Chapter 1: The Nightmare Begins
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, a monotonous drone that syncopated perfectly with Professor Vance’s dry-as-dust lecture on macroeconomic theory. John’s head felt impossibly heavy, his eyelids like weighted curtains. He fought it, blinking hard at the dense lines of his open textbook, but the words swam together into a grey slurry. His last coherent thought was a vague hope that his notes were legible.
Then, darkness.
Not the clean darkness of shut eyes, but a thick, velvet drop into something else. The drone of the lecture hall twisted, warping into a low, rhythmic chuckle. John’s own head snapped up, but he wasn’t in his seat anymore.
He was standing at the front of the cavernous, empty lecture hall. The seats, endless rows of them, were all occupied by shadows with gleaming eyes. The air was hot, thick with the chalk-dust smell of fear and something else, something musky and organic.
“Well, well. Dreaming in class, Johnny-boy? Tsk tsk.”
The voice came from the professor’s podium. But it wasn’t Professor Vance. It was a man in a filthy red and green sweater, his face a landscape of burnt wax and scar tissue. Freddy Krueger leaned on the podium, lazily tapping the razors of his glove against the wood. Tink, tink, tink.
“Pay attention now,” Freddy crooned. “This is the fun part.”
He gestured with a clawed hand to the space beside him. The air there shimmered, heat-haze style, and then solidified. A figure materialized, featureless at first, then resolving into the form of a massively built man, his back to John. He was wearing only the tightest, whitest pair of briefs John had ever seen, the fabric straining not over muscular thighs or a tapered waist, but over an obscenely inflated, grotesquely round bubble butt. The cheeks were hemispheres, impossibly full, the thin cotton dug so deep into the cleft it was a white line threatening to vanish. The sheer size of it was absurd, pornographic, a cartoon of flesh that made John’s breath hitch in his throat.
It was his fantasy. The precise, secret image he’d gotten off to in the privacy of his own room a hundred times, now plastered in horrifying, public high-definition right in front of him.
“He’s for you, Johnny,” Freddy whispered, his voice suddenly right by John’s ear. The stench of burnt flesh and old sweat was overwhelming. “All that pumping, all that filling… you love it, don’t you? You love imagining what it feels like. The stretch. The pressure.”
John tried to step back, but his feet were rooted to the linoleum. He felt a traitorous heat blossom in his own groin. His pants, his standard khakis, began to feel tighter. He could feel his own cock thickening, responding to the monstrous, beautiful spectacle before him even as his mind screamed in humiliation.
The large-bottomed man began to turn, slowly. John’s heart hammered against his ribs. He didn’t want to see the face. He didn’t.
“Go on,” Freddy urged, his claw tracing a cold line down John’s cheek. “Look at what you want. What you’re afraid of wanting.”
The man finished turning. It was Mike, the star linebacker from his high school. Mike, who’d once shoved John’s head into a toilet for being a “soft-handed nerd.” Mike’s face was a blank, handsome mask. He took a heavy step forward, then another, his enormous buttocks jiggling with a mesmerizing, slow-motion wobble. The scent intensified—the raw, pungent musk of sweat, of man, of use. It flooded John’s senses, dizzying him, making his mouth water and his stomach churn with equal parts revulsion and desperate need.
“He knows your secret, Johnny,” Freddy sang. “He knows you get hard thinking about sitting on faces. About being smothered. Isn’t that right, Mike?”
Mike nodded, a slow, deliberate dip of his chin. He stopped a foot from John, the heat from his body radiating like a furnace. Without a word, he began to lower himself, his movements ponderous, inevitable. John was frozen, paralyzed by terror and a sick, all-consuming lust. He was going to be sat on. He was going to be dominated by his childhood bully, who had the exact body of his deepest, most shameful fetish.
The sheer white briefs descended, blotting out the fluorescent light. The musky scent became everything. John could see the individual threads straining, the damp patches of sweat, the dark shadow of Mike’s hole pressed against the fabric.
And as the immense, beautiful weight began to settle over his face, as he felt the promised heat and pressure, John felt a sudden, catastrophic release in his own groin. A hot, liquid warmth surged out of him, utterly beyond his control. It pulsed into his boxers, soaked through his khakis, a spreading, shameful stain of heat in the cold nightmare.
He’d done it. The fear he’d carried since he was sixteen, the nightmare of public humiliation, was happening right here, right now. He was coming in his pants.
“That’s it,” Freddy giggled, the sound skittering around the hollow hall. “Let it go. You’re just a filthy little creep who gets off on his own humiliation. Look at you. Look.”
John jerked awake with a convulsive gasp.
His heart was trying to punch its way out of his chest. The lecture hall was back—normal, bright, full of bored students. Professor Vance droned on. The guy next to him was texting under the desk.
It was just a dream. A sick, twisted, hyper-vivid dream.
He let out a shuddering breath, forcing his muscles to unclench. Then the sensation registered. A lingering warmth. A distinct, uncomfortable dampness clinging to his crotch and inner thighs.
Slowly, terrified, he glanced down.
There, on the light khaki fabric of his pants, centered perfectly on his groin, was a dark, spreading patch. It wasn’t huge, but it was unmistakable. A wet spot.
His blood ran cold. A ghost of Freddy’s chuckle seemed to echo in the hollow of his ear. It hadn’t just been a dream. His body had played along. He’d actually, physically, creamed his fucking pants in the middle of Econ 201.
Panic, razor-sharp and absolute, sliced through him. The lecture had another twenty minutes. He was trapped in the middle of a row. He could already imagine the snickers, the pointed fingers, the photo that would be on social media before he even got to the door—Jock John jizzes himself during monetary policy lecture.
He grabbed his backpack, hugging it clumsily in front of his crotch, and stood up. His legs were weak. He didn’t look at anyone, muttering a hoarse “sick” to the person blocking his path to the aisle. He kept his eyes on the EXIT sign, a beacon of fluorescent salvation, and walked with a stiff, awkward gait, the damp fabric chafing against him with every step, a cold, shameful reminder that the nightmare had followed him out.