze and choke down a piece of toast as you grab your backpack, ignoring your dad’s muffled goodbye from the living room. By the time you sprint into the parking lot, the first period bell is already echoing through the halls.
You try to blend into the stream of students. Last night’s dream is a film burn overlaying reality, and every flash of blonde hair makes your stomach drop. You keep your head down, eyes glued to your locker, but your hands shake as you turn the dial.
You don’t see her until you slam your locker shut.
“El!” you say, voice cracked and too-loud. She’s right there, inches from you, her face open and perfectly calm. If she recognizes you from the bathroom, or the cafeteria, or anywhere, she doesn’t show it.
“Hey, Adam.” She’s got a binder under one arm and a half-eaten apple in the other. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
You force a laugh, but it comes out like a cough. “Just… rough morning. Forgot to set an alarm.”
She tilts her head, studying you. “You’re not in trouble, are you?”
You will yourself to look normal. “No, just late. I mean, I guess that’s trouble. But not, like, real trouble.”
She smiles, and it’s so gentle that your guilt spikes. You can’t stop seeing her naked in the harsh bathroom light, or the way she looked at you in the dream. You wonder if she can sense it off you, the way dogs smell fear.
“Want me to walk with you?” she says, like it’s nothing. “I’m going to math, but I can show you where the office is first, if you need to get a late pass.”
You almost say no, but some part of you wants to be near her, even as you’re terrified she’ll see through you. “Yeah, that’d be cool. Thanks.”
The walk is silent for a few steps, but El doesn’t seem to mind. She walks with a kind of loose-limbed confidence, as if she’s spent a lot of time being exactly where she is. You try to match her pace and accidentally trip over your own feet. She slows, waiting for you to catch up, and you feel like a toddler learning to walk.
At the end of the hall, a girl with two French braids and a face full of freckles is leaning against some lockers, chewing gum. She’s wearing a faded “Metallica” t-shirt and jeans that look like they’ve seen better decades. She clocks you immediately, eyes narrowing, and then grins.
“El, you found our new baby deer,” she says. “How’s he adjusting to the wild?”
El gives a small laugh. “He’s a little jumpy, but I think he’ll make it.” She turns to you. “Adam, this is Max. She’s in my math class, and also, like, every after-school club ever.”
Max pops her gum and extends a hand. “Nice to meet you, city boy. You like D&D, or are you more of a sportsball person?”
You take her hand, surprised at the strength of her grip. “Uh, I played some D&D back in Chicago. My cousin ran a campaign for us. I was a wizard, but I kept dying.”
“Classic wizard move,” Max says, approvingly. “We’re running a campaign this Friday. You should come. El’s the dungeon master. She’s brutal.”
You glance at El, and she looks almost bashful. “I’m fair,” she says. “But yes, sometimes players die.”
Max leans in conspiratorially. “Last week, she turned my character into a frog for an entire session because I tried to seduce a barmaid. She does not mess around.”
El shrugs. “Actions have consequences.”
You laugh, and the tension in your chest loosens a bit. “Sounds fun. I’ll see if my dad is cool with it.”
“Bring snacks,” Max says. “That’s the price of admission. And don’t flake out. We’ve had enough flakes.”
A bell rings, and the hallway erupts with motion. Max glances at her watch, then at El. “We’re gonna be late. You coming?”
El looks at you. “You okay from here?”
“Yeah,” you say. “Thanks for the rescue.”
Max gives you a mock salute. “Later, city boy.” She grabs El by the elbow and drags her into the current of students.
You watch them go, feeling a weird ache in your chest. For a second, you think El turns back, like she’s going to say something else, but then she’s gone.
You stand there until the late bell rings again, then hustle to your classroom. The teacher gives you a look, but you slide into your seat as quietly as possible.
All class, you can’t stop replaying the conversation. El’s “actions have consequences” echoes in your head, and you wonder if she somehow knows everything about you—your dreams, your guilt, your fear.
The rest of the day you make it through on autopilot. The panic from the morning tapers off, replaced by a kind of numbness. You keep your head down, taking notes you know you’ll never read, and when Max swings by your locker at last bell to toss you a crumpled flyer for the D&D game, you manage a half-smile. “See you Friday,” she says. “And don’t wuss out. El gets sad when people bail.”
You walk home in the half-light, the air thick with humidity and the smell of cut grass. Your dad’s already home, slumped in front of the TV with a beer, and when you tell him you’re not hungry and are heading straight to bed, he just nods, eyes on the flickering screen.
Your room is a box of borrowed light and shadows. You lie there, waiting for sleep, wondering if El ever dreams about you. If she does, would she tell you? Would she even remember? You try not to think about the bathroom, or the dream, or the way she looked at you—real or imagined—when you were at your most exposed.
You drift, finally, into sleep.
Chapter 3: Just a Dream...
You’re in a house you’ve never seen, but you know it’s hers. The wallpaper is faded and there’s a stack of board games under the coffee table. There’s a smell of burnt popcorn and something sweet and chemical, maybe nail polish remover.
