"Lucid Training," Chapter One.

This is the first chapter of a story about a teenager's twisted psychosexual journey as he becomes another man's possession and learns things about himself he never dreamed of. Basically, that's a fancy way of saying that there's deviant, limit-pushing (and limit-breaking) fucking. And a cool plotline. I hope you enjoy.

My email is barcode_demon@hotmail.com. Send me a message if you like this story, if you don't like it, if you have suggestions, complaints, et cetera.

Boilerplate (i.e., the cover-my-ass section):  This is a work of explicit sexual fiction. If it's illegal for you to read this, don't read it. Don't assume that, because I write about something, that it's okay to do in real life. Any resemblance to real people, or to reality in general, is coincidental. Don't try anything you're about to read at home. All rights reserved.

"Remember me? I made you,
dressed and trained you....
Strip down, show me flesh and bone,
'cause now I own you."

--Shinedown, "I Own You"

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you know,
Thus much let me avow--
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream...."

--Edgar Allen Poe, "A Dream Within A Dream"


The ten-day heatwave was as oppressive as a Saudi patriarch and showed no sign of letting up: August in Boston. The sinking sun drained away behind the city skyline and, if anything, it was even warmer than midday. Noah lived with his mom in the top-floor apartment of a triplex, one in an anonymous row of triplexes crammed like bad teeth between the concrete lips of the Purple Line and the Pike. NSTAR had come that morning and shut off the electricity, and without the window A/C units running the apartment had become a humid sponge.

Noah was lying naked in the bathtub, absently fondling his dick as he texted his best friend Jamie. The water had started as frigid as he could bear, but after an hour or so was more like tepid tea. Jamie wanted him to come hang at a house party, some languid dubstep kegger, with him and his sister; though it sounded fun, just thinking about the process made his eyelids heavy. The light from his iPhone glowed and uplit the contours of his face. The darkness was growing, but the bathwater was still more comfortable than the naked air and he didn't feel like hunting for a candle in the kitchen.

Noah was sixteen, long and lanky. He wasn't an athlete, but his body had the tautness of a teenager who thought video games were boring. His cinnamon hair was long, thick, and home-haircut shaggy. His Irish roots showed also in the confused constellations of freckles that dotted his chest, shoulders, and back. His lips were perhaps more full than a boy's should be, but the hard angles of his nose and jaw were aggressively masculine. Heavy-lidded, he always caught flack from Jamie as seeming listlessly Zen; but his eyes were such a high-def arctic blue that they were hard to endure otherwise. His body was mostly naturally smooth, except for pale down on his forearms and calves and thicker dark red jungles at his armpits and crotch.

He had slid forward into the tub far enough that the water line was just under his chin, and his left leg stretched long out of the water along the cracking wall tiles. Noah's fat fleshy cock floated beneath the surface of the water like a predator; he loved it like any teenager would and had a hard time keeping his fingers away, only bringing them out of the water to find his phone and reply to Jamie. Their conversation lacked enthusiasm--it was just too fucking hot.  Along the edge of the bathtub he had lined up five pills of Oxycontin, though only three remained in the neat little row. A mostly new bottle of vodka sat on the floor, within easy reach.

When Jamie didn't text him again, Noah put his phone on the side of the tub and closed his eyes. Four days was a rough estimate of how long it had been since he last slept--it might have been five. He remembered fading out during the opening of Family Guy and waking up again just before the end credits rolled. This was typical for him: Noah could never remember ever having slept more than half an hour or so at a time, and could definitely never remember ever having a dream. He pretended that liquor and pills helped; not that they really did, but since his mom was so contemptuous of doctors, it was the only treatment he had.

He took a slug of vodka. A train passed by on the Purple Line and the triplex grumbled. Tumescent moonlight gradually gave the small bathroom definition. Noah draped his damp hand over his face and lost time.

A pair of voices, muffled laughter, jolted him from his sleepless coma. The man's low laugh he didn't know, but the woman's sultry, teasing chuckle he instantly recognized as his mom's. It had been three days since she'd been home--out working, and apparently she'd brought some work home with her.

The bathroom door cracked open. "Noah? You in here?" she sort-of whispered.

"Yeah, ma."

His mother came into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. She sat on the toilet to pee.  "Hun, why the fuck is it so hot in here?"

"They shut the power off this morning. You didn't leave me any money."

