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Old May 9th, 2013, 11:25 PM
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A Lucid Account - Part 3

Content warnings and description appear at the beginning of part 1.

Part 1 | Part 2

I was busy tonight, so I didn't write anything. (And, in fact, I have more to do before I go to bed, and then tomorrow I need to get up earlier than usual. Ugh!) So I'm posting some more of this story. In fact, this is all of the rest of what I already had done, so there won't be more until I have some spare time to write.

On the other hand, this was originally going to be two parts, so you get extra plot advancement. Lucky you! (Assuming you like this story, anyway.) And on the plus side, this gets a lot of the setup out of the way, so I can start in on the really fun stuff next time.

(Oh, and Re: Hugestfuckgod's comment on the previous part: Heh heh heh. And heh heh heh. And, what the heck, heh heh heh as well.)

A Lucid Account
Part 3
I swaggered through the office on the way out for the day. As I passed, women pointedly became absorbed in their work until they thought I wasn't looking and then stole glances at me, particularly at the way my pecs, thighs, and arms strained the fabric of my clothing, although my handsome, stubble-covered face was a favorite target as well. Men either looked away or straightened up and puffed out their chests, trying to convince themselves that they weren't too inferior to me, although the largest of them probably had about half of my muscle mass. I pretended that I didn't know about all of this, but the attention turned me on tremendously.

For the most part, I didn't fuck my coworkers, since it's always a bad idea, but with so much testosterone and the incredible sensations I was experiencing over the past few years as my body expanded and expanded, with no end in sight, sometimes I just couldn't resist. A handful of the men knew that I had a cock slightly above average size -- and a handful of the women, too, since I was willing to swing that way when the hormones made me desperate. The rest of them, I knew, wondered -- in my charitable moments, I was happy to have left most of my puny male coworkers the ability to imagine that I was inferior to them in one respect, even if it almost certainly wasn't true.

We frequently had interns from the local college. When they were frat boys, sooner or later they would find an excuse to walk alongside me as I left for the day, comparing their own stature to mine. No matter how big of a fish they may have been in their own small ponds, they always found that I was bigger. A couple had been among the lucky few who found out I was better hung, too.

Today was arm day. I looked down at the button-down shirt I was wearing and grinned. Already, the sleeves were tight around my upper arms. I was now taking triple doses of my new combination of supplements, and it seemed like every ounce of protein I touched turned into extra muscle. I had four protein shakes with me, and plenty of good solid food at home. This shirt would be too small for me soon -- maybe tomorrow. Fuck, yeah!

I sighed. I really didn't want to do this. On multiple levels. But I had to.

In the past week, I had taken half-days off three times, and stayed at home completely once. Two and a half days of work, gone! I hadn't missed that much time during the whole previous year!

Of course, it was highly enjoyable. The other me was growing at an almost inhuman rate. Every time I slept, it seemed like he was a little bigger. He was a shoo-in to win just about any bodybuilding contest on size alone, and he was amazingly cut already.

But I couldn't let this go on. I had responsibilities. Either I had to give up my addictive dream life or step down from my job. My job was my life; I couldn't give it up.

So here I was at a psychiatrist's office, hoping to find a way to put an end to my dreams.

It was an awkward session. It took almost half an hour for the doctor to get me to admit that I found the dreams pleasurable, even though the other me was essentially my polar opposite.

"Well, really, I'm not sure if there is any clinical treatment which is likely to help you. Usually, people come to me with the opposite problem, you know -- dreams which are so terrifying or horrible that they want them to stop. Every trick I can think of is focussed on making dreams more pleasant."

"What techniques are they, just out of curiosity?"

"Well, usually we attempt to work at what is called 'lucid dreaming'. That is the old technique of taking conscious control of the dream and reshaping it to your own liking. I don't believe that it would be of any use in dealing with your particular problem. Perhaps more applicable here would be hypnosis, although the efficacy of that treatment varies from subject to subject. I am hesitant to direct you to pursue a strategy which might not assist you at all. But I'm not sure that such intrusive steps are truly necessary. I suggest that, since you find your dreams so pleasurable, it signifies that you are not actually as happy as you claim with your life. These dreams are probably your subconscious mind's way of telling you to make some changes to your lifestyle. I would recommend perhaps joining a gym or seeking a more active social life."

"Do you do hypnosis here?"

"No, I usually give patients who wish to pursue it a referral to a therapist who specializes in it."

"Hmph. Well, write me a referral, then."

"Are you sure?"

"I want this problem solved as quickly as possible, doctor. I don't have time to waste in a gym, and I have no interest in trying to date. Is that a problem?"

"No, not exactly. I strongly suggest that you should seek a more integrated solution, but if I don't give you a referral to my hypnotist, you could easily go to another one, who might not have the same qualifications. It is better, all around, if I just give you a referral."

I returned home too late to follow up with the hypnotist, and the information which had come with the referral made it clear that the hypnotist's office was not open on Saturday or Sunday, so I would have to wait another two days before even contacting anybody.