You wander through the living room, touching the rough fabric of the couch, the edge of a photograph in a frame: a younger El with a woman you don’t recognize, both of them squinting into the sun. Your feet move like you’re on rails, up the stairs, down a hallway with peeling paint. You stop at a closed door.
You don’t knock. You push it open.
Her room is small, neat. There’s a battered dresser with stickers all over it, a pile of books on the floor, a glass of water on the nightstand. El is in bed, on her back, eyes closed and asleep. She’s wearing a camisole and has the sheets pulled up to her chest.
You stand there for a long time, watching her and listening to her breathe.
Then you drift closer, silent as a ghost, the floorboards not daring to creak.
At the edge of the bed you stand for a moment, drinking her in. There is a faint, animal warmth radiating from the tangle of blankets, and the scent of her—sweet, a little sharp, something like new paper and half-washed strawberries—makes your head swim. She is so small, softer in sleep than you have ever seen her, the angles of her face loosened, lips parted just enough to show the tip of her tongue.
You crouch, nose inches from her hair, and inhale. You want to remember this, the way her skin is flush with sleep, the downy shadow at her jaw, the tiny mole just under her left eye. She stirs, lashes fluttering, but doesn't wake. You feel a pulse of electricity in your groin and realize, with a dizzying rush, that your cock is already hard, straining against your jeans.
This is just a dream, you tell yourself. You can do anything you want.
You pull yourself out, fingers trembling. The air is cold on your bare skin. You stroke slowly at first, watching her. The thrill is in the risk, the possibility that she might wake and catch you. You imagine her opening her eyes, seeing you looming over her, helpless and pinned by your gaze.
You climb onto the bed, straddling her thighs. The mattress dips and she shifts beneath you, a low sound escaping her throat. You can't stop now. You stroke faster, staring at her sleeping face, the way her chest rises and falls in time with your heartbeat.
She wakes, suddenly, eyes wide and glassy. For a moment she's too stunned to move. Then she tries to sit up, but your weight keeps her in place. There's fear in her eyes, but also something else—curiosity, a kind of resigned understanding. She looks up at you, silent.
You lean forward, bracing yourself with one hand on the headboard, and with the other you stroke your cock, faster now, the need overwhelming. She doesn't look away. Her lips part, a soft gasp, and you feel yourself teetering on the edge.
With a grunt you come, hot and sudden, splattering across her face. She flinches, but doesn't scream or fight. Spurt after spurt paints her cheeks, her lips, her chin. You watch her, chest heaving, as the last drop dribbles onto her collarbone.
Members get full access to the uncensored 2K video: Join today >>
Note: this is a large file. Wait for it to fully load or download to avoid lagging.
Click the full-screen icon to resize to your screen.
You want to say something, to explain or apologize, but before you can, the dream dissolves. The bed, the room, her face—gone.
You’re in an arcade. It’s hot, bright like in the summer. You smell the beach and the sea in the air.
There’s only one other person here, a girl in a black and white bikini, with red hair tied in two pigtails. She’s playing Street Fighter II, her fingers a blur of violence on the buttons. You watch the muscles in her shoulders flex as she leans into the match, the way she swears when she loses a round, the way her whole body goes tense when she wins.
It’s Max.
She doesn’t see you at first. You drift closer and closer, close enough to smell her—sweat, cherry lip balm, something a little like sun-warmed skin and grass. You want to reach out and touch her, to see if she’s real. In the dream, you can do anything.
You hover behind her, so close your knuckles brush the ends of her hair. The urge to press your face into her neck is overwhelming. You want to taste the salt there, to bite down and leave a mark. You’re hard already, and the friction of your jeans is almost unbearable.
She loses a round and slams her fist against the side of the cabinet. “Goddammit,” she mutters. Then she seems to sense you, turns slowly, one eyebrow arched. For a second, she doesn’t recognize you. Then her eyes narrow. “You stalking me, freak?”
You don’t say anything. You just stand there, breathing heavy, your cock straining against your zipper.
Max looks you up and down, like she’s measuring you for a coffin. But there’s something in her face—an edge of uncertainty, maybe even fear. You like it. You want to see more.
She steps away from the machine, arms crossed. “Well? You gonna say something, or just stand there like a perv?”
You move towards her. She backs away. She’s trembling but trying to hide it, mouth set in a hard line.
You reach for her, just like that, no words. You grab her wrist and yank her towards you. She tries to twist away, but you’re stronger, and she knows it. Her breath is coming fast now, panic and something else in her eyes.
You notice for the first time that here in the dream world, you’re not a scrawny kid, but a larger muscled man. You wonder what your face looks like…
You unzip and pull yourself free, your cock flushed and angry in the light. Max’s eyes go wide. “What the fuck—” she starts, but you cut her off by grabbing a fistful of her hair and forcing her to her knees.