"Well, who was it that came? It's usually that Italian guy. If you had offered him a handy, I bet he'd've let us slide a few...."

"I wasn't home when they came, ma." A slight edge cut the buzzed slur in his voice.

His mom sighed. "It's too fuckin' hot." She kicked away her pumps and peeled off her pantyhose before she got off the toilet. In the vague moonlight she teased her hair in the mirror. She was unmistakably Noah's kin, especially in her fulsome lips and the heavy, exotic shape of her eyes, though she looked more like his sister (she was slightly younger than Noah when she made him). She wriggled out of her expensive black mini dress, her tits and ass firm, perfect curves in the shadows. Noah's eyes rested on the long-stemmed rose, the petals colored green, white, and orange, tattooed on her left shoulder blade.

She held up her clutch victoriously. "Well, I've got plenty of cash now, babe." She turned to him, saw the pills. "What is that, E?"

"No, oxy."

"Perfect." She swiped two and knocked them back with the vodka. "I got a little preview on the cab ride home, this one's a big boy." She handed the bottle to Noah, who protectively swallowed the last pill, unmindful of the lipstick that smudged the bottleneck. His mom brushed some of the hair out of his face. "Look, let me get this schmuck out and on his merry way--I can't fuckin' imagine why he insisted on coming here--and we'll order a pizza or something." She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. "Ugh, maybe we'll ditch this popcorn stand and crash at a hotel for the rest of the weekend. Deal?"

He yawned. "Deal."

She smiled. "That's my boy." She stood and left the bathroom. The door closed forcefully.

"Well, look who has no patience," Noah heard his mom simper just on the other side of the door. "Why don't we head into the...." The door thumped. "I think...let's not waste...ha ahhhhhh!"

The bathroom door began to shudder, his mother's body pressed against it. Noah's dick began to swell as the john took her. He could hear her moaning, the slap of palm against flesh. Noah knew that when she was faking it she was very verbal ("that's right, you're so big, I love it, give it to me!") but that the helpless, wordless mewling he could hear now meant she was loving it.

The vodka and the oxy and the damned heat made thinking syrupy, not worth the effort. Noah's fat teencock reached its full nine inches, jutting out of the bathwater like the keel of a sunken ship. He grabbed at it. The door shuddered and protested against it's frame, like a horror movie scene when the monster tries to force his way into a locked room to devour some helpless co-ed. Noah's nostrils flared and he rubbed his precum into his cockhead with his thumb. He bit his lip and snorted quietly.

His mother's cries became insistent. Noah had no images in his mind, not that he needed to imagine any. He had already jacked off three times that day, but his dick was throbbing like it had never been sated. He writhed a little in the tub, and water sloshed over the edge.

Insistent cries became shrieks, and Noah bucked his hips up into his fingers. Minutes passed and the veins in his lean forearms popped as he jacked. But as he started to cum--biting his lip hard--everything on the other side of the door became instantly silent. The door stopped shuddering, the hinges stopped rasping. His juice arched up into the air and fell into the warm bathwater, iridescent white ropes of semen that floated in the water between his dick and his chest like an oil slick. Only his mouth-breathing broke the silence.

He lay in the tub again, still. As his cock deflated, his cum drifted and clung to the side of the tub. As he absently groped about for the vodka bottle, the bathroom door opened.

"Give me a sec, ma...." He stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles.

"I'm not your mother."  The voice low, deep. A man's voice.

Noah blinked, dulled by the booze and the pills. "What?"

"Your mother needs you."

Noah stood up. He put his hand on the shower rod to steady himself. Water cascaded down his lean body, glimmering icily in the summer moonlight.  "Why, for what?"

The shapeless form in the door frame backed away. Noah wrapped a towel around his waist and followed, dripping, stumbling only slightly. The door to the apartment's only bedroom was open.

Noah saw his mother lying, naked, on the bed. Face down, her face buried in the crook of an elbow. One leg draped off the edge of the mattress. She didn't look comfortable, but he'd seen her passed out in more contorted shapes before. Noah started to step inside when he heard the man's voice behind him.

"Strictly speaking, I didn't get what I was promised. You need to fulfill the contract."

Noah took a deep breath. It was true, he had done some trade for money--handjobs to keep the electricity on, for example--but nothing major, nothing that required extensive contact. His mom brought home decent green when she wasn't pissing or snorting it away; but she said that the only women who really paid for it were dykes, and Noah wasn't sure how keen he was on m4m.

