Lucid Sojourner
Chapter 1

Caution: This Fantasy Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/ft, mt/Fa, Fa/Fa, Consensual, Magic, Lesbian, Heterosexual, Fiction, Extra Sensory Perception, Paranormal, Oral Sex, Masturbation, Voyeurism,

Desc: Fantasy Sex Story: Chapter 1 - Rich has the ability to enter the dreams of other persons, a skill he uses for fun, profit, and the occasional benefit of humanity.

I was a misfit by temperament, a misanthrope by experience, and a parasite by choice. As such, I preferred to keep a healthy cushion of funds between me and the rest of the world. Things ran so much smoother that way, and liquid assets improved my sense of security. Not that my various accounts were in danger of running low, but it was best to keep everything growing at a moderate pace, and the overall market had not been doing well. It was time to do some investment research in an effort to beat the game.

I pulled my customized van into the far end of the parking lot of an all night grocery and went inside to relieve myself in the washroom. I brushed my teeth while I was there. When I finished and returned to the van, I climbed into the back, shut the curtain behind the driver and passenger's seats, and changed into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. I had learned from experience that most of the time businesses with big parking lots didn't say a thing if I caught several hours of sleep on their premises. To encourage such benign neglect, I didn't rub their noses into what I was doing, never spent two nights in a row at the same place, and cooperated fully without argument in the rare event that someone told me to haul ass.

Along one side of the van I had installed a bed. I climbed under my sleeping bag and meditated a few minutes before drifting off. Eventually, I began to dream, and I soon became aware that I was dreaming. Recognizing when one is in a dream is a learnable skill. Practice had made me an expert in it.

Most dreams are boring. This dream started out as no exception. I was reading a book while sitting in a chair. Dull as dirt, but it was a place to start, for taking control of one's dreams is also a learnable skill. It is rather more difficult than merely recognizing a dream; nevertheless, practice had made me an expert in it, too. I began to alter the dream to suit my purpose.

When one attempts to manipulate a dream, it's easiest and most effective to work with what one has been given rather than try to weave something completely new. I focused on the book my dream self was holding, and in an act of will and concentration, I changed it into a laptop computer. I then called up a popular search site and clicked on the link to the maps page.

My quarry that night was the chief executive officer and chairman of the board of a large corporation. Call him Joe and his company Big Corp. The financial press was rife with speculation about a potential merger between Big Corp and Bigger Corp. This represented a profitable arbitrage opportunity. If one could be sure before most other people that Bigger Corp was going to buy Big Corp, one could sell short the shares of Bigger Corp while simultaneously buying the shares of Big Corp, thus locking in a low-risk profit.

Of course, under normal circumstances, the only people who can be sure before everyone else that two companies are going to merge are company insiders. Insider trading is illegal in these United States. For outsiders without inside information, there is always the risk that the deal will fall through, thus causing the prices of the stocks to move in directions opposite to those hoped for. Under normal circumstances.

My circumstances weren't normal. When I had first read about the possible merger, I decided to use some of my own techniques to evaluate its likelihood. First, I downloaded the annual reports and SEC filings of the two companies and studied them. Next, carrying a book pack for camouflage, I paid a visit to a community college library to research the officers of the companies. Community college libraries almost always have a Lexis-Nexis account, and in my experience, seldom ask to see student ID when one uses their computers. A couple hours of work netted me a couple hundred thousand words, which I transferred to my laptop.

Back at the van, to limit the amount of reading, I decided to focus on Joe and his counterpart at Bigger Corp. Call him Charlie. If Joe and Charlie didn't pan out, I would try some of the lower-ranking officers later. I learned everything about the two men that I could. Using the library research and the internet in general, I took notes on where they went to school, their previous companies, the names of their wives and children, the locations of their primary homes, what charities they supported, any articles or papers the men had written, and so on. I also found as many related photographs as I was able.

I spent the next day studying my notes and building a memory palace with the information. I wanted to be able to recall as many facts about the men as possible, and mnemonic techniques were a great help to me.

My peculiar skill, entering the dreams of others, was an art rather than a science, and an uncertain art at that. The greatest difficulty for me wasn't so much entering someone else's dreams--that often happened spontaneously--as it was finding a particular dreamer out of the hundreds of millions of people dreaming on earth at any given time. I knew that distance mattered. I could, for example, easily find the dreams of anyone in the same house that I was sleeping in. How well I knew a person also mattered. I could, for another example, still find the dreams of my aunt and of my university roommates years after I had quit living with them. To find the dreams of a particular stranger, it helped to know as much about him or her as I could dig up, and it helped to sleep as close to his or her sleeping place as was practical.