You stroke yourself, slow at first, watching her face for any sign of resistance. She looks up at you, cheeks burning, jaw clenched. She doesn’t beg or plead. She just glares, defiant even now.
The anger in her makes you harder.
You grip her jaw and force her mouth open, the heat of her breath ghosting over your tip. She tries to turn her head, but you hold her in place, pushing past her lips until you're buried to the hilt. The walls of her throat convulse around you, and her eyes water, but she doesn't flinch. She just glares up at you, daring you to keep going.
You fuck her mouth, slow at first, then faster, the wet heat of her tongue and the tightness of her throat driving you wild. Each time you bottom out, her nose presses against your skin, her breath coming in desperate, flaring bursts. Her hands scrabble at your thighs, fingernails digging crescent moons into your flesh, but you don't let up. You grab a fistful of her hair and hold her steady, using her as nothing more than a toy for your pleasure.
She gags once, twice, but never breaks eye contact. The challenge in her gaze only makes you rougher, and soon you're thrusting so deep that your balls slap against her chin. Saliva leaks from the corners of her mouth, dripping down onto her chest and staining the top of her swimsuit. She looks furious, humiliated, and impossibly hot.
When you finally lose control, you pull out and jerk yourself over her face. The first spurt catches her across the cheek, the second splashes her nose, the rest painting her lips and chin in thick, sticky ropes.
Members get full access to the uncensored 2K video: Join today >>
Note: this is a large file. Wait for it to fully load or download to avoid lagging.
Click the full-screen icon to resize to your screen.
She blinks through the mess, tongue darting out to lick a drop from her upper lip, and the sight of it nearly makes you hard all over again.
You stand there, panting, as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "Fucking asshole," she mutters, but there's a tremor in her voice, a note of something like awe. She looks up at you, eyes wild and shining, and for a moment you want to drop to your knees and worship her.
But the dream is already dissolving, the arcade melting into static and light. You reach for her, but your hand passes through empty air. There's a rush of vertigo, a sense of falling, and then—
Chapter 4: The Hunt
You come to with the alarm vibrating the nightstand. You’re so hard it hurts, the sheets tented and sticky against your thigh, the afterimage of Max’s contemptuous glare burned into your retinas. You stare at the ceiling, heart jackhammering, and wonder if this is some kind of curse or a gift. The power—the raw, animal certainty of it—makes you lightheaded. Maybe this is what it feels like to be a god.
You’re late again. You scramble through your morning routine, barely tasting the burnt toast, barely noticing your dad’s hungover silence. By the time you make it to school, the halls are already empty, your footsteps echoing as you jog to history class. You duck your head, avoiding the teacher’s glare as you slide into your seat.
The rest of the day is a grey blur. Every class is filtered through a haze of exhaustion and a low, pulsing hunger, like you’re starving for something you can’t name. You can’t look at El, not even from across the cafeteria. She’s always with Max, the two of them heads together, eyes darting up sometimes, scanning for you. You feel hunted and hunter at the same time.
You avoid them both. You feign illness in gym, skip out early from study hall. At lunch you sit in the courtyard alone, pretending to read. You can’t shake the feeling that they know. That somehow, through some psychic transmission, El has seen what you’ve done to her in the dream. That Max feels the bruises of your grip on her jaw, the taste of you on her tongue.
That’s how it goes, all week. Every night, you slip into the velvet dark of sleep and find yourself hunting them. Sometimes it’s El, sometimes it’s Max, never both at once. Always alone, always in some unfamiliar room that feels like it’s been built just for the two of you. Sometimes you catch them in bed, hair splayed across the pillow, skin glowing with moonlight. Sometimes it’s in the bathroom, the air thick with steam and the sharp scent of soap. Once, it’s the gym, empty and echoing, her body a pale blur in the shadows. Once, it’s a classroom after hours, chalk dust swirling in the shafts of late sun.
Each time they see you, they freeze. Their eyes are wide and helpless, sometimes afraid, sometimes—maybe—something else. Wanting it? You can’t tell. You don’t care. You just go to them, pull them down, force their mouths open and fuck them, merciless. You’re a giant in these dreams, monstrous, all muscle and cock and single-minded hunger. They choke and gag, tears leaking down their faces, but they take it, every inch, until you finish and leave them ruined, dripping, glazed in you.
Members get full access to the uncensored 2K video: Join today >>
Note: this is a large file. Wait for it to fully load or download to avoid lagging.
Click the full-screen icon to resize to your screen.
You wake up every morning with a splitting headache and a jaw full of guilt. Your sheets are always soaked. You start sleeping in your clothes just to save time.
Friday comes. You spend the whole day in a haze, trying not to think about what will happen tonight at D&D, whether El and Max will look at you and see the monster you are. You’re half convinced that you’ll open the door to Mike Wheeler’s basement and find the police waiting for you, or some government men in black, or maybe just El and Max with knives in their hands.