He turned to find the voice. "Hey...whoever you are. I don't know why you think...."

He was interrupted by a glint of metal lobbing through the air. He caught it on reflex: a gold coin. There was a picture of a woman on the coin and the date, 1910. It weighted down his fingers. For some reason he was certain it was real.

"You can probably have central air pumped into this place with that, Noah. Or keep it all for yourself, and tell your mom I stiffed her. All I want is oral. I won't draw it out. Then I leave, and that's that."

A train passed by, and in the glow of it and the haze of the vodka the gold coin winked at Noah. He wrapped his hand around it.

"Look. I'm not...."

"I don't care what you are or what you're not." The words were final, as heavy as the coin.

Noah hesitated, his mind sloppy but the weight of the coin so very neat. "Okay." He let the air out of his chest in a whoosh. "Okay, but not in here. In the living room."

"Say, 'please.'"

"In the living room, please."


The bathroom door was partly ajar, and moonlight from the window there cut a long, narrow blade across the living room. The john crossed the living room to sit on the sofa, and as he passed through the silver Noah saw him for the first time; even so, he was hard-pressed to make out details. The naked stranger loomed tall and muscular. His skin must've been dark, darker than Noah's at any rate, but the moonlight burnished it like dusky metal. The symmetry of his muscles, from the broad blades of his shoulders to the round globes of his ass that bobbed as he strode to the couch, seemed mechanical in its precision, more like something cast in bronze and escaped from a museum than some random fleshbag that would pay for a pretty Irish whore. The man sat down, his body just out of the light, but he set his arm on the back of the sofa, the entire sculpted, curved length of it tattooed in shapes that swam in Noah's vision.

Noah's heart thudded. Get it over with, it's nothing, think of the money, get it over with. He never really thought he'd be on this side of the equation.

The john's legs were spread wide, welcoming. As Noah sank to his knees flesh smacked his face, and as  he went to move the dude's arm out of the way he realized: that's his fuckin' cock! Noah grabbed it and felt it throb. A thick, heavy vein pressed against his palm. His fingers couldn't reach all the way around the shaft, and he could only guess at its length in the darkness.

Noah began to have serious second thoughts.

Noah started when the man's hand cupped his face. "Let me guide you. I'm not asking for perfection." The man used his hand to bring Noah's lips up to his dick's massive, bulbous head. As his eyes continued to adjust to the darkness in the living room, Noah could see the piss slit glistening. He kept his hands on the throbbing shaft as he kissed the stranger's dickhead. A salty, sweaty tang, slightly undercut with the metallic, industrial taste of what he realized was his mother's lipstick. He closed his eyes. The stranger didn't let him take his head away.

"Your first taste. It's nothing. Think of the money, Noah. It's nothing. You have such perfect lips." The words, a deep, accentless baritone, dripped into Noah's ears through his shaggy spice-red hair.

Noah opened his mouth wide, then wider, and the john guided his dick in; but Noah had to stretch his jaw just to get the swollen cockhead past his lips, and the cock was so thick that there was no way he could get it deeper without scraping skin away with his teeth. He was almost relieved, even as the mammoth prick threatened to blot out everything. He applied pressure, a damp noisy slurp that covered the cockhead with spit. The john still hadn't let go of his face. His thumb pressed up against the underside of Noah's jaw.

"That's fine, but use your hands."

Noah began to stroke, squeezing the huge shaft with both hands. He could feel the blood pulsing in it, the veins hard ridges. He moved his hands across the entire span of the dick, brushing against the soft trimmed pubes. The image of new-cut grass flickered in his head momentarily, the taste of the cock in his lips like the gasoline of Jamie's dad's old Craftsman mower. His tongue found the crevice of the stranger's piss slit and tapped it. Noah was running on automatic, porn-inundated, whore's-son instinct.

The stranger made no sound except when he spoke.

He brought his other hand up to Noah's head, and he hooked his thumbs in Noah's ears. "I'll be there in a moment. This is just what I wanted, Noah." He pushed his cock up into Noah's mouth, the flesh of his head against Noah's teeth. Noah slobbered noisily in reply. He reached up and grabbed the john, his fingers digging into the cordwood forearms. He sucked harder, swallowing sweat and precum and his own backwash. He was ready for it to be over, he wanted it to be over. The vodka and the oxy and his masculinity churned in his gut.

"Yes. Very good. So very good...."