It had taken me four nights of effort to find the dreams of Charlie. I now knew that he definitely wanted to buy Joe's company. To increase my certainty that the deal was going to take place, I wanted to know if Joe was just as eager to sell. I had driven to a location in suburban Seattle about ten miles, as the pelican flew, from Joe's mansion. I was asleep, dreaming, and in the process of searching out Joe's dreams.

I used the map page to call up Joe's mansion on satellite view. I then willed myself to enter the picture. After a few moments of intense concentration, I stood in the dream version of Joe's driveway. Unlike Charlie, Joe didn't live in a gated community, so I had taken a slow drive past his place earlier in the day in order to see what it looked like from the outside. Every little bit helped.

I was still in my own dream, not Joe's. I had not yet determined that he was actually asleep and dreaming. I might not find a dream of his for days, perhaps not ever, but I certainly never would if I didn't try. I walked up to the front door and turned the knob. Of course, the door wasn't locked. It was my dream, and I hadn't imagined it locked.

I went inside. My research hadn't turned up any interior shots of Joe's house, so I left the vision misty and vague, as it so often is in dreams. I found a staircase and went up. Letting my instincts guide me. I wandered down a hallway. At the end of the hall, I opened up a door and walked into a bedroom suite. I didn't know for a fact that Joe had a bedroom suite, but my subconscious must have decided that it was more likely than not. I strolled through the sitting room and entered the bedroom proper.

Joe was in bed with a much younger blonde. I knew from my research that once his kids had grown, Joe had divorced his first wife and found himself a trophy. I had seen in pictures that she was indeed a looker. I approached the pair, reached out a hand, and paused for a moment to gather my will. Human beings dream about two hours per night. That meant that even if Joe was currently asleep, the odds were about three to one that he wasn't dreaming. Even if he was dreaming, it didn't mean that I would find his presence in dream space just because I was myself dreaming about him. The moment of truth had arrived.

I touched Joe's forehead with my index finger and discovered that I had lucked out. I entered a new dream, and it wasn't one of mine. I'm not sure how I knew, but my intuition had been honed from much experience, and most of the time I could simply tell. That had not always been the case. When I was younger, I hadn't known for some time that I was entering the dreams of others, much less had the ability to tell our dreams apart.

Joe was piloting an old-fashioned airplane with four prop engines. It might have been a B-29, but I won't swear to it. Joe was wearing a bomber jacket and headphones. He appeared about thirty years younger than his true age.

We can experience our own dreams from two points of view. Most of the time, we see them from first person, as we usually experience the world when we are awake; or we can see them from third person, as in watching a play or a film. When I enter the dream of another, I can see if from the dreamer's first-person point of view; that is, I can ride along behind his or her eyes, basically. I also can see it from the third-person point of view in either a 2D perspective--like watching a play--or from a 3D perspective--like being an invisible observer upon the stage. For yet another option, I can enter the dream from a second-person point of view relative to the individual whose dream I have entered, that is, as a character in his or her dream. For Joe's dream, I chose this last option.

I willed myself to appear in the co-pilot's seat. I wore a jacket and headphones like Joe's. "How are you holding up, Bucky?" Joe asked.

Apparently, I was Bucky, whoever the hell he was. "I'm holding up fine, sir."

"We're going to be entering Kraut airspace soon."

"Are we going to be entering it, or should we say we are going to be merging with it?"

"What in hell are you talking about?"

"Mergers and acquisitions," I said.

"What do they have to do with anything?"

"Do you think the merger is a good idea?" I asked, while at the same time silently urging--willing-- him to tell me about it.

Instead of answering, he unbuckled, got up, and walked toward the rear of the plane. I changed into invisible mode and followed him. The rear was outfitted like a jump plane. Empty wooden benches surrounded the interior, and a large door in the side stood open. A woman in goggles, helmet, and a jumpsuit stood near the door. I didn't recognize her. A parachute appeared in Joe's hands, and he buckled it on.

"Are you ready, sir?" she asked.

"I'm ready," the CEO said.

"You can still change your mind."

"No, I want this. I deserve a big payday after thirty years of hard work."

A green light flashed on the wall, and Joe jumped out the door. I watched as a golden parachute opened. After several seconds, I willed myself to fly beside him. He was laughing. Well, one didn't need to be an experienced oneironaut to interpret symbols that clear. Make the trades. Make the trades. Make the trades. I thought the command to myself several times to help ensure that I would remember my results in the morning. I felt like celebrating.