I turned on my computer and began to research lucid dreaming, just in case. It almost certainly wouldn't help dismiss the dreams, but the more I read, the more the whole notion appealed to me. I could make my other self even more of a freak, go through mind-blowing transformations, have vast amounts of sex, and with no consequences at all! I spent a long time collating different instructions from the more authoritative sites until I had what I felt was a comprehensive list of steps to assist me. With no need to go to work until Monday, I could spend the weekend enjoying my dreams, before I went to the hypnotist and had them stopped forever.

I pushed the bar up and finished the set. 560 pounds for 10 reps -- not bad at all. I sat up and massaged my massive pecs. Everyone in the weightroom was staring at me and my swollen muscles. I should have found a way to charge them admission -- with the growth from my supplements, I was now, beyond question, the biggest bodybuilder in the world. Suddenly, I looked up at my audience and pulled a double biceps pose. At least three of them came instantly, to judge from the wet spots. Knowing I was so intensely sexy made me hard, as well. I'd have to grab one of my admirers for a session in the bathroom when I was done. But first, I had to finish my workout. I went and grabbed a couple of 10-pound plates to add for my second set, and a couple of people gasped.

As I lay back on the bench, I decided to use the one over by the preacher curl stand. He was pretty big, and almost as good looking as I was. That was the pleasure of being so damn huge -- anyone was gay if it was me doing the asking. I grunted as I lifted 580 pounds again.

Dammit, why hadn't it worked? The key to lucid dreaming, everyone agreed, was to realize, during the dream, that you were in a dream state, and I had not managed it even once. I had done everything on the list, and even tried some of the more crackpot suggestions which I had left off the list. I had even tried recording an audio track of my own voice saying "you're dreaming" over and over again, and playing it softly over headphones as I slept. I felt cheated. Of course, even unaltered the dreams were still more erotic than anything I had ever encountered in my life, but I had wanted so much more. I felt so cheated, so disgusted by my failure, that I had not even bothered to sleep in, and was at work bright and early, if crankier than usual.

Still, at least the hypnotist had had an evening appointment free that week. Soon this would be all over.

I was a little dubious of the therapist's qualifications. What sort of person goes into theraputic hypnosis for a living? The waiting room was hung symmetrically with cases of butterflies. On the opposite side of the room from the entrance was another door, presumably leading to the therapist's office. Next to that door were framed certificates and diplomas. Having an extra fifteen minutes before my appointment, I decided to examine them.

I learned that Victoria Claire Lee-Pudsley had graduated from Nemor Sands State College thirty years earlier. She had 3 certifications in different branches of therapy from Nemor Sands State College School of Psychology and Family Therapy, as well as both a state and a city certification. Furthermore, she had a certification for hypnotism therapy -- was that really the right term? -- from the Nemor Sands University of Medicine. I wasn't sure whether to be reassured or not; nothing about any of that really guaranteed that Ms. Lee-Pudsley -- I noted the lack of any sort of medical degree, meaning that she was not actually a "doctor" per se -- was not a quack. Homeopathic "doctors" have certifications, too, and it doesn't mean anything whatsoever except that they were willing to send money to somebody to help dupe people.

I sat in one of the chairs and looked across the room at the butterflies. It was really an amazing collection; the sheer number of species represented was remarkable...

...the time must have flown by, because when a slim middle-aged woman opened the door and a haggard-looking young man crept out and left the office, my watch showed that it was time for the appointment. The woman confirmed my name, and beckoned me in, past a reception desk, into an office.

"I have read the notes forwarded to me by my colleague about your case. I take it, from what he wrote, that you would like me to give you post-hypnotic suggestions to prevent you from having erotic dreams."

"Yes, that's exactly it."

"I see. Well, it is possible that such a course of action would work. But I am professionally bound to give you some detail about the course of treatment. First, I would like to hypnotize you and use the trance state to investigate your case. It is possible that your problem stems from some other cause which is quite simple and which could be cleared up without post-hypnotic suggestion, which is of course much more desirable than any sort of intrusive tinkering, and much more reliable. I will then bring you out of the trance for further discussion. If this investigation fails to turn up any obvious non-intrusive treatment, then after you sign a waiver, I will once again put you under, and give you the necessary commands. Is that clear?"

"As crystal. Should I lie down?"

"No, for hypnosis, it is preferable for you to sit in this chair, here. Please look at the far wall. Now, I am going to hold up a token, please focus on it. Excellent. Now, I am going to count. Please empty your mind of all conscious thoughts, and continue to watch the token. One, two, three, four, ..."

As the doctor counted, I watched the coin she dangled from a chain. It had a butterfly on it. Typical, I thought, before I blanked out. And then I was apparently waking up.

"...three, two, one. Excellent. You are awake now, yes?"

"Huh? Yes, I'm awake. Tired, though."

"Entirely typical. Well, I am afraid we have hit a snag."


"This is truly remarkable; I have never encountered such a thing before. You have the strongest subconscious resistance to change I have ever seen. I have read of such cases, but even in the literature, I've never heard of a case quite as serious as this."