Instead, when you show up, there’s the a glow of Christmas lights strung around the basement, the wet dog smell of a carpet that’s seen too many sodas spilled. Mike waves you in with a grin, Dustin’s already setting up the DM screen, and Lucas is sorting bags of Doritos by flavor with a kind of holy reverence. Max is sprawled on a beanbag, legs crossed, eyes half-lidded. El is at the card table, shuffling dice, her gaze glassy and unfocused.
You try to tell yourself it’s fine, that you can do this, just a few hours and then you can go home and lie awake and sweat through your pillow. But there’s a tightness in the room, like the air is strung with invisible wire, and every time you look up you catch El’s eyes on you, or Max’s, both of them watching with a strange, tired intensity.
You barely remember the first hour. Someone—Mike?—makes a joke about your wizard dying, and you pretend to laugh. You fumble your character sheet, roll some dice, nod when prompted. El’s voice is hoarse, softer than at school, and she reads from her notes with a kind of mechanical patience. Max doesn’t say much, just picks at her cuticles and slumps deeper into the chair as the evening drags on.
At some point, Dustin brings out a tray of Rice Krispie Treats shaped like goblin heads. You take one, gnaw it to pieces, and try not to think about the last time you saw El’s mouth, or Max’s. The images come unbidden, a slideshow of faces slick and shining, eyes huge. You force your mind back to the campaign, but it’s like listening to a movie through a wall.
During a break, you escape to the bathroom and splash cold water on your face. You stare at yourself in the mirror, searching for some sign of the monster in your dreams. Your eyes look bloodshot, your lips chapped. You could be anyone.
When you come back, the campaign is in chaos. Mike’s rogue has set off a trap, Lucas is arguing about initiative, and El is hunched over the DM notes, her shoulders shaking. Max is standing now, hands on the table, a tendril of hair stuck to her cheek with sweat. She looks at you, and for a second you think she’s going to say something, but she just drops back into the beanbag and pulls her knees to her chest.
Then you try to cast a spell from a mysterious scroll, but it goes terribly wrong, and your character begins to attack the other party members. In the end, the party has to put you down, but all you feel is relief.
The night finishes in a blur. Someone else's character dies, there’s a long argument about resurrection rules, and then people start packing up. You help Mike put away the folding chairs, then shoulder your backpack and head up the stairs, desperate for the cool dark of outside air.
You head out into the night, grateful for the cold and the silence. You’re halfway down the block when you hear footsteps behind you, sneakers scuffing against the sidewalk. You don’t turn around, at first, because you know who it is.
They catch up to you at the corner. El is wearing a threadbare jacket, her hands shoved deep in the pockets. Max hangs back a few steps, arms crossed, her face unreadable in the sodium streetlight.
“Adam,” El says, voice flat. “You’ve been avoiding us.”
You try to laugh it off, but it comes out brittle and thin. “No, I just—been a weird week. That’s all.”
Max scoffs, her breath making a white cloud. “Yeah, well, you look like shit. And I mean that as a compliment.” She says it like she’s trying to be funny, but there’s no real heat to it.
You look at them—really look—and for the first time you notice how hollowed out they are. Max’s eyes are ringed with purple, and El’s hands are shaking, just a little.
“Are you guys okay?” you say, your voice a whisper.
They both go quiet, Max scowling at her sneakers, El’s lips pressed in a white line.
“Bad dreams,” El says at last, picking at a ripped seam on her sleeve. “Like… really bad.” She glances sideways at Max, who shrugs, jaw set.
“We’ve both been getting them,” Max admits, voice low. “Like.. don’t-want-to-sleep-anymore level bad,” and she shakes her head.
You nod like you understand, but your insides are ice. The guilt is so sudden, so complete, you almost throw up right there on the curb.
It’s not just you. They’re feeling it. They’re living it. Maybe even fully experiencing what you’re doing to them in the dreams.
“Sorry,” you say, and you mean it, though you can’t explain why. “I, uh. I get weird dreams too. Makes everything feel… yeah not good.” It’s such a nothing thing to say, but it’s all you’ve got.
Max snorts. “Yeah, well, if I ever meet the asshole writing these scripts, I’ll punch him in the dick.” She grins, a little, and El laughs—a real laugh, sharp and sudden, and for a second you can breathe.
“Maybe you’re just psychic,” you joke, “and you’re picking up all my nightmares. Sorry for the static.”
El looks at you for a long second, like she wants to say something else. Then she just shrugs, letting it slide away. “Could be worse,” she says. “Could be finals next week.”
They turn at the next street, heading toward Max’s house. El waves, slow and tired, and Max just raises a hand in salute. You watch them go, standing under the weird yellow streetlight, and the guilt sits in your stomach like a swallowed stone.
You walk home in a fog, replaying every dream, every detail, every time you took what you wanted from them in sleep. You try to convince yourself it’s just a coincidence, that you’re not some psychic parasite, but the memory of their faces—drawn and haunted, so unlike their daytime selves—won’t let go.
