Careful what you believe
The house didn’t smell bad.
It smelled… old, but clean. Like the inside of a cedar chest that had been sealed for years, then opened under a shaft of sunlight. There was a warmth to it. Faint vanilla, maybe, and dust—not choking dust, but soft, like it had settled there gently, waiting for someone to come home.
Me.
I stood in the doorway with the keys still in my hand and a futon rolled up against the wall behind me. That was all I had, really—just that, a folding table, and a single chair with one wobbly leg. But it didn’t matter. The deed had my name on it. Mine. No one had paid taxes on the place for three years, and when I realized that, I did what no one else in my family cared to do—I saved. Every tip, every paycheck, every gift card I should’ve spent on shoes went to this house. And now, it was mine.
I didn’t care why they let it rot. Let them bury their ghosts. I’d rather dance with mine.
At twenty-three, I thought I’d feel more like an adult. But I didn’t. I felt like i was playing grown-up in my own creepy little dollhouse. But this was mine, and that meant everything.
I ordered takeout from Tokyo Taste and Go. The sauce was sticky and sweet, clinging to my fingers as I ate cross-legged on the futon, warm container balanced on my thighs. The house creaked as I chewed, as if it were clearing its throat.
After I cleaned up, I let the quiet wrap around me. The kind of quiet you only hear in old places—thick, patient. The hardwood floors were cool beneath my bare feet, and the faint hum of the fridge was the only sound as I crawled into bed.
The sheets clung to my thighs, and I shifted restlessly, a little pulse starting low in my belly. I pressed my fingers there, lazy at first. A familiar ache, a need to feel something real. But nothing in my head would stick. Every man I tried to picture dissolved into a memory I didn’t want. Every ex was just a different flavor of disappointment, and the more I tried, the colder I felt.
Fifteen minutes later, I gave up, sighing hard as I stared at the ceiling. “Forget it,” I muttered and rolled onto my side, letting sleep pull at me like an undertow.
And then…
Then came the dream.
At first, I wasn’t sure I was dreaming at all. The room looked the same—my scratched-up table, the dim hallway beyond the door. But the air felt thicker, heavy with warmth and something else I couldn’t name. My body stirred before I was even aware of it. My thighs parted, breath hitching softly, hips shifting toward something… someone.
There was pressure between my legs. Gentle, slow, impossibly precise.
No hands. No weight.
Just heat.
It was like being touched by silk and electricity all at once. Not rough. Not clumsy. It was careful. Worshipful. The kind of touch that makes you feel seen, even if you can’t see who’s touching you. My nipples tightened under the fabric of my shirt, and my lips parted with a shaky exhale.
My skin prickled as if kissed by cold air, but the heat between my thighs built in waves—soft at first, then stronger, like ripples turning into tides. My fingers gripped the sheets, but I didn’t move to stop it. I didn’t want to stop it. My body was humming, hips rolling in time with a rhythm only I could feel.
I moaned, low and helpless. It slipped out of me like a confession.
The air smelled different now. Warm, earthy… sweet. Like flowers pressed in old books. Like storm clouds just before they break. Something about it made my heart ache and my core tighten all at once.
I should’ve woken up.
But I didn’t want to.
This was the first time in years that I felt desired. Not fucked. Not used. Desired. Loved with reverence. Like I was something sacred.
I felt it first in my chest—this impossible heat, this pull, as if something unseen had wrapped itself around me, lips closing over both my nipples at once. A phantom mouth on each, suckling, teasing, drawing long, wet pulls that made my spine arch. Each suck was like a bolt of electricity firing straight to my core, sharp and sweet. My nipples hardened instantly, hypersensitive and aching, the sensation making me gasp into the darkness.
I wanted to see. I tried to look—my eyes flicked around the room in the dream, trying to find a shape, a face, anything. But there was nothing. Just warmth and sensation, and too many hands—far too many. I couldn’t count them. They brushed my waist, my hips, the backs of my knees. Palms flattened over my belly, fingers grazed the curve of my thighs, another set danced along my neck like wind-touched silk. There were so many that I couldn’t tell where one ended and another began. I was surrounded—enveloped—claimed.
My thighs quivered as something wet and hot traced the inside, licking upward with maddening slowness. I could feel how wet I was—soaked in a way I’d never been. My arousal dripped down, pooling beneath me, spreading in sticky trails that clung to my skin. I always got wet—but never like this. Never to the point of embarrassment, never like something was trying to draw every last drop from me.
And still, I couldn’t see them.
I strained to lift my arms, to touch, to hold, to pull whoever it was into view—but my wrists wouldn’t move. Something restrained me, soft but firm, like silk ropes tied by invisible hands. I whimpered, frustrated, the desire to see becoming unbearable.
