Chapter 3

Cyrus's secret was out, and it was a relief. The girls knew he had dreamed of pawing and poking and almost starting to rape them, over and over again. That was shameful and embarrassing. But they'd accepted it as natural for a boy, albeit without enthusiasm.

He smiled. They'd also accepted his dream cock, straight and hard and deep.

It was easier to be around them now. With Melanie, it looked like it hadn't just been some accident or trick when she'd asked him over. She really seemed to have a thing for him -- some kind of thing. And he couldn't figure out what he should be doing about it, if anything. He was only 14, and an awkward nerd to boot.

It was more comfortable with Tara. Yeah, they fucked every night in their dreams, but it felt like just hormones, just sex. And he really felt bad for her sister, both because she was a little kid in a tough spot, but also because the strange power or disease or whatever it was that caused this little girl's problem was one he had too. He was pretty sure Mr. Anderson did dream of screwing the little girl -- which kind of made him shudder. And imagine what it would be like, again and again throughout the night, trying to do it, and having her shove him away. What horrible dreams! They were bad enough when he'd been trying to do it with girls his own age, but to be constantly trying to do it to a little girl? Blech! Unless of course you really did deep down want to have sex with a little girl. What would that really feel like? He didn't know, and he didn't want to know. Perverts were disgusting.

Tara had invited him over after school so he could meet Hannah and see if anything she said could give him more ideas.

"Hello, there, Hannah," he said.

She was the cutest little thing on two legs. Bright smile, perfect little face. He knew she was unhappy and anxious, which made him wonder what she'd look like if she was happy!

"Hi," she said.

"I've got something to show you." He'd brought over a levitating magnetic top, something little kids loved. You set this heavy little top spinning really fast on a big magnetic base, lifted it a little, and it just sat there spinning in mid-air. Hannah was delighted with it, and that occupied them for half an hour.

She then asked if he could read her a book. He was happy to and got into it, finding a different voice for each character, which made Hannah giggle. Halfway through she climbed up on his lap and leaned against him as he read. What a dear, sweet child!

How could a man dream of having sex with a girl like this? She was pretty, true, and sweet, and her little body was magnificent in its own way -- just not that way.

Tara stayed in the background during their play session. Once Hannah was comfortable with him, Tara joined them for a talk about what she was going through -- what it was like for her.

Cyrus didn't learn anything particularly useful. But it was weird to hear her talk about what Mr. Anderson had done and then pantomime the activity as well. Little girls didn't usually do any of those things. But she relayed them without shame.

Tara explained that Hannah had to act all solemn and sad when she described this to other people. But she knew Tara believed it was a dream and didn't judge her. She was terribly thankful to her sister for giving her permission to just give in to Mr. Anderson when he came to her in her dreams, and now she was sleeping so much better. So with Tara around she could make contact with the part of the experience that was a fun, exciting adventure.

Cyrus woke and stretched, having slept fairly well. But when a few of his dreams came back to him, his heart pounded and he burned with shame. He'd screwed Melanie once early in the night, and then Tara. That was fine. But then Hannah had shown up in his dreams. And then he'd had some very similar dreams about Hannah. She'd pushed him away the first time, and the second, but the third time she hadn't. And an icy chill went through him as he remembered the specifics of what he'd dreamed. What the hell was all that about?

And then the horror doubled. Because if this fit with the pattern, the real Hannah had shared the exact same dream. First the pervert Mr. Anderson, and then him, Cyrus. She had trusted him so much in their delightful afternoon together, and what had he done with the trust? Betrayed it, violated it, abused her. Only in his dream, true, but in a dream she shared. First the pervert Mr. Anderson, now the pervert Cyrus.

He had to keep it quiet, of course. But how could he do that? How could he ask Hannah to keep that secret -- if he did get to her before she told Tara. And if Tara knew, others would find out, including Melanie -- and eventually even Emily.