You promise yourself: no more. No more dreams, no more watching, no more taking. You’ll stay awake if you have to. You’ll stop being the monster.
That night you prop your eyelids open with caffeine and TV, flipping channels until the world blurs. You doze off anyway, at 2:17 a.m., slumped on the couch, and you’re in the dream before you can stop it.
Chapter 5: The Watcher
The air is heavy with the scent of old carpet, something sweet and rotten, a trace of sweat baked into the sofa cushions. You’re in El’s living room, standing in the blue wash of a muted TV, the glow crawling across the wall like a slow, invasive mold. There are shoes by the door, three pairs, all too small for you. A mug with a lipstick print on the rim. A clock ticking with the patience of a bomb.
You know, without knowing how, that she’s upstairs. You can feel her, the way you feel your own pulse. You imagine the shape of her fear, the way it pools in the hollows of her collarbone, the way it sharpens her breath, makes her skin electric. You tell yourself you’ll leave, that you’ll just turn and walk out, but your feet are already moving, as if the floor is tilted and you’re rolling toward her.
The stairs are soft with dust. Each step is a small betrayal, a promise you break with the next. At the top of the landing, a door is open, the room beyond lit only by the vapor of streetlights through thin curtains. She’s on the bed, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped tight around herself. Her head is bowed, hair a tangle of shadow. She’s naked, and the sight of it makes your lungs seize up, the old hunger rising like a fever.
You want to turn away, to erase yourself from this scene, to take the dark urge and drown it in the bathtub. But you’re already inside, the carpet warm where she’s pressed it flat with her bare feet, the air thick with the chemical tang of her shampoo. You hover, invisible, at the edge of the room, your body vibrating with the urge to act.
She senses you. You see it in the way her back stiffens, the way her breath hitches. She raises her head, and for a second you think she’s looking right at you, eyes wide and wet and unblinking. But she doesn’t scream, doesn’t flinch. She just stands, slow and deliberate, and walks to the window. She presses her palm to the glass, as if she could push the night away.
You will yourself to disappear, to shrink into a mote of dust, a nothing. She turns, scanning the room. Her gaze passes over you, then lingers, confusion knitting her brow. She steps closer, tentative, her hand reaching for the space you occupy. You hold your breath, willing yourself to silence, to invisibility, to mercy.
She stops a foot away, close enough that you can see the goosebumps prickling her arms, the way her nipples tighten with the cold. She leans in, her face inches from yours, searching for something she can’t name. You want to reach out, to touch her cheek, to tell her it’s okay, that you’re sorry, that you’ll never do this again. But you don’t move. You just stand there, a ghost, a shadow, a thing she can almost see.
She shakes her head, shivering, and pulls on a t-shirt from the floor. She sits back on the bed, knees drawn up, and stares into the darkness.
You will yourself to leave, but before you can even close the door behind you, the scene has changed.
You’re in a dark room, the walls papered in band posters and magazine clippings, most of them curling at the edges. There’s a pile of laundry in the corner and a skateboard propped under the window. The air is heavy with the scent of old sneakers and the sharp, citrus edge of some drugstore deodorant. Max is lying on her bed, naked, headphones on, eyes shut.
You’re there, but you’re not. You look down and there’s nothing—no body, no limbs, just the sense of being present, weightless, a camera floating in the shadows. She can’t see you, you think, but after a moment she sits up, putting the headphones down. Then she stands, fear beginning to take her. She scans the room, eyes narrowed, shoulders hunched against some invisible threat. Her nipples are goose-pimpled in the cold, and her fingers curl protectively over her stomach.
“Who’s there?” she whispers. Her voice is raw, the scrape of sandpaper over stone. She stands, every muscle coiled, and walks to the door, flipping the light switch on and off. Nothing. She laughs, but it’s a dry, hollow sound. “Get it together,” she mutters, then heads down the hallway to the bathroom.
You follow, because you can’t not. Her footsteps are silent on the carpet, but the bathroom tile is cold and loud. She bends over the tub, twisting the faucet, her ass round and perfect in the dim light. Steam ghosts up, and she steps in, letting the water run over her face until her hair is plastered to her cheekbones. You watch her for what feels like hours—she soaps every inch of herself with methodical, almost violent motions, as if trying to scrub off a layer of skin. You want to leave, but you don’t. You tell yourself it’s harmless, that you’re just watching, that she’ll never know. But you know that’s a lie.
She steps out, dripping, and wraps herself in a towel. She wipes the fog from the mirror and stares at her own reflection, lips moving in silent conversation. You feel the hunger in you, the same dark pulse, but you force yourself to stay still, to just watch. She brushes her teeth with angry jabs, then spits, red hair clinging to her face in wet ropes. She stares into the mirror one last time, and for a second you think she’s looking right at you.
Then she walks over to the toilet and you get a dark thrill as you watch her pee. You begin to stroke yourself, but hold back again from the urge to throat her.