The man dug his thumbs deeper into Noah's ears, his fingers pressing painfully into Noah's face. He pulled Noah closer. The swollen cockhead pulsed like some living creature between Noah's ripe teen lips. Noah mewled, muffled, as his fingernails drew blood. The giant dick was pushing for the inside of his mouth and his jaw cracked.


Noah could almost feel the pressure of the explosion before it came. The stranger held Noah's head in place as his slit erupted with jism, shooting the thick pasty liquid right past Noah's teeth and into his throat. He swallowed, he had to swallow. The john's fingers bruised his skull. Noah's throat reflex couldn't keep up with the load, spurt after white hot spurt, and semen snorted out of his nose, burning his sinuses. He couldn't pull away, not until he was done with. He didn't think the man would ever let up.

Eventually the cum subsided, and the hands let Noah go. He stumbled back, the salty-sweet taste of another dude's seed sunk into his tongue. He could feel the load in his belly.

The man stood up, then crouched down over Noah's fetal form. He stroked Noah's hair, like a favored pet, then leaned in and kissed his shoulder. A few final stray drops of cum flecked off his cockslit onto Noah's arm.

"Sweet dreams, Noah." He faded into the shadows. As Noah lay on his living room floor, trying to process, he wondered how the john had known his name.


Noah fumbled with the combination on his gym locker. He was so fucking late for class--everybody else had already changed and were up on the floor, running laps or doing sprints. The sound of a couple dozen sneakers squeaking on the polished hardwood was loud enough that he heard it even down in the locker room: skreek skreek-skreek skreek. As he pulled his shirt over his head, he wondered how Jamie had gotten in and out so fast, considering that he was late because the two of them had been dicking around in the cafeteria after the bell. He really, really, had to take a piss. He wondered if he could pee in the showers real quick. Skreek-skreek.

"Son, you can't have your dog down here."

He didn't recognize the gym teacher's voice, but he turned around and his dog was there, at the far end of the locker room. Brick, his old chocolate lab, who was dead.

Noah's throat closed up. It was definitely Brick, with her bent right ear and frosty gray muzzle. The truth quickly occurred to him as Brick limped across the tiles: Brick had been lost, not dead. Why had he thought that Brick was dead? He grinned to break his face when Brick licked his hand.


"You can't have your dog down here," the gym teacher repeated. Noah looked over at him. He had a polished, weathered, bird-like look about him. Noah was drawn to the shiny tin whistle around his neck which gleamed insistently and, as the teacher moved, flickered off colorful lens flare halos. They hurt his eyes, and he looked down at Brick.

"Please, I'm sorry, can I bring her home? I swear I won't take long, seriously." It would only take a minute, since he was sure he still had Brick's old dog bed. Plus he could use the bathroom at home.

"Don't dawdle, son." (Who said "dawdle" anymore?) "I need to speak to you about your tardiness."

"No, I won't. C'mon, girl." Skreek-skreek.

Brick barked and favored her good hind leg as she led the way out of the locker room. Noah felt the rough, compressed pressure of carpet on his cheek. The teacher's tin whistle shone so brightly that he felt the warmth of it on his face.

"C'mon, Bricky. Good girl." Noah murmured into the carpet of his living room floor. He blinked away the crust from his eyes. Sunlight filled the apartment. The humidity lay on him like a wet wool blanket.

"Brick?" Noah's arms and legs cracked in protest as he pushed himself up off the floor. Brick wasn't there. Tears rimmed Noah's eyes. The taste of a stranger's cum still stuck to the insides of his mouth.

He looked around the apartment. But he was just at school, wasn't he? He rubbed his eyes. Brick died three years ago. There was no school in the summer.

Then it hit him. He heard the thought almost in someone else's voice.

You had a dream.

Noah looked at the kitchenette clock.  10:16. In the morning. He had slept for over ten hours, and he had a dream.

On the counter beneath the clock he saw the gold coin. He picked it up; this at least was real. Under the coin was a business card. Noah could tell it was unusually fancy: it was heavy, for card stock, and totally black. There was a phone number on the card in white, but no name. Instead, on the reverse side, was printed an image that Noah recognized from one of the science classes he hadn't skipped: a trilobite fossil. He ran his thumb over the ridged, alien stencil.

Brick died three years ago. There was no school in summer. You had a dream.

Sweat trickled down his neck as he dialed the number on the card.

It was ringing.