Part 10

If it sounds like teaching a boy how to have good sex ... without actually having sex ... was an easy thing to decide to do, don’t be misguided. It was not a simple decision at all. The problem was that I knew he would keep dreaming. And since we still had no idea how all this worked, it wasn’t likely he was going to magically establish control over his sleeping thoughts. Not anytime soon, anyway.

So he was going to have more dreams. And I was going to be in some of them, which meant I was going to have some of his dreams, too, apparently.

At that point it’s obvious that if his dreams (about me) could be “guided”, then that would be happier ... for me.

But how do you do that? And ... what do you do, then?

Bobby really was as innocent as a young man could be. His upbringing had been sheltered to an amazing degree. My own experiences had been fairly normal, beginning with fumbling attempts to find ecstasy with boys I thought I was in love with. Later, when my own innocence had fled, I looked for pleasure, rather than ecstasy. I wasn’t looking for a life-long bond, which meant I wasn’t as choosy as I might otherwise have been when looking for a temporary bedmate.

So how do you teach a callow boy the things he needs to know to be a good lover ... a gentle lover ... a respectful lover ... a gentlemanly lover?

And how do you teach him to be that, when he has no practical experience whatsoever?

Of course my classes had to be theoretical only, just “book-learning”, with no labs.

At least that’s how I approached it initially.

So I sat with him and described the things a girl likes in a man.

I talked about respect, and telegraphing his intent, but remaining ready to back off if the girl made it clear his attentions were unwelcome.

Bobby wasn’t stupid.

“This is really about you, isn’t it?” he said, staring at me.

“Not just me,” I said. “Any woman will want a man to be like this.”

“But we’re talking about my dreams,” he said. “I mean the only reason we are talking is because of my dreams, right?”

“Okay, technically, that’s correct,” I admitted.

“I think the reason I dream about you is because you’re the only woman I know who I feel like I can just be myself with.”

“That’s because your upbringing has been unusual,” I said. “It would be nice if, some day, you could have a normal life with a normal woman.”

“I think the chances of that are pretty slim,” he said, his voice grim.

“We don’t know that,” I said.

“We pretty much do know that,” he said, staring at me. “So what’s really happening here is that I need to try to keep from freaking you out and making you feel like you’ve been raped.”

I blinked. I swallowed. This sucked.

But his basic understanding of life at that point was remarkably sanguine.

Now, if I could be positive about it, too.

“Well, what I felt was definitely weird, but when I realized it was you, it wasn’t so bad. And when I woke you up it went away. All that said, I don’t know what to do,” I said.

“I have an idea,” he said.

“Shoot,” I replied.

“What if we slept in the same bed? When I start dreaming, you could just poke me and wake me up, and I’d stop dreaming.”

“Sleeping with you would be a bad idea,” I said.

“It wouldn’t be sleeping with me, in the sense you meant it,” he argued. “We would only be sleeping in the same bed, not actually sleeping together.”

“Bobby, when a man and woman who like each other sleep in the same bed, one or the other, or both, are going to be tempted to do things. It’s just nature.”

“Okay, what if our beds were right next to each other, then? You could still reach over and poke me, but we wouldn’t be in the same bed.”

“If you were any other man I’d think you were trying to seduce me,” I said. I was trying to lighten the mood. It failed.

“I’m not trying to do that,” he said, sounding a little defensive.

“In your dreams, you are,” I said, my voice calm.

“No, I’m not,” he said. “I can’t be trying to seduce you, because I don’t know how to seduce anybody!”

I paced. I really had no clue how to proceed.

“If you don’t want to tell me what your dreams are about, then I’m going to ask you some questions,” I said. “I want you to answer them honestly. You need to answer them honestly, so we can figure out what to do. Will you do that for me?”

“You know I’d do anything for you,” he said, promptly.

“Do you want to see me naked?”

He blinked. I waited. He looked elsewhere.

“It’s a simple question, Bobby,” I said, trying to make it sound simple.

“No it’s not,” he said. “I know it bothers you.”