She snaps off the light and walks back to her room, the towel trailing behind her. She dresses in the dark, quick and careless, then flops onto her bed.
You want to touch her, to see if her skin is as soft as it looks, but you don’t. You stay in the corner, a silent witness, until she falls asleep.
You wake in your own bed, heart pounding, sheets twisted around your body like restraints. It’s still dark out, but you know you won’t sleep again.
That weekend, you become a wraith in Hawkins. You haunt the borderlands between waking and sleep, flickering in and out of the girls’ houses every night. You see Max, curled in her sheets with the covers half-kicked off, her calves bare and freckled, her underwear a red slash above the pale of her hips.
You see El, sometimes in pajamas, sometimes naked, always restless, always waking at the slightest creak or breath. Both of them seem to sense you: Max snaps awake, eyes darting to the window, heart pounding so hard you can feel it through the plaster; El sits bolt upright, staring into the corner you’re hiding in, lips parted in a silent challenge.
You tell yourself it’s better now, that you’re not touching them, not forcing yourself inside their dreams, but the guilt only thickens. You’re still a ghost, a parasite. You’re still watching.
Members get full access to the uncensored 2K video: Join today >>
Note: this is a large file. Wait for it to fully load or download to avoid lagging.
Click the full-screen icon to resize to your screen.
Monday, you steel yourself to avoid them. You go through the day like you’re wearing someone else’s skin, gray and cold and too tight. You take side doors and empty stairwells, you eat lunch in the music room, you keep your eyes glued to the floor. You almost make it. Almost.
Last period, you double back to your locker for a book you don’t even need. You round the corner and there they are: El and Max, standing together, twin pillars of judgment. For a second, you think about turning around, just walking out of the building and never coming back. But Max sees you before you can move, and El’s eyes follow a heartbeat later. You’re trapped.
Max is the first to speak. “Hey, freak,” she says, but her voice is weirdly gentle. “You dodging us now?”
You try to play it off, but your hands are shaking so badly you can’t get the locker open. “Just… busy,” you mumble. “You know. Homework.”
El steps closer, her brow furrowed. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.” She’s right. Your face is clammy, your lips dry, and your shirt is sticking to your back with sweat. You feel like you might puke.
Max leans in, sniffing theatrically. “Jesus, did you drink a bottle of NyQuil or something? You smell like a pharmacy.” She grins, but there’s concern there, too. “Or is this some Chicago thing? You guys all look like extras from Night of the Living Dead?”
You try to laugh, but it comes out a croak. Max glances at El, and El steps up so close you can see the flecks of gold in her eyes. She puts a hand on your shoulder. It’s shockingly warm.
“You okay?” she asks.
You nod, but the locker swims in your vision. “Just tired,” you say. “Didn’t really sleep this weekend.”
Max rolls her eyes. “Yeah, join the club. I had three nights in a row where I woke up screaming.” She says it like a joke, but her hands are fidgeting with the strap of her backpack, twisting it over and over.
El squeezes your shoulder, just a little.
Your vision tunnels, a gray blur swallowing Max and El and the entire world behind them. The air tastes metallic, like licking a coin, and your knees buckle. You hear yourself say “I’m fine,” but it comes out slurred, underwater.
Your head goes fuzzy, the edges of your vision grey out, and for an instant you’re weightless. The next thing you know, you’re slumped against the lockers and both girls have their hands on you. Max’s palm is flat against your chest, pinning you upright. El’s arm is braced under your shoulder.
They’re close—closer than anyone’s been all year—and the heat of them is a shock. You smell the sweet tang of Max’s cherry gum and the sharp, clean sweat from El’s wrist; there’s a faint trace of shampoo, rainwater, and something animal, urgent.
You’re trembling, and not just from the headrush. Max’s fingers are digging into your sternum, and you can feel the bite of her nails through your shirt. El’s breath is on your cheek, steady and slow, and her hand slides up to cup the back of your neck.
There’s a moment—a heartbeat—where you’re suspended, held up by nothing but their twin grips and the fact that you can’t let either of them see how much you want this. How much you want them.
“Adam,” El says, low and urgent. “You’re not okay.”
“I’m just tired,” you say again, but the words are slippery in your mouth.
Max looks at El, the way people look at the grownup in the room when things get out of hand. “Should we take him to the nurse?”
El shakes her head. “He just needs air.” She steers you down the hallway, Max trailing close behind, and the three of you burst out into the sunlight. It’s cold, but you’re grateful for the slap of wind. El keeps her hand at the small of your back, guiding you down the steps. Max hovers, biting her lip.
You sit on the curb, elbows on your knees, and try to swallow the wave of nausea. El crouches in front of you, her face open and unafraid. Max paces, then sits too, close enough that her knee presses into yours.
“Dude,” Max says, her face so close it blurs, “you’re white as a sheet.”
You close your eyes, willing your pulse to slow. The embarrassment is overwhelming, but under it is something else—a dark thrill, a memory of their hands on you, the way their bodies pressed in, the certainty that you could do anything to them, if only you let yourself.