With a bit of concentration, I was out of Joe's dream and back into my own. I was again standing in the bedroom I had imagined for the executive. Maybe the hot blonde, I considered. On the plus side, she was my own creation, no matter that she looked like a real-life person, so there was no chance of anyone getting hurt. On the minus side, she was just a dream puppet. I might not always be consciously aware as I pulled her strings, but my mind would be doing a hundred percent of the pulling. That was seldom as much fun as what collaboration with a real person--and all of his or her loves, lusts, fantasies, foibles, peculiarities, and perversions--could generate.

I opened a window that wasn't there a second before and softly glided down to the street. I began to jog effortlessly along it. As I did so, I imagined my senses expanding to detect any wafting lust that I might come across. I no longer was looking for the dreams of a particular person; rather, I was looking for the dreams of anyone who was horny. I allowed my instincts to guide my dream feet.

After what felt like a couple of minutes, I came to a cottage with a backyard surrounded by a wooden fence. I opened the gate and felt the subtle shift that told me I was no longer in my own dream. Instead of opening into the yard, the gate opened onto a tropical beach scene complete with white sand, palm trees, and cawing gulls. I could smell the salt air and hear the waves.

A man and woman stood facing each other near the surf. They were a handsome pair, which didn't surprise me. Most folks dream of themselves in an idealized form--younger, stronger, better looking--and when they are feeling sexually aroused, they usually make their dream partners just as attractive.

The couple was dressed in a horned-out designer's idea of pirate couture. The man was wearing knee-high boots; skintight black trousers; an unlaced, billowing white shirt that displayed his manly chest; a captain's hat with a tall plume; and a cutlass. He was tall, dark, broad shouldered, and sported long, curly hair. The woman wore black boots that came to just below her knees, a mini-skirt that ended considerably above her knees, and about half of a peasant-style blouse. That is, the material ended just below her breasts, leaving her belly and waist bare. She was fair skinned with straight blonde hair.

The dream felt female. Again, it was an intuition thing; I couldn't have explained how I knew. To confirm my hunch, I willed myself to enter the first-person viewpoint of the man. When I assume their viewpoint, people who are dreaming about themselves feel considerably different from mere dream characters. I confirmed that there was nobody really home behind his eyes.

Therefore, the man was a puppet of the dreamer's subconscious, but I didn't try to assert control over him at once. I wanted to see how the woman's mind worked, and I was content to observe her for a time and allow her unconscious psyche to direct the actions of her dream companion. She was looking up at him with fists on her hips and an angry expression on her face.

"If you hate me so much, then, wench," said her dream man, "tell me why you have been following me around ever since I granted shore leave."

"Someone needed to keep an eye on you to thwart your wicked schemes and habitual depredations," she said. Her vocabulary amused me.

"I see. But if your goal was to protect the inhabitants of this island from my evil ways, why did you dress in such a way as to almost completely reveal your considerable charms?" He looked her up and down.

The pirate wench dropped her gaze for a second, but then quickly looked him in the eyes. "Beast," she said. "A girl never knows when she might attract the interest of a man with prospects. Why should my day spent trailing a miscreant be a total loss?"

"Um-hmm. But if that is the case, why are you blushing?"

"I'm not blushing; I'm enraged!"

"I think you are acting, and I think you are sweet on me."

She swung at him. He grabbed her wrist and easily pulled her off balance and closer to his body. She tried to knee him, but he turned away from the strike and drew her tight with his free arm. "I'll let you in on a secret," he said. "I'm rather sweet on you, too." He kissed her. She resisted for a few seconds, and then melted into him. He kept kissing her. Their tongues began to dance.

I willed my point of view to shift to the woman's. Taking on the viewpoint of a dreaming woman is extremely educational for a man. One of the first things that I learned is that their sexual feelings are so much more spread out than a man's are. We men tend to feel our sexual responses in our penises, with everything else a much less interesting sideshow. The sexual response of a woman might be strongest in her clitoris, but she feels it all over her body.

This dreamer was in heat. She felt sweaty, electrified, and moist. Her dream lover released her, and she gasped for air.

I switched views again. "I love you," he said.

"I love you, too, Captain," she said. She sank to her knees in the sand before him. Anachronistically, the captain's pants had a zipper. She pulled it down and undid the button at the waist. The pirate's erect penis sprang free. If she was dreaming about a real man, he was particularly well hung; either that, or she liked to imagine them big. "I've been wanting to do this for a long time," she said.