Then the sucking on my nipples intensified, timed with the sudden, firm lick of a tongue—my clit.
I cried out.
It wasn’t gentle anymore. It was hunger. A rhythm I couldn’t fight—one tongue, then another, flicking, pressing, devouring me with slow, precise strokes. My hips lifted off the bed on their own, needing more, needing everything. The pressure was building so fast it scared me—like someone pounding on a door inside my body, louder and louder with every second. I tried to hold it back, clenched my teeth, squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t want to lose control, not this fast. But I couldn’t stop it. It was too much.
Too good.
I gave in.
The orgasm hit like a wave smashing through my body, ripping a cry from my lips. My legs shook violently, and then—I felt it. A gush. A rush. Hot liquid pouring from me, over my thighs, down the crack of my ass, soaking the sheets beneath me. I felt it pool, sticky and hot. The sensation was raw, primal, almost shameful. I had never squirted before. I didn’t even think I could.
But now I had.
I felt sexy. Dirty. Powerful. Undone.
And still… I didn’t open my eyes.
I was too afraid it would all disappear. That if I looked, the dream would end and I’d be alone in that house again, wrapped in sweat and tangled sheets.
So I kept them shut.
I lay there trembling, legs still spread, the phantom mouths still teasing, the hands still stroking. I whispered into the dark:
“Please… don’t go.”
And then—whatever it was answered.
Not with words. With action.
The presence—he, or they, or it—rolled me gently onto my belly like I weighed nothing, lifting me to my hands and knees. My limbs moved as if puppeted, but I didn’t resist. I didn’t want to. I could barely breathe. My skin buzzed with every brush of air, my core still fluttering from the orgasm that had just wrecked me.
I felt it behind me—heat, pressure, that not-quite-there body kneeling close, not touching yet, but so close my thighs trembled from the promise of it. Then I felt something press against my slick entrance. Not fingers. Not cold. Something hot, thick, smooth like glass and flesh at once, alive with its own rhythm.
It slid in slowly—inch by agonizing inch.
I gasped.
It felt like being filled with molten silk, like honey poured through a crack in my soul. My arms buckled slightly, and I moaned into the pillow, legs spreading wider without my consent, body arching instinctively. I needed more. I wanted to scream every dirty word I could. Daddy, Master, whatever it wanted to here, I didn't care. I needed it to just slam into me, to take me hard and fast and deep until my voice was raw from begging.
But it didn’t.
It just… slid. In. Out. In again. Maddeningly slow. Shallow. Teasing.
“Please…” I whimpered. “Please fuck me. Stop teasing. Just—fuck me.”
No answer.
Only movement. That same gentle rhythm, hips brushing my ass, the head of it dragging across every sensitive place inside me like it knew exactly what it was doing—what I needed. It pulled out to the edge, held there just a second too long, then sank back inside, thick and wet and deliciously deep.
“Fuck…” I hissed, biting the pillow. “You feel so fucking good. Please—harder. I can take it, I want it—”
And then I heard them.
Whispers.
All around me.
Dozens—maybe more. Male, female, things without names. Breathless, echoing, brushing my ears like leaves in a storm.
“She wants it… Give it to her.”
“So wet for us that she could fill the bath.”
“Know that it wasn't us who called to you. It was your desire that called to us.”
“Look how she bends… listen to her moan… she’s ours now.”
My heart pounded. My body was terrified. But my pussy clenched tighter around the presence inside me, soaked and stretched and craving more. The fear made it hotter. I was split between gasping in panic and moaning like a whore in heat.
“God, yes,” I breathed, cheeks flushed, eyes still closed tight. “You feel so fucking good inside me. Fuck me—own me—haunt me—fuck me until I forget who I am.”
The rhythm stayed slow, but deeper now. Each thrust dragged against that perfect spot inside me, making me sob. My hands clawed at the sheets. My ass backed into each stroke like I was trying to make him stay, to pull him in deeper, to never let go.
The sound was obscene—wet, loud, shameless. Flesh meeting flesh. My own juices spilling down my thighs, thick and sticky, soaking into the sheets. Every time he sank back in, I cried out again, louder, needier, like I was losing my mind on purpose.
“You like that, don’t you?” I heard—low, male, deep in my ear. It wasn’t a whisper anymore. It was a voice. A voice inside my dream.
“Yes,” I groaned. “Yes, I fucking love it—please, don’t stop—”
“You’re ours now,” it growled, hot breath licking my ear, hips grinding in circles that made my entire body quake. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” I sobbed. “I’m yours, I’m yours—just don’t stop fucking me—”
Another orgasm built—faster this time, brutal and sharp, rising like fire climbing my spine. My fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white, arms shaking.