“Sorry,” you manage, voice raw. “Didn’t eat lunch. Just crashed, I guess.”
Max snorts. “You’re a disaster. You know that, right?”
You nod, and it feels weirdly good to admit it.
El leans in, voice soft. “Are you sleeping at all?”
You shake your head. “Not really. Bad dreams. Every night.”
Max glances at El. “Me too. But last night was better. Like, a little.”
El nods. “Same. It’s like it’s fading.” She hesitates, then brushes a strand of hair from your forehead. Her fingers are cold and electric. “Maybe it’s just… the stress. New school, new everything.”
You want to tell her it’s not stress, that something is wrong with you, that you’re the disease in this system. But you can’t. You just nod.
Max digs in her backpack and pulls out a mini Snickers, the wrapper battered and warm. She offers it to you and you gratefully accept.
There’s a silence as you eat it, heavy and not entirely uncomfortable.
El breaks it first. “Mike’s running another session tonight. You coming?”
You want to say yes, you want to be near them, but the thought of sitting in that fluorescent-lit basement, surrounded by their voices and the smell of their skin, is almost too much. “Can’t,” you say, “my dad’s making me do chores. Rain check?”
El’s face falls, just a little, but she nods. “Sure. Next time.”
Max stands, brushing dust from her jeans. She fixes you with a look, “Sleep tonight, Adam, or I’ll have to come find you and make you sleep,” and she makes a fist like she’s going to punch you out.
Chapter 6: The Ghost
On the walk home, you can’t shut out the echo of their hands on your body, the heat of their touch still vibrating through your skin. It’s all you can think about, every step a drumbeat of want, the memory of Max’s knuckles digging into your chest and El’s fingers at the nape of your neck. You smell them with every breath, a blend of sugar, sweat, and something almost metallic, like blood but finer, more precious.
You eat dinner without tasting it and spend the evening in your room, the light turned low. You try to do homework, but the words blur and run together, and every thought returns to the wet, electric shock of their bodies pressed against yours. You want to believe you’re getting better, that you’re fighting it, but the hunger is back and it’s worse than before.
When you finally collapse into bed, the sheets are still tangled and sour from the last dream. You close your eyes and will yourself to sleep, promising that tonight you’ll be good, that you’ll be strong. But the second you cross the border, you’re already in her room.
You know it’s El’s by the deep blue sheets, the way the moonlight pools in the corners, the smell of old books and lavender. She’s there, curled on her side, one arm draped over the pillow, her face slack with sleep. She’s wearing a pale pink t-shirt and gray gym shorts, her hair a dark halo against the pillowcase. For a long time you just stand there, watching her chest rise and fall, the exposed skin of her thigh glowing in the blue dark.
You try to leave, to back away, but your body won’t listen. The urge is molten, black and bright, and it pulls you closer until you’re standing at the edge of the bed, your breath stirring the hair at her temple.
You kneel, your head level with her hips, and slide your hands under the waistband of her shorts. She doesn’t wake, just shifts a little, her thighs parting. You pull the shorts down, slow and careful, and she’s naked underneath, the fine down on her skin catching the light. Her legs are slender, the muscles taut and trembling even in sleep.
You spread her open, and the sight of it—perfect and soft, the lips flushed and shining—makes you dizzy. Your cock is out, thick and hot in your hand, and you stroke it, the slap of skin loud in the hush of the room.
She stirs, mouth opening in a tiny gasp, but doesn’t wake. You line yourself up, the head of your cock nudging at her entrance, and in that moment, she opens her eyes.
They’re huge and dark, pupils blown wide. She looks straight at you, but you know she can’t see, not really. Still, her breath catches, her body tenses, and you feel a ripple of fear—or maybe anticipation—run through her.
She blinks, once, twice, and then her jaw goes slack as you press the fat head of your cock against her slit and push inside. There’s no resistance; her body opens for you, soft and slick and impossibly hot, as if you’ve always belonged there. The air is thick with her scent, a mixture of salt and summer and something almost metallic, primal. You drive forward, inch by inch, until your pelvis is flush against the curve of her ass, your cock buried so deep you wonder if you’ll ever be able to pull out.
El’s hands grip the sheet, knuckles white. Her breathing goes sharp, then ragged, a staccato series of gasps muffled by the pillow. She doesn’t scream, doesn’t fight. She just clutches the mattress and arches back into you, her body trembling with every inch you claim.
You set a rhythm, slow and deliberate, savoring the way her pussy grips you, the way her whole body seems to tremble around your intrusion. She whimpers into the bedding, her free hand flying up to cover her mouth as if to keep the sound from escaping. You watch her eyes roll back, her lashes fluttering, her whole being reduced to the point of friction where your flesh meets hers. You can’t help yourself—you lean in, hands on her hips, and fuck her harder, the sound of your bodies slapping together loud in the hush of the room.