As she began to kiss and lick the penis before her, I willed myself to take more full possession of her dream man, all the better to enjoy the experience. As she worked at getting my cock good and wet, she jacked the base with one hand and fondled my balls with the other. I willed a thought at her, You are very proud of your luscious breasts.

Luscious they were--full, high, and heavy--at least on her dream self. She released my genitals long enough to quickly undo the ties that held up her top and pulled it down around her waist. Her nipples were long, fat, and erect. My mouth watered at the thought of sucking on them, but I didn't want to interrupt what she was doing with my penis.

The wench began to swirl her tongue around my cock while tilting her head from side to side. I groaned. She backed off and then went underneath to strum the ridge along the bottom with the tip of her tongue. After she had gone up and down the length a few times, she gently sucked one of my balls into her mouth and gave it a thorough tongue bath. Then she did the other.

She came up for air. "Are you ready for some more?" she asked. Her eyes were twinkling.

"Oh, yes. God, yes."

She sucked my cock about half way into her mouth and then pulled it back out while maintaining the suction. She repeated the maneuver a couple times before releasing the pressure. She then began the classic technique of stroking my penis in and out of her mouth while running it between the hard ridges of her lip-covered teeth. I moaned and caressed her face and hair.

"You can hold my head if you want," she said and then resumed her ministrations. I did want. I slipped my right hand behind her head while I continued to caress her face with my left. With each stroke she took me a little deeper.

"Diddle yourself," I ordered.

She didn't stop her task, but she lifted up her skirt and inserted a hand between her legs. I didn't have much of a view of what she was doing, but her forearm was moving vigorously.

Then I indulged in what is perhaps my greatest skill as a dream voyeur. I split my viewpoint so that I was experiencing things from both the pirate wench's vantage and my own. Upon consideration, during calmer circumstances, I had concluded that what I in truth probably did during such moments was switch between viewpoints extremely quickly. Be that as it may, the subjective effect was of experiencing two consciousnesses at once.

I could feel my own arousal and the pleasure she was lavishing on my cock, while at the same time I could feel her growing arousal, the emotional pleasure she was receiving in gratifying a man, and the physical pleasure she was feeling as she masturbated. Furthermore, when I observed things from her point of view, I could feel my cock with her mouth and lips--or at least her recollections while dreaming of what a penis felt like as it moved in and out of her mouth. Talk about a mind fuck.

She tilted her head a bit differently and took my penis all the way down her throat. Her nose was buried in my pubic hair as she swallowed a few times. I almost lost it right there.

She slid my cock back out. Her joy at her control over me was plain on her face.

Somehow, I managed to stay in character as I gasped, "You are the finest pirate wench on the high seas."

She kept the hand between her legs moving as she breathlessly said, "I've been practicing with a di--, a cucumber, sir."

"If you do that a few more times, it will be all over."

"By all means, Captain, come in my mouth."

She sucked me all the way down again, swallowed, slid me back out and paused while she continued masturbating. I felt her own orgasm getting closer and realized that she was trying to time things so that we came together. I endeavored to hold back as she repeated her deepthroat maneuver again, and again, and again.

I lost count of the number of iterations, but I was growing desperate as I felt her near her peak. Finally, she took me all the way down her throat and swallowed several times. Just as her release hit, she slid me out of her esophagus while keeping me deep in her mouth. As I exploded, I could feel her orgasm as well as my own.

Everything went white. I had only the one gun, but I tried to salute her twenty-one times. I struggled, willed, to keep us both in a dream state for as long as possible.

My penis spasmed a few more times as I woke up. I said aloud, between pants, "I bet that chick is a total hoot in real life, and any woman who dreams about deepthroating is A-OK with me." I also realized that she might be nothing like her dream self. For all I knew, she was a nice old lady with nine grandchildren. Or she might have been an underage teen. It was even within the realm of possibility that she was a transsexual with a strong female identity. I didn't know, and I didn't really want to know. She had helped me to a terrific climax, and I honestly hoped that I had improved the experience at least a little for her. That was enough.

Of course, I now had a pair of boxer shorts filled with goo to contend with. In my estimation, it was well worth it. I took off my sweat pants and carefully removed my underwear so as to contain the mess as much as possible. I folded them over a couple of times and wiped my penis and surrounding areas before throwing the shorts into my dirty-clothes bag. I then wet a washcloth with tepid water from a jug and repeated the procedure. I put on a fresh pair of underwear. Before I went back to bed, just to be on the safe side, I wrote myself a note that said, "It looks like the merger is going to happen."

