When you wake up, you feel lightheaded and your senses are dulled, as if you were emerging from a long period of unconsciousness. Your vision is blurred. All you can see is a vague whiteness all around you, like a luminescent fog. You feel slightly chilled.
As your brain begins working, individual sensations emerge, isolated and sharp, like pinpricks in your mind. You feel that you are naked, lying at an angle with your head higher than your feet, but you can't feel anything behind you. It's like you're floating. Your loose hair tickles the back of your neck.
Warm, heavy flesh weighs down your right leg all the way to the ankle. This feels strange but vaguely pleasant. Isolated memories drift back to you... algebra class... feeling sleepy, yawning and yawning... the stripper suddenly walking into class--now that was unusual. In algebra class anyway.
What had happened? As the warm weight shifts across your leg slightly you turn your mind uncomfortably away from the stripper. Off to the side, some black guys had been snickering. Black guys--the rape!
You snap fully awake, your heart pumping. You can see your body now very clearly--your skinny teenage body dwarfed by a monstrous cock as big as a real-live third leg. You stare at it in horror and fascination, hoping it won't get hard, dying to feel it hard again. Literally dying, you think, your mouth dry. At the thought of having died getting your rocks off your impossibly long cock retreats a little, staying firmly flaccid. You realize you'd been holding your breath, even though you know at some level you shouldn't be breathing any more. You relax and look around.
Unfortunately there's nothing to see. All around you is nothing but whiteness. You wonder where the fuck you are.
You close your eyes, leaning you head back a bit, deciding to luxuriate in this strange feeling of kind-of floating. Almost as soon as you do you hear a strange yet familiar sound--papers being shuffled.
You open your eyes to see a wizened old man with a smartly trimmed white beard and slicked back white hair. He's wearing a green golf shirt, beige Dockers, and sandals. He's flipping through papers on a clipboard. Finally he finds the sheet he wants and looks up at you. His piercing gaze holds you for a second, neutrally but firmly, and you swallow apprehensively. But his eyes soon drop to your third leg. He shakes his head, clicking his tongue.
"Christ," said St. Peter, "you're the third one this week."