Cyrus convinced his parents he was too sick to go to school. He didn't have to fake the part about feeling awful. All day he went through anger, shame, guilt, and fear, varying as regularly as fever and chills. At last he knew what he had to do. After dinner, he biked over to Tara and Hannah's house and rang the bell without prior arrangement.

"Hi, Cyrus!" said Tara. "I didn't expect to see you! You never get sick. But you're looking awfully pale. Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah, pretty much," he said.

Tara's mother had answered the door, and now peered in from the kitchen in interest at the unusual evening visit.

"Can we talk alone?' he asked.

"Sure," she said, and she led him to her room.

"How's Hannah?" he asked, voice trembling.

"She's sulking, I'm afraid. Last night she kept chatting all through dinner about what you'd done with the top and your voice in the story and all. This morning she said quietly that she'd had a dream about you. I laughed, 'Not a dream like with Mr. Anderson, I hope.' Then she walked out and hasn't said much of anything since."

She turned to her friend. "So what was wrong with you? Are you all better? Say, you look awful!"

"You have to go talk to Hannah," Cyrus said in a flat voice that didn't sound like him. He was walking calmly to the scaffold.

"Why?"

"Because she wasn't making it up."

"Making what up?"

"The dream about me."

"You dreamed about her too? What, doing it to her?" she asked, laughing.

"Yes," he said simply. "I'm so sorry."

Tara froze, eyes open wide. "You did? My sister? You're kidding!"

"I'm not kidding. Worry about me later. You need to go to Hannah, and apologize for not believing her, right?"

"You asshole!" said Tara, half shouting. "How could you?"

"I didn't mean to! I never meant to do any of it, right? But please -- do the right thing for your sister. Hannah first, OK?"

With a hard last look, Tara nearly slammed the door on him, corralling the pervert in her bedroom to be dealt with later.

Through the door, Cyrus heard quiet voices, a little crying, more soft voices, and -- he breathed a sigh of relief -- laughter! Or were they plotting just how to humiliate him most thoroughly?

The clock on Tara's desk told him she had been gone only 14 minutes. As she shut the door behind her, Cyrus steeled himself for anything.

"She pushed you away and you kept coming back?"

"Twice, yeah."

"Asshole!" Tara grabbed a sweater that was lying on her dresser and hurled it at Cyrus with all her might.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"Pervert. Asshole. Prick. Rapist. Slimeball. Shithead," repeated Tara, pacing.

"Sorry."

"You nailed me pretty good right after you went to bed, but it wasn't enough, huh? You did Melanie too, I suppose?"

Cyrus nodded.

"Two gorgeous babes spread their legs for you, you fuck 'em both to the hilt, and it's not enough. You have to go after my fucking little sister!" she hissed.

Cyrus started crying, first holding back the stomach contractions as best he could. But within seconds he was openly sobbing. He looked down and closed his eyes, seeing no point in shielding himself from whatever missile Tara saw fit to use next.

But sometimes, of course, such raw emotion serves multiple purposes.

"You didn't plan it, right?"

Cyrus shook his head.

"You didn't come over yesterday and get her to plop her butt down in your lap so you could dream about being a pervert later?"

Cyrus shook his head again.

They heard a soft knocking on the door.

"Go away!" shouted Tara.

But the door opened anyway, and it was not a concerned parent who appeared. It was Hannah.

"What's wrong, Cyrus?" she asked in her pure voice.

Cyrus looked up briefly into the sweet face and felt a new wave of shame crash over him.

Tara said, "It's OK, Hannah, there's nothing for you to worry about. Go back to your room."

But Hannah had other ideas. She hopped up on the bed next to Cyrus and leaned against him, putting a small arm around behind his back.

"What's wrong?" repeated the little one.

Cyrus felt completely lost, but his one anchor was the little girl. He could do what was best for her.

"You remember your dreams last night?"

"Yeah."

"The ones with me in them?"

Hannah gave a conspiratorial grin.