I didn't try to control any more of my dreams that night. I had a suspicion that the brain needed dreaming for purposes of its own, so I was reluctant to interfere too much or too often. Although I had trained myself to take note of all my dreams, and I would end any really bad dreams that started, under normal circumstances I limited the number of controlled dreams I indulged in per sleep session.

The morning sun awakened me. Before I did anything else, I automatically reached for my dream log, which a few years before had become a tablet-style computer, and wrote down everything that I could remember about my dreams of the preceding night. The dream log is the most important tool of the oneironaut. Writing down one's dreams is what makes the mind understand that it needs to pay attention to them. Paying attention is what allows the mind to realize that it is dreaming. The realization of dreaming is the first step of taking control. That most dreams are boring and not worth remembering is one of the prices one pays for being a lucid dreamer. Past that, going beyond lucidity and entering the dreams of others, isn't something I know how to teach, and I wouldn't recommend the way I learned to anyone.

I first started keeping my dream log when I was thirteen years old, during the summer between seventh and eighth grades. I had a tendency to develop interests randomly, and that summer started out with one on sleep and dreaming. I liked to read, so I went to the public library and signed out a book by one of the originators of scientific sleep research and another book, near it on the shelves, about techniques for taking more control of one's dreams and becoming a lucid dreamer. That sounded really cool, so I started keeping the log even before I had finished reading the book.

Very quickly, I was remembering so much about my dreams that it was taking over an hour in the morning to write it all down. That is a significant amount of time, especially when it is spent before one's morning pee. Nonetheless, my rapid progress in remembering my dreams was evidence that the book wasn't complete nonsense. So was routinely recognizing that I was dreaming while the dream was taking place. I had always to some extent had the ability to know when I was dreaming, but it only happened sometimes, mostly during nightmares. Once I started writing my dreams down, it happened often.

Thus encouraged, I kept the experiment going. It wasn't more than two or three weeks before I had succeeded in taking significant control of a dream. What did I do? I was a horny thirteen-year-old boy. What do you think I did?

If you must know the gory details, the dream started with me walking along in a grocery store; thus, it was the typical dull dream. Even so, I recognized that I was in a dream and was eager to work on taking charge. I wish I could say that my first experience with lucid dream control was used for flying, changing a bad dream into a happy one, making psychological peace with a dead relative, or something else high on the social acceptability scale, but it didn't happen that way.

Instead, an attractive young woman was there in the dream. She had short brown hair parted at the side and a trim figure shown off by snug white shorts and a fitted t-shirt. We were in the meat aisle.

Those refrigerated shelves used to display meat aren't all that far from being horizontal, right? With an act of concentration and will, I attempted to change them into a bed. It worked!

Now, at thirteen years of age, I knew what sex was, even if I perhaps lacked understanding of the subtleties of female anatomy. I did know that they had warm holes between their legs into which one might insert a penis, and by that age, I was greatly interested in inserting my penis into warm holes.

I can't remember if I pulled off our clothing or if I just wished it away, put I pushed that woman down on the bed and fucked her. That is the most accurate term and description. I crudely humped her until I came. The bed kept trying to change back into refrigerated shelving, but that was a relatively minor glitch compared to getting my rocks off in a dream while being consciously aware and (mostly) in control.

Note well, this incident took place before I had developed the ability to enter the dreams of others. There was no chance that I had dream raped some poor woman. She was a figment of my imagination, and I didn't fantasize that it was rape, just my youthful idea of sex. The invented woman went along passively. The only damage done was to my future sense of style.

Looked at from the perspective of behavioral psychology, orgasms are potent rewards. It is no surprise that I decided to keep practicing lucid dreaming despite the cost in time. The next book I signed out of the library was on shorthand.

I finished with my dream log and climbed out of bed. I changed into a pair of jeans, stuck a small tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush into my pockets, and made use of the store's washroom again. Within five minute of finishing there, I was pulling out of their parking lot. One of the keys to being a successful guerrilla vagabond is never wearing out one's welcome.

My next destination was a branch of the national health club of which I was a member. Such a membership is damn useful when one lives on the road. Before I went inside, I used by laptop to contact my broker. I put ten percent of my investment bankroll into selling Charlie's company short and another ten percent into buying shares of Joe's. Then I had an hour's workout, a long shower, and a shave while showering.

Before I left the gym's parking lot, I used the Web to find a local diner with a good reputation. As I ate a plate of ham and eggs, I decided that I would head south for a while. I hadn't seen the big trees in some time. Maybe I'd spend a few days at Esalen. Those folks were always worth a laugh. Life was good.

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