With his fist around his erection over his trousers, he climaxed in his pants. The relief, the lethargy after his orgasm, brought him out of his fantasy.Where was he? He saw a gas station on his right, pulled in, used his debit card, and started to fill his car with gas. He left the gas pumping and went to the restroom, where he removed the soiled condom and replaced it with a fresh one."She saw you," he whispered at his image in the mirror. "She saw you for a split-second. She can't identify you, but she saw you when she was moving from the parking lot to her office. You can't take her now. She'll be too cautious. Save her. Save her for your next trip to Tempe. Savor the wait. Let the tension build like it did before."Sudden anger flushed through him again. He wanted to smash the face in the mirror with his fist, splinter the image into a million pieces.He didn't. Instead he smiled, a malevolent expression. "Plan B. Initiate Plan B. The Apache breed you saw the day before yesterday.. Overcome, he stood there in the night, unzipped his pants and stroked his young cock until he spurt on the ground in front of him, awash in young women's dreams.That was the first time he realized he had a gift, or an abnormality. He could not penetrate fully conscious minds, but those in a dream state, drunk, high, or those disconnected from normal linear perceptive reality were accessible to him. He could read and feel their thoughts, enter their dreams, become part of their dreams, merge their dreams with waking reality and fold their waking night reality into a dream.It almost ruined his life. The quiet night became a cacophony of noise each night during his adolescence until he learned to control its flow, shut it out. But still he was drawn, as men are, to the dreams of women and their scent. In high school and college he could avoid the gross insecurity of not knowing for sure if a woman was interested in him. If they drank, got high or slept and he was within reasonable.
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