The same dream. Again.
In the darkened bedroom, Maria rubbed her eyes and sat up, pushing the covers aside.
As a veteran who'd been pulled into this exact dream every single night for over two weeks straight, she knew the script by heart. This was old territory. Familiar ground.
It was like being an Elden Ring player on New Game Plus eighty. At that point, Hidetaka Miyazaki's "vision" wasn't surprising anymore. You could tell which rock on which path would clip your character into the wrong stepping animation and cost you three seconds on a speedrun. That was the level of intimate familiarity she'd achieved with this dream.
Every night, the moment she fell asleep, she was pulled here without fail.
The first time had genuinely startled her. She'd had no context, no warning, and the experience had been overwhelming.
But as the "clear count" climbed higher and higher, she'd adapted. Acclimated. Settled in. By now, she didn't even need to leave the bedroom to know what was happening. She could lie in bed, listen to the sounds coming from the living room, and reconstruct the entire scene in her mind with frame-perfect accuracy.
She knew what expressions Mama was making. She knew which positions they were using. All of it, mapped and memorized.
She'd even experimented with different strategies to "clear" the dream. Once, she'd tried brute-forcing it by staying in bed until morning, refusing to leave the room no matter what.
That hadn't worked. Time in the dream didn't function the way it did in reality. Just like certain video games where the world only advanced when you completed specific objectives regardless of how many hours you spent wandering, dawn in this dream would never come on its own.
There was one, and only one, way to end the dream.
Walk out. Join Mama and Bokue-nii in the living room.
That was the only exit condition.
Which explained why she'd been walking around like a zombie during the day for the past two weeks.
Between the nightly pool parties at the old schoolhouse and the mandatory "bonus round" in the dream afterward, where everything that happened to her dream-body reflected onto her real one, she was effectively pulling double shifts. Every single night. For over half a month.
Who could keep that up?
The one saving grace was that as a Nightmare, she was a branch species closely related to Succubi, so the constant activity was at least biologically compatible. Any normal person subjected to this kind of relentless conditioning—like the Winter Soldier's brainwashing, but hornier—would have been reduced to a drooling wreck weeks ago.
So. Here she was again. Same time. Same dream. Same objective.
Time to step out and face Bokue-nii's storm.
What was that saying again? As long as it makes me pass out...
Maria swung her legs off the bed and padded barefoot across the floor. She reached the door, pulled it open, yawned, and walked down the hallway toward the living room.
❁❁❁❁
In the living room, Bokue and Sheila had reached the final stretch.
His hands gripped her waist, lifting her entire body off the sofa, holding her suspended in the air as he drove into her at a devastating pace.
Sheila was beyond coherent thought. Her eyes had rolled back, a thin line of drool trailing from the corner of her mouth, her body jerking and twitching with each thrust like a marionette whose strings were being yanked by a madman.
Bokue was relentless. A machine that didn't know the meaning of fatigue.
Until, finally—
A heavy, muffled sound echoed through the room.
Not the usual sharp gasp of a girl caught off guard by a sudden deep thrust. This came from inside Sheila's body. From her core.
Her lower abdomen swelled visibly, distending outward in a pronounced, almost exaggerated curve. The sofa beneath her was already ruined, drenched in the evidence of her countless climaxes.
Scalding heat poured into her in a continuous, seemingly endless flood, filling her beyond capacity.
Three full minutes.
When Bokue finally released his grip, Sheila collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. Boneless. Motionless.
She'd been driven straight past unconsciousness.
Even so, Bokue remained inside her, the last surges still pulsing. Her stomach had risen into a smooth, rounded dome, straining the fabric of her dress.
When he finally withdrew, a single quiet sound broke the silence.
Gulp.
Bokue followed the noise.
At the mouth of the hallway where the corridor met the living room, a small figure stood half in the lamplight, half hidden in shadow. Maria. Bare legs visible from the knees down, her upper body swallowed by the dark of the hall. She was biting her lower lip, cheeks burning crimson, her body caught between the impulse to step forward and the instinct to hesitate.
"Come here, Maria."
Bokue's voice cut through her paralysis.
The little Nightmare flinched.
Her eyes darted, almost involuntarily, to the part of him still standing at full attention, slick and glistening with the mingled evidence of everything that had just transpired.
Something feels different tonight. Bokue-nii in this dream isn't the same as the other times.
I wonder what kind of mess I'll wake up to tomorrow morning...
The thought sent a tremor through her small frame. Not fear. Anticipation.
"C-coming, Bokue-nii..."
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