A rude awakening

A young man awakens to find himself in the house of a neighbour.

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A rude awakening

I don’t know who killed me, but I know who brought me back.

His name was John. He’s a neighbour. I opened my eyes and found myself in his bedroom. I was lying on the floor on my side, and he was standing over me. I looked around, bewildered to find myself in this room, with this unknown man looming above me. He had a smile on his face. It was an unsettling expression. Like a hyena looking at a wounded rabbit. I sat up quickly.

“John? Where am I?” I asked him.

“In my bedroom,” he replied, stating the obvious.

“Why am I here?”

“Because I brought you here.”

“But why?” I pressed, seeking a fuller answer.

“Because I wanted you,” the man answered, providing me with no additional useful information.

I frowned at him. He was being deliberately cryptic and it was clear that he was enjoying my confusion. I put my hand on the floor before me ready to clamber to my feet, and it was then that I had two extremely unpleasant shocks.

The first was that I was naked. Completely. From head to toe. The instant I realised it, I reached down with both hands to cover up.

The second thing was even worse. My entire body was transparent. Not completely clear, but I could see the floor through my own body as though I was only three quarters there. And I could see through my own hands to my genitals nestled behind them.

I clambered to my feet, terrified, and scrambled backwards away from the man. He watched me with indulgent bemusement, like someone who’s seen it all a hundred times before.

“What’s happened to me?” I demanded, hysterical.

“You’re dead,” John answered flatly.

I backed away from him further my eyes comically wide. My knees turned weak and I collapsed to my bottom on the floor reaching back with my hands to save myself. I looked at the man with horror.

“What do you mean ‘dead’?” I asked.

“You’re dead. You died and now you’re a spirit. I brought you back.”

“I can’t be dead,” I said, denying my indisputable lack of substance. “How did I die?”

“You got hit by a car. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you’re dead and you’re here now.”

“Am I dead dead or can I still come back to life?”

“Oh you are unquestionably dead dead,” the man replied, clearly amused by my question. “Your funeral was two weeks ago. You were cremated.”

“So why am I here?” I asked, almost overwhelmed by the news.

“Because I wanted a playmate. I’ve been watching you for years as you grew up, walking around bare-top in your shorts or your wrestling gear, playing with your friends. And when you died I decided that I wanted to play too.”

I was horrified. I could barely come to terms with the enormity of my death, and now this man seemed to be suggesting that he wanted me for some nefarious purpose.

I looked down at myself and I realised that my hands had fallen from my privates when I slumped to the floor. Suddenly I felt all the more need to cover myself. The man watched me with a smile.

Gesturing towards my groin, he said, “There’s no point being shy. I’m going to be seeing a lot more of that over the coming years.”

Years! What did he mean years?! And what did he mean about seeing a lot more of my privates? My stomach was knotted with anxiety and I felt sick to the core.

“Please let me go home,” I implored him.

“You can never go home. There’s only this house or nothingness.”


“Absolutely. No heaven, no hell. Just nothing. Forever.”

I stared at him, my thoughts reeling, unable to process everything that he was telling me. After what seemed like minutes, I rose to my feet again and stood facing him, my hands pointlessly covering my privates but hiding nothing.

“What do you want from me?”

“Now THAT is a good question to ask…”

His comment was laced with unpleasant potential. If words could be oily, his were positively greasy, slimy, full of depraved promise.

“Let’s start with a hug and a kiss, and we’ll see where things go from there.”

I look at him like he’d asked me to eat dog shit. He laughed.

“Come here.”

There was nothing I wanted nothing less but I found myself walking towards him.

“Good boy. Now a hug.”

I hugged him as though he was a goal scoring team mate on my soccer…

I wouldn’t be playing soccer any more. Or seeing my friends. Or my family. I was devastated as the implications started to sink in.

He was hugging me back. I could feel him, his form, his warmth.

“Kiss me,” he said.

I turned my head to his and pecked him on the lips.

“Not like that,” he said patiently, “like you’re kissing your girlfriend.”

“I’ve never had a girlfriend.”

“Your boyfriend then?”

I frowned.

“Never had a boyfriend.”

In other circumstances the admission might have been mildly embarrassing at fifteen years old, but right then it was the least of my worries.

“Open your mouth a bit.”

I did as I was told. He moved his mouth to mine and started working his lips on mine. I reciprocated ineptly, copying his actions against my will. It wasn’t as though I was going along with his instructions in the hope of good treatment. He’d told me what to do and now I was doing it. I felt like a spectator to my own body; my own brain. The rational part of me was sitting at the back of my head watching myself kissing him passionately, grinding our lips, playing tongue-chase, hugging as though he was a date that I had been looking forwards to seeing. I could feel the physical sensations, the emotions of passion in the me-puppet, yet I had no control.