And as I screamed, coming harder than I ever had in my life—still held down, still filled, still whispered to by ghosts I couldn’t see—I felt myself break wide open again, wetness gushing out in waves, slicking my thighs, soaking my belly.
And I still refused to open my eyes.
Because I knew… if I did, it might end.
Before I could catch my breath—before I could even adjust my trembling knees beneath me—another one took me.
It wasn’t the same.
This one was rougher. Hungrier. It didn’t ease in like the first; it claimed me in a single thrust that made my eyes fly wide and my voice crack with a helpless, broken moan. My mouth hung open, no sound coming out at first—just the air punched from my lungs as my body seized around it.
“F-fuck!” I gasped, thighs spreading wider without thought, spine arching like a drawn bow. This one didn’t tease. It fucked.
Deep. Brutal. Relentless.
The sound of his hips slamming against my ass echoed through the room like thunder off wet stone. Every slap sent a jolt through me, my nipples swinging beneath me, still wet from invisible mouths that had long since ruined me. I was already sore. Already raw. But this one didn’t care. He wanted me used. And I… I wanted to be.
Every thrust made my legs shake harder, made my breath hitch, made me forget anything else had ever existed outside this moment. My clit rubbed against the sheets, overstimulated and burning, and still, I needed more.
I came again—violently. A wave of heat, of pressure, of twitching limbs and gasping sobs that shook me so hard I collapsed to my elbows, ass still in the air, taken like some offering to the dark.
Then, just as suddenly—he was gone.
And another was already there.
The third one was slower. Not soft. Cruel.
He toyed with me. Dragged the head of himself over my folds, up to my ass, then back down—rubbing against every sensitive spot until I was dripping again, even through the sting. I tried to lift my hips, to guide him in.
“No,” a voice whispered beside my ear. “You don’t get to ask.”
He slid in at a punishing angle and I screamed.
The pain met the pleasure somewhere in my stomach, twisting into something sharp and unbearable and addictive. His rhythm was shallow, grinding in circles, keeping just enough pressure to keep me right on the edge. My face pressed into the pillow, flushed and damp with sweat and tears, moaning like a woman possessed.
He made me come again. And again.
And then he was gone.
By the time the fourth came, I was delirious—my voice was hoarse, my thighs slick and shaking, my hair plastered to my face. I couldn’t even lift myself anymore. I just lay there, cheek against the wet pillow, back arched, ass offered up like I was begging.
And maybe I was.
The fourth was silent. No whispers. No voice. Just a pressure, slow and deep, curling inside me like a hand closing into a fist.
I trembled around him, sobbing with every thrust. My body was one long, screaming nerve. The friction against my clit was almost unbearable—I twitched every time he bottomed out, overstimulated, trembling like a live wire. I didn’t know if I was crying from pleasure, or from how fucking good it felt to be ruined.
My final orgasm didn’t build—it detonated. It ripped through me like a violent storm, tearing a scream from my throat so raw it tasted like metal. My limbs jerked uncontrollably, toes curling, fingers clawing at the soaked mattress. I felt myself squirt again, more than before, the warm gush running down my thighs, soaking everything, everywhere.
And then…
It all stopped.
I was alone.
The air was still. The whispers were gone. The room was dark and heavy with the scent of sex—my sex. Sweat, heat, and something else—something ancient and impossible, like smoke and lilacs.
I couldn’t move. Not really.
Every muscle twitched with aftershocks. My thighs shook if I even tried to shift them. My arms were jelly. My nipples ached from the air, the memory of mouths still ghosting over them. Every inch of me pulsed. My clit throbbed like it had a heartbeat of its own. Even the soft drag of the sheet across my skin made me whimper. I was soaked. Inside, outside, under me. The whole bed was drenched with my sweat, my cum, my ruin.
It took everything I had to lift my head.
And when I did…
I opened my eyes.
There was nothing.
No one.
Just my empty bedroom.
Just the sound of my ragged breathing. The creak of the walls. The cool air brushing over my destroyed body.
And yet…
My pussy still clenched and quivered.
In my blissful conversations and jokes with girlfriends about the perfect lover. We were both only joking but we saw something on the internet about Tulpas and the power of focused belief.
I thought they were just jokes...
Just cash grab videos.
When I think back on the night, this is exactly what I asked for.
Then I knew, it was my desire that called them, or created them.
Tears welled in my eyes—not from fear, not from sadness. But from something stranger.
I missed them.
And I didn’t know what scared me more—
That they were gone…
Or that they might come back.
🥵🥵🥵