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From: "=?UTF-8?B?VHVsbGl1cw==?= " <tullius@cantshootfs.cjb.net>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP In Your Dreams {Tullius} (MF MSolo MDom mc nc)
Lines: 203
Date: Mon, 12 Feb 2007 08:10:03 -0500
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<1st attachment, "dreams.txt" begin>

Author: Tullius <tullius@cantshootfs.cjb.net>
Title: In Your Dreams
Summary: A stalker has a talent, which he uses on his favourite glamour
model.
Keywords: MF Msolo Mdom nc mc

Disclaimer: If you're under the legal age of majority in your 
jurisdiction, you should have been amply warned not to read this by now,
but for the sake of the incredible levels of repetition demanded by 
lawyers I'll say it again:  This work of fiction is just that, fiction, 
any similarity to a real person or persons, living or dead, is 
coincidental.  Moreover, it's a piece of fiction intended to be read by 
open-minded adults, and should not be viewed by minors.  If you're under 
eighteen years of age, you are duly warned to read no further, and the 
author disclaims all civil and criminal liability that might be 
construed to result from anything that happens to you if you do so.

Redistribution of this work is allowed under the following conditions.  
Firstly, it must be verbatim: all headers, this disclaimer and boring 
copyright stuff must be attached.  Second, you must not accept any 
payment for redistribution of this work, even if that payment is only to 
cover costs of the distribution medium.  Third, you must email me at the 
above address to let me know that you're redistributing it.

The author will accept positive feedback and praise of all kinds with 
blushing gratitude, pay due heed to respectfully-phrased constructive 
criticism, and send flames to /dev/null with extreme prejudice, possibly 
rebutting them in an annoyingly calm and reasonable tone if he can be 
bothered.

***

The mailman always came before the predator's alarm went off.  On the 
first Tuesday of every month, the sound of the package hitting the floor
would infallibly cause his eyes to fly open, his body to jerk with the 
adrenaline rush of getting to see her again.  He would get out of bed, 
put on his robe and go downstairs, his heart pounding in case the thud 
that had awoken him was that of something other than what he was 
expecting.  He would allow himself half a smile at the familiar sight of
the large brown envelope, then pick it up and put it on the coffee table 
in the living room.  Invariably, his alarm clock would then go off, 
making him jump, and he would have to go back upstairs to silence it.

He flattered himself that he ruled himself with a rod of iron.  As such 
he would not go back downstairs after silencing the alarm, but would get 
dressed, start up his computer and begin the day's work.  When he'd left
the north-east, he'd struck an agreement with his employer: the day's 
work would be emailed to him in the morning, he would finish it before 
noon, and as long as it checked out, he would keep his job and the 
paychecks would be forwarded to his new address.  He had moved to Texas 
because of her.

Lunch, as always, was a hot dog from a street vendor, a different one 
every day, lest they should recognise him and attempt to strike up 
conversation. Today's was better than average, worth the five miles he'd 
had to drive. He picked up some groceries, again from a store he'd never 
before visited, and returned home.  Passing the door, he felt the pull 
of the package on his coffee table.  He'd seen the preview last month, 
she would definitely be in it.  He forced himself to wait.  He would 
need the talent, either tonight or tomorrow night, and practice was in 
order.

He changed back into his robe and sat on his dining-room table in the 
lotus position.  He reached out, searching for viable targets.  The time 
of day meant he would probably have to look fairly far afield.  
Australia was normally a good hunting ground, but today there was one 
closer at hand, a businessman who had just returned to California and 
was therefore suffering quite badly from jet-lag.  The man's sleep was 
fitful; he was unaccustomed to sleeping during the day, so whenever he 
was close to progressing beyond REM sleep, either the wind would shift 
the drapes and cast bright sunlight onto his face, or a car would 
backfire, or something else would bring him, kicking and screaming back 
to consciousness.  In short, the businessman was a perfect target, so 
much so that the predator nearly passed him over as too unchallenging.  
Nearly.

The businessman's dreams were by and large uninteresting, a rehash of 
the previous day's negotiations, which had been weighing on his mind 
quite heavily.  The predator let his mind finish the business of 
preserving his sanity, then began to exert control.  The dream shifted, 
became a dream of lying in bed, fitfully trying to sleep after an 
uncomfortable red-eye flight.  Now he awoke (in the dream), and in the 
confusion, his body moved, sleepwalking around the room in the pattern 
the predator was accustomed to impose.  Having satisfied himself, as he 
did whenever he practiced, that he had a sufficient level of control 
over the body's voluntary mechanisms, he moved on to the involuntary 
responses.  He increased the businessman's tolerance for high 
temperatures, decreased his sensitivity to noise, teased his glands into 
releasing a touch more melatonin, and, most importantly, went through 
the familiar motions of inducing arousal.  The businessman would wake up 
with an erection, but not for a few hours yet.

Time had marched on, and by the time he let the businessman's mind go 
and re-opened his eyes, it was five p.m.  He let himself feel 
satisfaction, for his control was developing appropriately, and got 
dinner started.  Once it was over, and he had dried and put away the 
last spoon, he allowed his mind to anticipate what he was about to do.  
He was about to open the package.

