Some of us visit this woman’s house. She is extremely sexy in a girl-next-door sort of way, despite her improbable chest. While discussing whatever business we may have with her, the need to spontaneously fuck her grows rapidly. At one moment while she turns away, I notice her computer’s monitor, which is running through an elaborate screen saver of porn – apparently she is a distributor of some kind and is also a nymphomaniac.
I resolve that I need to sneak into her house with stolen keys, making a thorough search for her own collections. Part of me also hopes that if she discovers me, one outcome might be the two of us having wild spontaneous sex, certainly of the sex-that-shouldn’t-happen variety that seems so mischievously arousing.
Crawling through her house, I feel I am reaching my goal, though I cannot recall ever finding any concrete goods. At one moment, I am forced to hide along an improbable shelf in her daughter’s room, a thin multi-inch platform with teddy bears that for some reason is reachable by a minor staircase.
One imagines that the sex occurs.
The entire world changes, moving all of us into some kind of enormous warehouse. Over time, more and more people enter the warehouse – distributors, gangland, police agents, thugs, wrestlers, and a bizarre mix of people. This entire portion occurs with me ¾-awake, somehow a strong illusion that I can prompt while my subconscious continues to operate most of the affair before my eyes. There is something about lines along the floor connecting people.
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