I found myself standing in the backyard garden, completely naked. My skin tingled with a breeze that wasn't really there because, in the distance, the edge of this dream was just a shapeless, colorless void.

I smiled. I knew exactly where I was, inside my stepmother's dream after using my new skill on her.

The lingering warmth from everything I'd done to Angeline, and especially to Delilah, still coursed through my body. Last night had been incredible. The mere thought of bringing Gweneth into my next little game sent a fresh, uncontrollable surge of desire through me.

But for now, there was another pleasure I intended to savor to the fullest.

I circled the house, my eyes locking onto the second-floor balcony—Delilah's balcony. I leaped up effortlessly, landing silently on the railing. Through the transparent curtains, I saw her lying on the large bed, naked and vulnerable.

I crept closer, standing beside the bed, drinking in the sight of her graceful curves. My mind raced. How exactly did this dream world work? The [Dreamweaver] skill gave me access to her memories and the power to create any scenario. Most importantly, every sensation I conjured for her would feel 100% real to her nerves and her mind.

Well, then...

I imagined several coils of strong, black silk rope materializing from the air. Instantly, they shot out, wrapping around Delilah's wrists and ankles with terrifying precision.

She was bound in an obscenely embarrassing shibari position—her legs hoisted high and spread wide—pulled almost to the sides of her head, leaving her entire groin, still red and slightly swollen, completely exposed to me. Her pussy was on full display with its neatly trimmed hair, her red lips still glistening with moisture.

Delilah let out a weak moan, her eyes fluttering open. Confusion turned to shock, then to blazing anger as she realized her helpless state.

"Adam?!" she screamed.

I just smiled, leaning closer to her flushed face. "Mom, this is your dream. I'm... just a figment of your imagination. The man you secretly want in your subconscious."

Before she could protest, a large, lifelike dildo—complete with realistic veins and skin tone—appeared from the empty air in front of her. Without ceremony, I guided its tip to her exposed vaginal opening and pushed it in to the hilt.

"NNNGGGAAHHHH!!" Delilah squeezed her eyes shut, stifling a groan. Her body tensed, fighting the sudden intrusion.

I watched her reaction closely. Her flushed face wasn't just from anger; there was a clear effort to hold something back. It seemed the effects of the intoxicating potion I'd given her in the real world had worn off or hadn't carried over into the dream.

I didn't stop. Keeping the buried dildo in place, I conjured a small vibrator at my fingertip. I turned it to its highest setting and pressed it directly against her swollen clit.

"AHH! Stop it!" she protested, but her voice already wavered.

Time to attack her mind directly. I bent down, my lips close to her ear, and began whispering poisonous temptations in a low, urgent voice.

"Delilah... look at you. Tied up, spread open, filled with a foreign object. So why is your breath catching? Why is your chest heaving? Don't lie to yourself, Delilah. Just let go... no one will ever know. This is just a dream. Here, you can be honest about your deepest desires."

She shook her head, trying to hold back moans as the vibrator buzzed harder. "No... I don't... AHH!"

"You must be so tired, Mom," I whispered again, while my free hand began pinching and twisting her already rock-hard nipples. "Tired of always being on guard, always fighting alone. Playing the strong woman who has to hide all her weaknesses and desires. It's okay to just... let go here. It's okay to admit that you're... enjoying this."

I tugged her nipples harder, making her gasp. "Shut up... you...!"

"Ask yourself, Mom," I taunted, relentless. "When was the last time a touch made you feel this insane? When was the last time someone satisfied a woman like you, made you climax over and over until you forgot your own name? Not with your late husband, and certainly not with my father. They never could, could they? They never gave you real satisfaction."

[Delilah's Sexual Arousal increased to 23 (+1)]

[Your Dominance over Delilah Increases to 35%.]

Oh? So her arousal and my dominance could increase here in the dream too. And that notification seemed to prove my theory right—only I, her own stepson, could make her lose control completely like last night.

Seeing my opening, I dug deeper. I sped up the vibrator on her clit and pushed the dildo further in, simulating a deep, brutal penetration.

