The following night, I infiltrated Gwenneth's dreamscape once more. But this time, my strategy was different. No more abstract nightmares or memory distortions. This was something more direct, more personal, and utterly devastating.
Gwenneth awoke within her own dream. She yawned, stretching her lithe body on the luxurious bed of her hideout apartment. Everything felt normal, until her ears caught a strange sound from the living room—soft moans, wet kisses, and familiar, heavy breathing.
With a sinking heart, she pushed her bedroom door open.
And there, displayed before her, was her worst nightmare made real.
I was lounging casually on the white leather sofa. To my right, her mother was completely naked, her pale skin glowing in the lamplight. Her hands were cupping my face, kissing me with fervent passion, her tongue dancing intimately with mine. My hand was roughly groping and twisting her full breast, making her moan softly between kisses.