She’s so tight, so fucking wet, your cock slides in and out with obscene ease. Each time you bottom out, she shudders, her thighs clenching involuntarily. You hear the whisper of your name, “Adam,” muffled by the sheets. You want to answer, but your mouth is dry, your brain fried by the white-hot pleasure of her cunt milking you.
You feel it building, the pressure at the base of your spine, the animal urge to fill her up, to breed her like you were put here for nothing else. You fuck her faster, harder, hands digging crescents into her hips.
You can’t hold back anymore. You bury yourself to the root and explode inside her, a torrent so thick and hot you feel it leaking out around your cock, mixing with the flood of her own arousal. You stay inside her, pumping until you’re empty, until her cunt is milking you for every last drop. She collapses, boneless, her legs twitching with aftershocks, her chest heaving like she’s run a marathon.
You pull out, slow, and watch as your cum streams from her, pooling on the sheets, painting the insides of her thighs. She lies there, stunned, lips parted, hair stuck to her forehead in wet ropes. Her eyes flutter closed, and for a moment you think she’s passed out, but then she shudders, draws her knees to her chest, and wraps her arms around herself.
Members get full access to the uncensored 2K video: Join today >>
Note: this is a large file. Wait for it to fully load or download to avoid lagging.
Click the full-screen icon to resize to your screen.
You want to say something, to touch her, to make it gentle, but you’re already being dragged away by the current of the dream. The room dissolves, the bed and the blue-washed sheets swallowed by a rush of static and light.
You land, next, in a bedroom that smells of sweat and old sneakers. The walls are covered with band posters and marker graffiti. There’s a skateboard on the floor, a tangle of red hair on the pillow, and Max sleeping in a pale blue t-shirt and nothing else, her naked pussy already there for the taking.
You know what you’re supposed to do. You know you’re powerless to stop it.
You’re above Max before you can even think. She’s sprawled loose and open, one leg bent at the knee, the other kicked straight, her whole body radiating heat and the raw, unfiltered energy of being alive and eighteen and angry. You’re invisible, a hush in the corner of her vision, and you can see the pulse in her throat, the way her chest rises with each careful, even breath.
You crawl onto the mattress. The springs creak under your weight, but she doesn’t stir. You kneel between her legs, your cock already out and throbbing, heavy and slick with anticipation. You stroke yourself, slow and steady, watching the head glisten in the half-light. The smell of her is everywhere—salt, sweat, faint chemical tang of cheap detergent, and underneath it, the musky, animal bite of her sex.
You lean over her, one hand braced on the mattress, and with the other you guide your cock to the warm seam of her slit. She shivers in her sleep, thighs twitching, her lips parting as if she can feel you even now. You press in, just the head at first, and her cunt opens to you, wet and impossibly tight. She gasps, waking, pale lashes fluttering as she looks around in confusion.
She can’t see you, but she knows you’re there. You watch the moment realization hits: her mouth opens in a silent O, her hands ball into fists, and her back arches off the bed. You shove in deeper, slow and relentless, until your entire length is buried inside her. She bites her knuckle to keep from screaming, eyes rolling back in her head.
You fuck her, steady and hard, the slap of your bodies echoing in the small room. Her cunt grips you like a fist, desperate and hungry, and each thrust draws a broken little moan from her chest. She’s shaking, clawing at the sheets, her hips rocking up to meet you even as her brain is screaming that this can’t be happening, that nothing is there. She covers her mouth with both hands, muffling the sounds, but you can hear every wet, desperate gasp.
You lose yourself in the heat and the friction and the obscene, slick sound of your cock plunging in and out of her. You grab her by the hips, nails digging crescents into her skin, and pin her to the mattress. She’s helpless, writhing, her legs kicking uselessly against your invisible weight. Sweat beads at her hairline and runs down her face; you lick it off, tasting salt and fear and something bright and vital that makes you want to devour her whole.
You fuck her until her body gives out, until she’s sobbing into the pillow, her pussy spasming around you, milking your cock with every pulse. You feel the pressure building, the need to fill her, to claim her from the inside out. You drive into her, rough and deep, until you’re right on the edge.
You cum with a roar, the force of it ripping through you. Hot jets of cum flood her, overflowing and leaking out around your cock. You keep fucking her through it, slower now, drawing out every last drop of cum, until you pull out and watch the stream of jizz gush out of her pussy and pool on the sheets between her legs.
Members get full access to the uncensored 2K video: Join today >>
Note: this is a large file. Wait for it to fully load or download to avoid lagging.
Click the full-screen icon to resize to your screen.
You look to her face but already it is fading, and a shrill alarm blaring in its place…
TO BE CONTINUED...
Lifetime Member Bonus Content
These are bonus nude scenes when you are spying on El and Max in your dreams...
Members get full access to the uncensored 2K video: Join today >>
Note: this is a large file. Wait for it to fully load or download to avoid lagging.
Click the full-screen icon to resize to your screen.