"It's only me, Mom," I hissed with conviction. "Only your stepson who wants you completely—not as a symbol, not as a protector, but as the most intoxicating object of desire. Only I see the hidden hunger in your cold eyes. Only I dare to take you, master you, and give you the satisfaction no other man could."

"Just admit it, Delilah... in your deepest heart, you crave this. You crave my touch, my roughness, even my seed filling your womb. That's the truth you hide from everyone, even from yourself."

[Delilah's Sexual Arousal increased to 32 (+2)]

[Your Dominance over Delilah Increases to 37%.]

The notification appeared again, but this time it was followed by a longer, more genuine moan from Delilah. Yet, afterward, her expression hardened again. Her body remained tense, resisting even as the physical stimulation was undeniable.

She was tough. Breaking through this woman's mental defenses was a real challenge. But that just made her all the more tempting. I would shatter that pride, bit by bit, until only a woman thirsty for her own stepson remained.

I continued my merciless assault. The brutal vibrations on her swollen clit, the deep thrusts of the dildo inside her wetness, and the filthy whispers I poured into her ear—I used it all to melt her defenses.

"Look how wet you are, Mom," I hissed, my fingers incessantly twisting and pulling on her hardened nipples.

"Ahh—! Shut up...!" Delilah cried out, but her shout turned into a long groan as I pushed the dildo deep, hitting her G-spot.

However, no matter how hard I tried, there seemed to be a limit I couldn't breach just yet. In the corner of my vision, my dominance percentage stalled at 42%. Her body swayed gently under the stimulation, but her eyes still held a glimmer of defiance. Though slightly disappointed, this was enough for a start.

More importantly, there was something else I wanted to try in this dream world.

How do I see her memories? Do I need to ask directly? Or just think about it?

My curiosity swelled. I wanted to know what kind of childhood made my stern stepmother this way. Before I could even form the question in my mind, my vision suddenly swam and shifted.

I was no longer looking at Delilah's bound body. Instead, I saw a little girl with golden hair, maybe eight or nine years old, in the bleak backyard of a rural house. Her hands held a small spear that seemed too heavy for her.

She kept stabbing a wooden target with a blank expression. No toys, no friends her age. Just training, training, and more training. In the distance, her parents always watched with cold stares, as if confining her in an invisible cage. It felt sad and lonely.

'So it's that easy,' I thought.

Then, my mind drifted to a question that had always nagged me. Delilah is 41 now, and Gweneth is 24. That means she gave birth at 17. Very young. Given how closed off and friendless she seemed, how was that possible? Did she ever fall in love? Or was there another story?

My vision shifted again. Now I saw Delilah as a teenager, around 16, her face innocent yet strikingly beautiful. She stood tensely in a simple living room, facing a middle-aged man who resembled her—must be her father.

"You will marry the son of the Richter family," her father said flatly, without emotion. "They are a respected Hunter family from the next town. This is our chance to raise our family's status."

Delilah just bowed her head, obedient. No protest, no smile. Just resigned acceptance.

The scene changed. I witnessed a simple wedding ceremony. Delilah, now 17, wore a plain white wedding dress. Her husband, a reasonably handsome young man with a friendly smile, kept gazing at her with deep admiration.

Then, scenes of their married life flashed by like a sped-up film. I saw her husband trying desperately to break through her walls. He brought her gifts, said sweet words, tried to hold her.

Delilah seemed confused. Sometimes, a faint light flickered in her eyes, briefly, before dying out again. She seemed not to understand her own feelings, not knowing how to respond to his warmth.

The scene changed again. Her husband, growing increasingly frustrated, started coming home late. Then, one night, he brought another woman into their house. Delilah watched from behind her bedroom door, her face still hard to read. No anger, just a small hurt in her eyes that was immediately buried deep.

Her husband continued his affairs, even with more women, as if searching outside for what he couldn't find at home. Delilah never protested, just sank deeper into her solitude.

My curiosity peaked. What happened next? How did this story end?

I decided to fast-forward, looking for the turning point. The view jumped rapidly, stopping on a scene where Delilah was killing her husband herself.

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