I felt his hand slip down my bare bottom, cupping me for a while as we kissed. Then his middle finger slipped inside me and started to fuck me slowly as we continued to kiss.

I was not gay. I longed to lose my virginity with a girl, but I felt my cock rising between us, filling with… With what? Do ghosts have blood? How could I have a hard on if I was a ghost? And why would I have one kissing a man old enough to be my father. None of it made sense.

Yet the undeniable truth was, I felt more excited now than during any wank I’d ever had or any porno I’d watched. I hugged him fiercely around the waist, grinding my ethereal bone against his leg. This ran counter to everything I thought I knew about ghosts. They… we weren’t supposed to be able to touch anything much get horny and hump people’s legs!

He moved his face from mine, moved away a tiny step and looked down at my boner. Five inches. Below average for a grown man, but I wasn’t grown yet. And I never would be now. They never tell you the average boner sizes for teenagers at school when you really care about being normal, and I’d never seen any other teen boners to compare against.

He nodded approvingly with a smile.

“Hmmm, that’s a very thick dick for a boy your age.”

It was? I received his comment without pride, but I looked at my cock straining between us. Its tiny dark eye was staring back at us both, my dick throbbing and almost pressing against my belly. I still had colour. My helmet was shiny purple but I could see through it to my legs and the floor beneath. Why couldn’t I see my balls in my nut sack? The rules seemed arbitrary. Then I realised that it was only the outside of my body that was transparent. Anything that was covered by skin was as invisible as it was when I was alive.


He pulled me towards him, my bone pressing against his leg.

“Don’t come,” he instructed.

We continued kissing and he continued finger fucking me. I felt unbearably horny, like my balls were so full that they were ready burst. My heart was pounding in my chest. My dick was straining, and I was humping his leg, unconsciously trying to push my body to the place I had been ordered not to go.

If I’d been alive I would have blown my load all over his leg long ago. I had almost no dick control. My idea of a long wank was five minutes watching porn on the internet, and most times it took me under two minutes from boner to kitchen towel. But it seemed that my body’s reactions were his to command as well. He only had to say “Don’t come,” and I was incapable of it, no matter how much my body yearned for it.

In the passenger seat of my mind, the real me, the boy who had spent fifteen years growing to the place where his life would end skateboarding over a cross road as a distracted driver buried my head in his windshield, I looked on with a mixture of revulsion and disgust as my puppet body rubbed its boner against this man’s leg, and clenched its asshole onto the man’s finger in eager response to the finger fucking it was receiving.

Was this the real me? The me that I would have been without any of the restraint, the cultural conditioning, the bravado that had made my living self so fiercely heterosexual?


The man took his finger from my hole and cupped both my ass cheeks, lifting me from the floor apparently effortlessly. The position spread my cheeks apart. Instinctively I wrapped both legs around him, keeping our bodies close and my dick pressed against him. I felt breathless with desire. He walked towards the bed, clambering up onto it on his knees. I was unwilling to stop kissing him, then I felt something touching my hole.

I looked behind me and couldn’t see what was touching me. Then I realised I didn’t need to strain over my shoulder. I looked down at my abdomen and I could see through myself. The bed had a carved oak footboard. On each corner there were oval shaped pommels, like the pear-shaped handles of swords. In the middle was another larger one, the size of an elongated fist, shaped like Bangkok’s gherkin-shaped Pearl building, but with a narrow neck.

The man lowered me onto it. I grunted as I felt it stretch my hole wider than it had ever gone. But oddly, there was no pain, just this weird stretching feeling. Then my sphincter snapped shut, locking me onto it as a dog’s knot locks it to a bitch.

“Ride it,” the man told me.

I frowned not understanding.

“Bounce up and down. Fuck yourself on it.”

My body smiled as I understood his meaning. I unwrapped my legs from his waist and placed them on the bed so that I was crouching, then I started to bounce up and down, frigging myself on the large piece of ornamentation. He moved back, watching me with a smile, and started to remove his own clothes.

“Faster,” he said, and I complied without hesitation.

My muscles seemed to suffer none of the cramping or exhaustion that they would have when I was alive, but my libido responded tenfold. The sensation in my hole was unbelievable as the ribbed neck of the pommel bounced past my tight sphincter and the curved head smashed repeatedly into my spectral prostate.

I looked at the man with the lust face of a feral animal, a tiger, unconcerned by appearances, but only by how horny it’s feeling. My thick, never-to-be-a-man-dick bounced up and down in time with my body, standing up and moving like a palm tree caught in a tropical storm, unbroken but in the sway of immense forces.

My nuts grew huge, bloated with lust, barely capable of fitting into a man’s open palm, the size of chicken eggs. My nipples stood out, swollen and flushed with blood.

I never liked my thick lips; I always considered them too sultry for a boy, but now they were flushed with blood, red and sensuous, parted with desire.