“Waking up feeling your hands on me bothers me a lot more than knowing you like to sneak peeks,” I said. “Just answer the question. I felt naked in your dream.”

“You know I do,” he muttered.

“Have you ever thought about touching me?”

“I’ve touched you before.” He was getting sullen.

Something snapped in me. This was all too much. I had gotten out of the army because I’d been made into a weapon, a weapon that was hurting innocent people. Now, somehow, I had ended up in the custody of another weapon, a weapon that had killed once and could do almost anything. I had given a shot at becoming a nun, which hadn’t worked. I hadn’t asked for any of this.

“Okay. I now agree with your original plan. Six months and then you turn yourself in,” I said, briskly. “But for those six months I’m going to be somewhere else. If you’re going to stay here, then I’ll go to Chicago, or New York, or maybe Miami, someplace far away from here, where nobody knows me.” I nodded. “Yes! That would work. Maybe I’ll go to the Bahamas! Surely that’s far enough away that you won’t be able to feel me, and I won’t be able to feel you dreaming! Why didn’t I think of this sooner?!”

“No!” he blurted. “You can’t leave me!” He wasn’t sullen now.

“You’ll be fine,” I said. “I’ll leave you money. With your talent you can probably get a bank teller to hand you more. You don’t need me. And after you turn yourself in you’ll never see me again anyway.”

“Sister Olivia, please!” he whined. “You can’t go.”

“Then answer my damn questions!” I snapped. “Stop being an embarrassed little boy. You’re a man, now, whether you want to be or not. You have this ability that people are already willing to kill you because of, and they’ll hunt you down like a dog if you can’t learn to control it. And the first thing you need to learn is how to control it around me!”

“Okay! You’re right,” he said. “I’ll cooperate. You just have to promise not to get mad.” He blinked. “And you have to promise not to leave me alone.”

“I promise,” I said. I sat down across from him and just stared at him. “Tell me about one of your dreams.”

I could see the discomfort on his face. Another man might have bragged about it, but not Bobby Wilson. He was too pure of heart to take pleasure in thinking about something that he was afraid would make me uncomfortable. He didn’t want to make anybody uncomfortable.

“We’re in bed,” he started. “We don’t have clothes on.” He faltered and looked away.

“Go on,” I said, my voice soothing.

“We’re hugging,” he said. He looked at me now. “Just hugging, not hugging, I mean.”

“I think in this case you were doing both, but that’s fine. Keep going.”

“That’s it.” He said.

“That can’t be it,” I said, automatically.

“Well, before we get in bed, you let me look at you,” he said. “My favorite dream is when you get out of the shower and you’re naked and you tell me it’s time for bed and we get in bed together ... naked ... and you hug me and we go to sleep that way.”

I reminded myself he hadn’t been on any dates. He hadn’t necked with a girl. He hadn’t tried things with a girl.

He didn’t know what happened when a boy and girl got naked in bed. No, he did know. I was the one who had educated him on that. But his dream hadn’t progressed that far.

I probably should have left it right there. What he was thinking of in his sleep was as innocuous and innocent as the day is long. It wasn’t hurting him, and it wouldn’t hurt me if it happened every single night.

The problem was that he did know what a boy and girl did when they got in bed naked.

And he was going to end up dreaming about that, sooner or later. It might be later, but he’d figure it out. And when he did, he needed to be able to control his talent so that he didn’t drive people nuts. I suddenly wondered if his talent had, or would develop into a two way thing, where what I was feeling... he might start feeling.

“In this dream, what are you doing with your hands?” I asked.

“Just touching you. Your skin looks soft.”

“Do you dream of more?”

“More?” He looked nervous, now.

“Sex,” I said, softly.

“I don’t think so. Not exactly. I think I would, except I know that would make you really mad,” he admitted.

“Do you ever dream of me masturbating you?”

He blinked and his eyes got wide.

“No!” he gasped. “You mean people do that?”

“It’s fairly common,” I said, aware that he would now dream about that.

I was also aware that a class without labs wasn’t going to work.

I was going to have to show Bobby Wilson some things.