"Well, I'm not supposed to have dreams like that. You're never supposed to have men doing things like that to you."

"In real life right? But in dreams it's OK."

"Not really."

"But that's what you've been telling me all this time."

"Oh, it's OK for you. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm the one who did something wrong."

Hannah frowned, was silent a moment, and then spoke. "You should stop crying. I'm sick of everyone getting all sad because of my funny dreams." And with that, she squirmed her way into Cyrus's lap and leaned back against him.

Cyrus was touched and felt an impulse to cry again, but found he could control himself for the sake of the girl in his lap. She'd said not to cry, and he'd do his best not to.

He had no erotic feelings for the girl. He felt tender, protective, loving. Cyrus leaned down to plant a kiss on the top of Hannah's head. As he did, his eyes locked with Tara's, and he held the kiss for a second. Her expression was hard to read.

The little girl yawned.

"I feel much better, Hannah. Time for bed now?"

"OK," she said, scrambling up. On the way, she kissed Cyrus on the cheek and giggled.

"Maybe I'd better go too?" Cyrus asked after she'd left.

"Yeah, I think you should," said Tara.

And as he walked home, Cyrus thought about things. I must not dream about Hannah again, he thought. I absolutely must not. If there is one wish I ever need to have granted, he thought, it's that I not dream about Hannah again. Not Hannah!

Cyrus appeared naked beside Tara. There was her pussy, and it was time to mate -- but she pushed him away.

Some time later he appeared beside Melanie. Her legs were already spread wide, her pussy glistening, and she smiled as she welcomed him inside. She'd cut short his efforts to be a better lover lately. He glided in and out of his dream goddess with ever-increasing pleasure, before fulfilling his male nature, delivering his payload in a glow of satisfaction.

Later he dreamed he lay on top of Tara, penis against her stomach, but the angry-looking girl threw him off, her mouth open and yelling something he couldn't hear.

There was little Hannah, smiling up at him. And in his dream, he did what he had before. He had a nagging feeling that there was something he was supposed to remember, but he couldn't.

There was Tara again, sitting naked on the bed, legs crossed and hands crossed over her small breasts, glaring at him. He pulled her arm aside to see the nipple underneath, but she quickly covered it up again. He tried again, with similar results. He felt more than lust, he felt anger. He tried pushing her back onto the bed, and she resisted once more. And then in the dream she spat on his face. Now he was furious and shoved her down with all his might. She wriggled with all her strength, but it wasn't enough. She raised her knee quickly, catching him in the balls, and it hurt -- though more in theory than in practice. He slapped her face and shook her shoulders, and she lay back, shocked. It was hard work prying her legs apart, but he managed, pinning them with his knees. With his fingers he roughly tore her labial folds open and lodged his hungry stiff tip against her inner folds. He shoved, and her tissues could offer no resistance. With one palm pressing down against each upper inner thigh, holding her apart, he jammed deep over and over. He'd fuck her, yeah, but he'd also teach her a lesson. He was the boss. How dare she spit in his face or knee his balls! His pleasure built, his anger intertwined with lust, and he shot his load deep in the still-struggling girl. Take that, cunt, he thought. His lust and anger faded in tandem with his spurts, and soon the scene ended.

In French class, Tara glared at Cyrus and Cyrus glared right back. They didn't speak that day, or the next.

Melanie listened patiently to Tara's side of the story, told with venom over and over. She managed to get an account of events from Cyrus, though not as thorough and delivered in far fewer words. Then she dragged the two of them together into the French classroom after school.

"You raped me!"

"I'm sorry, but it was just a dream. And you spit in my face."

"Well, why were you trying to do me when I was pushing you away, over and over?"

"What have I ever been trying to do? I was trying to fuck you."

"And were you bad with my sister too? Again?"

"Yes."

"You're a pervert!"

"My id does what it wants. I don't have any control over it!"

"You never forced yourself on me before."