Having gently sliced open the brown paper with a scalpel, taking care 
not to damage the contents, he slid the magazine out and contemplated 
it.  She was on the cover this time, and quite rightly so in his 
opinion.  His eyes drank in every familiar curve, her voluptuous body 
eliciting the learned reaction, thrilling him beyond measure, making him 
feel more in the perhaps three seconds that his eyes spent wandering 
than he had in all the prior hours of that day.  She was, to him, the 
epitome of beauty, though he was better placed than most to know that 
the only reason he thought so was the Pavlovian conditioning he'd put 
himself through by masturbating so often to her image.  Unable to 
control himself any longer he flipped straight to the page where her 
photoset began, touching himself with abandon as he gloried in her 
image.  In the illogical clarity that comes just before orgasm, when a 
man feels as though he can prolong the moment forever, he remembered not 
to soil the pages and aimed away from the magazine, caring neither about 
his furniture nor about the carpet as he shot his load.

Once he'd recovered, he took up his kit and set to work.  The staples 
were carefully extracted, the front cover sliced away from the back with 
ruler and scalpel, and the pages of her photoset were extracted from the 
rest and placed individually in protective plastic pockets.  All having 
been safely filed away, he remembered to clean the carpet.

It was seven thirty.  He knew he wouldn't be sleeping all night, so he 
went to get some rest.

The special outside stimulus struck his open mind three hours later, and 
his eyes flew open.  She was going to bed.  Quickly and methodically he 
prepared himself, getting ready for the moment when she would be 
vulnerable to him.  He felt the avenue into her mind open up, and 
slipped inside.  As always, he waited and watched before acting.

She was dreaming of childhood, of the loving attentions of kind parents, 
of picnics in the park.  It was idyllic, and he almost felt remorse in 
shattering it.  He concentrated, and the dream shifted, became a dream 
of lying in bed, glad to have a chance to relax after a gruelling 
afternoon under the photographer's hot lights, holding pose after pose 
and trying to look sexy when she felt anything but.  He felt all these 
memories through the dream, and looked forward to seeing the photoset.  
Another burst of concentration, and his avatar in her mind distanced 
itself from her own thoughts, and appeared in the dream of her bedroom.  
He knew that outside the dream she was wearing a very sensible 
nightgown, but here it was too hot for sleepwear, so she was naked.  
Her breasts, big even by the standards of the specialist publications in 
which she appeared, were bared in their all-natural glory, outthrust 
even more than normal by the foetal position in which she was lying.  He 
lay down behind her in the spoon position, caressing her soft flank.  
She stirred, both in the dream and in reality, but did not wake in 
either realm.  Spurred on by her receptiveness he slipped another arm 
under her, then moved his hands up to stroke her glorious boobs, 
marvelling, as he always did at how little of them he was able to 
conceal.  He kissed her softly along the line of her jaw, and out in the 
real world she purred.  To her, he was a recurring and welcome erotic 
dream, able to remind her to take pleasure in her nakedness even when 
the job made her feel at her most cheap and used.  To him, she was a sex 
object, his treatment of her the arguments of all the strident Moms made 
flesh.  He felt her half-conscious realisation that she was having her 
favourite dream, and for once didn't stop himself from grinning.  He 
moved his hands away from her breasts and began to explore.  Her skin 
was flawless, probably more so here, where everything seemed to be in 
soft focus, than in real life.  He continued to kiss at random, 
worshipping his love-doll reverently, ecstatically allowing her long 
black hair to fall caressingly over his face before burying his face in 
her neck, inhaling her scent noisily.  This was the point at which his 
self-control could take a hike, this was his special time.  She pushed 
back at him, pressing her ass receptively into his erection.  His 
fingers stroked her lips, and she took them into her mouth, sucking on 
them greedily, making a point of demonstrating every technique she knew.  
He wished he could see her eyes from where he was, and without either of 
them moving, it was so.  In her dark eyes he read desire, and the 
knowledge that he was teasing her and loving it.

He melted away from behind her and made the scene shift.  Now she was on
her back, her knees bent and flat to the bed in a classic pose.  
Reverently he brought his face down between her thighs, slathered wet 
kisses onto her nether lips and fought down the urge to bury his tongue 
as far inside her as it would go.  "Not yet!" his control shrieked, 
"not yet."  He felt her arousal grow and used his awareness to modulate 
his technique, teasing her clit for a quick spike in the graph, then 
bringing his tongue into play to bring on the slow, satisfying climb to 
orgasm.  He held her on the edge, revelling in the feeling of her soft 
thighs clamped around his head, before finally allowing her release.  
As always, he felt the pull of her mind trying to shape the dream, and 
as always, he allowed it.  The scene shifted once more and they were 
under the covers, lying face to face on their sides.  He felt the warmth 
of her body, saw the pleasure in her eyes as they embraced and the 
sensation was bittersweet; he knew what was coming.  She kissed him, 
willingly engaging in a duel of tongues, and before it was quite over, 
she drifted down into the depths of NREM sleep, and his control was 
lost.  As his eyes opened he imagined he could still feel her lips on 
his, but he knew it was a wish, not a sensation.
<1st attachment end>


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