I’m well aware now that I was deluding myself back then. In my defense, I was pretty freaked out by feeling his hand on me and then realizing it was only him dreaming. I’d say he was “just touching me” which would normally be no big deal, except he was doing it with his brain. I had been trained to understand that no battle plan survives contact with the enemy, so I had already adopted the concept of “adapt, improvise, overcome” in my life. It turned out that didn’t quite work in the convent, but it had worked with Bobby, so that was part of my thought process.

I admit, now, that I was also just attracted to a great guy. He was unique in more than just his talent. He was warm, and positive about life in general. I wanted to be like him in terms of his personality traits. It’s also possible he was the kind of man who makes me horny. I was too old for him, but Nature could give a fuck about that, and I convinced myself that he needed some sexual education so he could learn how not to want to fuck me in his dreams.

What I mean is that he needed to learn how to dream good things, instead of dark, possibly hurtful situations. After all ... what might happen if he had a dream about killing someone? If he choked someone in a dream ... would they die of asphyxiation outside the dream?

Better for him to have normal, adolescent, teenage boy kinds of dreams, and since we knew he was already dreaming about me, then it just made sense to use me in the scenarios I wanted him to think about before he went to sleep. After all, how hurtful could it be for him to dream of me jerking him off?

That’s all they were supposed to be - scenarios. In my defense, I did not intend for it to get to the actual fucking stage of things. What I deluded myself into thinking was that, if I taught him to make out, and maybe let me get him off with my hand, then maybe that’s all he’d dream about.

I could live with waking up in the middle of dreams like that.

The first problem that reared its head was that we didn’t have the right kind of furniture to make into our “lab”. The front office had a desk in it, and a desk chair and a battered filing cabinet, but was otherwise bare. The kitchen had a table and chairs, and an old dresser that held our foodstuffs. The microwave sat on top of that, and the toaster oven beside it.

It was the middle of the night, though, and if I didn’t keep him awake for the rest of it, he might dream again, so the “lab” needed to start then.

So I taught him how to kiss in the kitchen.

Imagine that someone is born in space and has lived in weightlessness all his life. You describe what walking involves, but when you land on a planet and he experiences gravity for the first time, he won’t know how to walk. He can try, going through the motions of putting one foot in front of the other, but the nuances of “walking” have to be learned by actually walking.

Kissing is like that. It’s easy to describe kissing to someone who has never kissed. That doesn’t mean they know how to kiss, though. They have never experienced the nuances of lip tension, head tilt, tongue action, even just breathing while the major opening usually used for that purpose is doing something else.

Now expand that to the nuances of touching a nipple, or clitoris. Or doing all three at the same time.

I think the average person can see the difficulty.

Going back to the person learning how to walk after a life in weightless environs, you can get him in a harness, or maybe standing between parallel bars, his legs bearing his weight for the first time. Still can’t walk, though.

He needs practice.

Oh, hell, I might as well just get to it. I’m trying to generate compassion on the part of whoever reads this, but there probably won’t be any.

I sat him in one of our kitchen chairs and then straddled him, sitting on his lap, facing him. Then I kissed him.

I might have overdone it just a tad.

As I said, I really liked him. And I knew how to communicate that with a kiss.

I felt him respond with my fingers, and with my lips ... and where I was sitting on him.

Words seemed like a waste of time. I’d already talked about all this.

So I just kept kissing him.

I knew it was time to move on to other things when I felt his fingers stroking the sides of my breasts.

Not stroking my shirt, where it covered the sides of my breasts.

I felt him touching my naked breasts with his fingertips.

I gasped and pulled away from his lips. I looked down. My shirt was still on and his fingers were nowhere near my breasts.

“You were thinking about touching my breasts,” I said, my voice low.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped.

“Don’t be sorry!” I snapped. “Be honest. Is that what you were thinking about? Yes, or no, Bobby.”

“Yes!” he blurted.

I took my T shirt off. I wasn’t wearing a bra.

I let him stare for probably thirty seconds. He wasn’t breathing too well, but he started to after I whispered, “Breathe, Bobby.”

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