By rights I should have ejaculated long ago, ejaculating my inconsequential squirt of boy seed before returning to my normal life, sweaty and indolent, too lazy to shower. But now my body refused to blow its load. My dick was straining as it bounced. I looked down and my dick head was free of its protective sheath, straining as though it wanted to separate itself from the shaft, bloated, shiny, arrow-shaped, eager to penetrate any hole it could find. I felt like if I just put in a little more effort, I could cross the cum threshold. I bounced faster, harder, panting with lust, my adolescent voice not still man-deep.


I looked at John, my pouty lips parted and drawn back, teeth gritted as though urging him to rescind the command not to cum. My eyes were droopy in the haze or desire, almost a parody of a horny woman. My face and chest were sheathed in sweat, and still I continued bouncing, endlessly impaling myself on a piece of polished wood that would have ripped my asshole apart if I was still flesh and blood.


Now naked, John moved closer and gripped my nuts in his fist. He squeezed them lightly and I gasped, I felt them ache but also a delicious feeling rushed through my groin, like he was squeezing the cum out into my cock ready. I tensed, my adolescent abs showing as I tried to cope with the alloy of sensations my groin was undergoing, and all the while I continued bouncing, trying to please my master, driving myself towards an orgasm that my body was not permitted to attain.

My sex-swollen balls were riding high, a fist-sized brown coconut clinging to the root of my cock. John pulled downwards, downwards, 4, 6, 10 inches below my cock. I grunted at the unique experience, tensing against pain that never really came. When he released me, my nuts remained, swinging lower than I would have believed possible, bashing against the footboard each time I bounced, sending jolts of pain and pleasure into my body.

There was absolutely no logic about what hurt and what felt good. If the man wanted it to feel good, it felt good and if he didn’t care then my body’s response seemed like the flip of a coin.

John cupped my bottom cheeks once more, lifting me from the pommel. My asshole immediately yearned for the wooden bed post, aching to experience its touch once again, but my sphincter was already shut, returning quickly to its former virgin tightness, leaving me with only the physical after-image of its touch against my prostate.

The man sat and lowered me onto his cock and I literally whimpered with pleasure as it penetrated me.

“What I doing, what am I doing, what am I fucking DOING!?” my teenage mind screamed.

But my body knew what it wanted. I wrapped my arms around him like an octopus encircling its prey, and hugged him tightly, pressing my cock against his belly as he fucked me. My balls felt like an immense lump of flesh between us, yet I squeezed still harder, forcing them to spread, one to each side.

He fucked me hard, quickly, selfishly. Yet my pleasure was his pleasure. The more I squirmed and hugged and squealed, overwhelmed by a level of ecstasy that no living person could experience or endure, the better the sensations on his cock. I was out of control. I could feel his hot cock ploughing my boy channel and I wanted more. I bounced and twisted, thrust and squirmed, doing everything I could to increase his pleasure and mine. He was raking my back with hands contorted into claws by his own lust. He was biting the side of my neck, not to hurt me, but lost in his own animal craving, dominating my willing body, and using the savage biting that a wolf might use to control its mate.

All too soon he came and I felt his cum jetting up into my ghostly body, held within its confines. He grunted and roared his satisfaction, but then it was over. I clung to him, still bouncing, trying to force more from him. Trying to force my own orgasm, but it was not to be. He pushed me away, and collapsed onto his back, exhausted.

I continued riding him but soon enough he said, “Stop. No more. Ride the bed post instead.”

I climbed off him with sadness and looked down at myself. John’s enormous deposit of cum was sliding down the invisible shape that I assumed was my bowels. But instead of sliding from my hole as physics demanded, it parted, sliding in two sticky rivers into my scrotum. Without any body heat to sustain it, it quickly cooled and I felt it on the outside of my nuts, yet inside my sack. It was a strange experience.

“That’ll make you more horny as the weeks pass,” John informed me.

His cum was already melting into my balls, colder even than my spectral nuts. I shivered and climbed back onto the post with my inflamed nuts absorbing John’s jizz.


The post was much thicker and longer than John but it was no substitute for the heat and responsiveness of his cock. But it was still ecstatically good.

I immediately resumed my earlier rhythm, fucking myself on a wooden I looked down and I could see the residue of John’s cum squelching around the end. John watched me fuck myself with a gentle smile, his arms folded behind his head.

“Do you want to cum?”

“Yes, yes, y… y… YES!” I answered, stuttering with lust as I fucked myself.

“Maybe tomorrow. If you please me. For now, just keep riding the bed.”

John rose to his feet, dressed and walked from the room.


That was 18 hours ago, and I’ve been fucking the bed continuously since then, never tiring, not chafing, my fever pitch horniness undiminished, my boner still rigid. I can see my old bedroom through the curtains, just across the street, but all I care about is when John will return and hopefully allow me to cum.

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