"So I take it no other solutions presented themselves?"

"No. But unfortunately your unwillingness to even consider change complicated the entire investigation tremendously. The mere suggestion that perhaps you might cease dreaming caused amazing resistance. It took me three times as long as usual to conduct the session. Implanting the suggestions will take at least a couple of hours, perhaps an entire afternoon."

"Good grief."

"I'm afraid that I do not have any openings of the necessary length in my schedule for the rest of the month. If you remain interested in exploring this treatment, you can contact my receptionist and schedule a four-hour block as soon as one is available."


"In the meantime, I suggest that you attempt to deal with the problem yourself. The conscious mind can overrule the unconscious, you know -- if it couldn't, civilization would not be possible. In your case, making serious changes will probably take intense, prolonged concentration. As a starting point, it might be helpful to repeat your goal as a mantra, over and over, through the course of several days. This will make the idea seem natural, and your subconscious may learn to embrace it."

"Well, I suppose that's better than nothing."

"Considerably. If this fails, I will see you again, although no earlier than next month. Good evening, sir. We will mail you the bill."

As I drove home, I considered this remarkable diagnosis. A mantra... well, I could try a simple test, and see if the idea worked first. Instead of destroying the dreams, I would alter them.

When I reached home, I sat down and made a list of possible objectives, I chose one which would be obvious if it succeeded, took up the stereotypical meditation position, and began to chant: "My other self's arms will grow to 50 inches. My other self's arms will grow to 50 inches. My other self's arms will grow to 50 inches. My other self's arms will grow to 50 inches..."

I beamed with pride. Around the table, my coworkers tried hard to pretend nothing unusual was going on. I had shown up to work in my usual tight shirt. Over the course of the day, the arms had seemed increasingly tight. Finally, during the 3-o'clock meeting, they had burst, revealing my huge, meaty triceps. As the meeting progressed, the tears had spread up and down the sleeves, popping off the buttons at the wrists, until finally the sleeves no longer circled my arms completely at any point, and fell, empty, down at my sides. My giant guns flexed and bulged.

I was ecstatic. I had been working arms like crazy lately, but I hadn't been expecting anything like this. One of my coworkers, one of the ones I had fucked, eventually had to excuse himself and run to the bathroom. Well, nothing remarkable about that. My arms were now so fucking huge and sexy that I was hard as a rock and leaking precum into my underwear. But from long practice, I knew I could hold off until the end of the meeting.

When the meeting ended -- faster than usual; a sudden growth spurt was a good disruption without actually getting me in trouble -- I headed for my desk, put the tape measure I kept in the drawer into my pocket, and headed for the bathroom. With the aid of the mirror, I measured, and discovered that my upper arms were now 29 1/4 inches around. I had measured them the other night at home, and they had been 28 inches even. Somehow I couldn't quite believe that the supplements had been responsible -- but I couldn't think of any other explanation. Oh, well, no sense in worrying about a change I couldn't control -- especially when it was such a positive one. I proceeded to jack off, flexing my mighty guns in the mirror. Man, I was even hotter than usual.

I was awakened by my alarm clock. It had taken three evenings and mornings of chanting, but I had managed to influence my dreams. Of course, my influence wasn't as great as I had hoped, but there was nothing else it could be. Other than the utter ridiculousness of the whole setup, my dreams had been rigidly realistic with respect to physics, at least until now. Maybe my other self's arms hadn't blown all the way up to 50 inches, but I was still able to buff him up. And that was without being able to realize I was dreaming! Sooner or later I would clear whatever obstacle it was which was keeping me from doing so, and then I would have a lot of fun...

As I got ready for work, I considered my next move. I could keep concentrating on the arms, of course, and that was tempting, but I had other plans. As I sat eating my breakfast toast and coffee, I ran my finger down the list. It stopped at "three-foot cock".
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Old May 10th, 2013, 09:56 PM
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"3 foot cock" hmmm, I am going out on a limb here and guess that this might be part of the "fun stuff"... Also would this mantra also include " physically impossible 'encounters' but is possible because its a dream"...? Wait, don't tell me, I know the answer... heh heh heh
And as always, loved where the story is going!
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Old May 11th, 2013, 12:36 AM
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Originally Posted by HugestFuckGod View Post
"3 foot cock" hmmm, I am going out on a limb here and guess that this might be part of the "fun stuff"... Also would this mantra also include " physically impossible 'encounters' but is possible because its a dream"...? Wait, don't tell me, I know the answer... heh heh heh
And as always, loved where the story is going!
The answer is no mere 'heh heh heh', but a full-blown heh heh heh.

Oh, a few details to tide you over until the next part:

1. This story is not going to end with the lives of the two "selves" swapped. I have something much better (or at least, I think so) in mind.

2. Getting the bodybuilder self to achieve unnatural things is going to take a lot of work for the Type A self.

3. The Type A self is going to get increasingly upset at how long things are taking. People who are upset make mistakes. Not all mistakes are necessarily a problem, unless you're a Type A personality.

Heh heh heh, indeed.
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