The four bananas

by BRK   

In this surprise crossover of the “Four Jocks” and “Blue Banana” series, an underachieving young man and his three best friends get together for a night of dessert and games that will seriously change their lives.

Adam moved listlessly through the excess and overabundance of the Myway! Megamart produce section, barely taking in the mountains of dark green watermelon, glistening gala apples, and goiter-sized grapefruit, his red plastic basket forlornly empty. He should not have agreed to hosting this stupid game night. These days he didn’t even like going to them when someone else was running the show. His friends were becoming hard to be around sometimes. Caleb was picky about everything, lately Bruce had been sliding into a bad habit of producing catty, passive-aggressive putdowns, and of course Dmitri was… distracting. They’d used to have fun together, and still did, but now even the prospect of spending an evening together with them gave him heartburn.

So he’d started skiving off the monthly game nights. Except, nights alone pointedly binging hot-newbie-spy-thriller series on Netflix while his guys were off somewhere gaming without him had mostly ended up making him feel guilty and not much less stressed than when they were actually hanging out. Finally they’d confronted him over an irresistible and compulsorily fabulous Sunday brunch at Kelso’s Famous New Orleans Wafflery (beignets, sliced strawberries, warm maple syrup, powdered sugar, and oddly robust café au lait). There they’d grandly set their terms like a gay revolutionary tribunal: he could make up for ditching the game nights by hosting the next one.

Adam had caved without protest. He’d known he was being petty. He loved his friends. Sometimes they could be a bit much, was all. Well, maybe he was to them, too, in ways he wasn’t even aware of; but they loved him anyway, too. He’d agreed, set a date, and had even started looking forward to their little reunion fête au jeux de plateau, cautiously anticipating a new phase of their long-running friendship.

It was only now that it was actually happening, with T minus 160 minutes until they were leaning on his doorbell and noisily bursting into his space, that he was finding himself contemplating increasingly baroque and untenable visions of escape by progressively unlikely means. Passage secured on a vast passenger steamship disappearing into the Atlantic fog… a leap onto a rolling boxcar trundling away toward shadowed, film noir railyards unknown… a buzzing, accidentally-opened green-tinged portal leading to an alternate universe where John Crichton wanted to teach him how to punch aliens in the face…

“Can I help you find something, sir?” asked a bored voice.

Adam blinked and turned toward the owner of the voice, a scrawny, shortish, dark-skinned teenager in a Myway! brick-red apron. He had the blank face and dead eyes of a grocery store employee who only made contact with customers when he absolutely had to.

Before he could answer, a stocky arm shoved past him on the other side, grabbing something angrily from the display. He followed the yellow blur of movement to find a thickset, jowly woman seething up at him like he’d made pissed all over her favorite conspiracy theory. “Excuse me!” she barked, before dramatically turning her back on him and steering her cart away with affronted attitude communicated in every twitch of her well-padded, jeans-clad ass.

Slightly bemused, he watched her go for a second. Then the pieces started to come together. He’d ground to a halt while he was busy with his thoughts about tonight’s event, and was now blocking the store’s majestic, Everest-like display of gorgeously yellow, premium-extra-large Pisang Raja bananas. Clearly around here such woolgathering obstructiveness was a crime worthy of both barbed employee engagement on the one hand, and road-rage-level rudeness from fellow customers on the other.

He looked back to his right. The employee hadn’t moved.

“What are the blue ones?” he asked, gesturing to a hand of four large cornflower-blue bananas nestling amidst the cornucopia of their golden-yellow cousins. “Are they a different variety?”

The employee shrugged minimally without looking, as though he were determined to expend the minimum possible energy on customers. “Dunno,” he said.

Adam frowned at him, unimpressed by his customer service. “But, they’re… good to eat, right?” he pressed.

“Sure.”

Adam twisted his mouth to one side, pondering. He already knew the guys liked his grandad’s special bananas Foster, and mixing in something exotic like blue bananas would make it look like he was going out of his way to make the night grand. “Thanks,” he said finally. He reached forward, grabbed the odd-colored hand from the banana massif before him, and set them in his basket, moving away from the display and deeper into the chilly labyrinth of produce. Released, the employee wandered off.

Adam took a deep breath and headed for the freezer aisle, hoping they had some proper, pure-vanilla ice cream to go with the bananas, rum, and withal. It was too early to be sure, but he was starting to hope tonight might not be so bad after all.

“What’s this one?” Bruce asked, holding up a smaller, unmarked box from the stack of games Adam had set out on the sideboard.

They were all in Adam’s living room, though only Adam was still relaxing in the love seat he tended to lounge in when he was hanging out alone. The dessert-and-gossip phase of the evening had been a success—the blue-bananas-Foster had gone over well, as had the very mellowing round of hot buttered rum that followed, and Adam now felt fully caught up on the news (Joey DiPrada, the most storied delinquent of their high school, was now officially a cop in Asbury Park, and April cheating on Denise with Liam had somehow, when the dust settled, turned into a serene and stable polyamorous relationship; which, it was generally agreed, was a lesson in social harmony for them all); but now the boys were in a restless post-kaffeeklatsch phase, having jumped up from their roosts to range about the small room. While Bruce, their increasingly sour but still fit half-Portuguese ex-basketballer-turned-high-end-contractor, had gone for the games, taking charge of ensuring the next stage of the evening was slotted and ready, Caleb was at the bookshelf scrutinizing Adam’s meager collection in a less-than-idle fashion. His scrutiny was serious and well-informed, the sandy-haired “recovering twink” having recently attained the rank of senior submissions editor at one of the smaller fiction publishers in the city. Somewhere nearby Harry Connick Jr. crooned quietly from a Bluetooth speaker, establishing a slightly retro mood of relaxed vibrancy.

Dmitri, their resident platinum-blond, queercore-loving EMT, was in the kitchen making a round of hot toddies, evidently so as to carry on the rum-laced theme of the evening so far. The harsh overhead fluorescents were creating a deliciously shifting landscape of light and shadow along the landscape of Dmitri’s impressively ropy triceps as he worked, and Adam forced himself to look away, curing the inventor of sleeveless hoodies for at least the eighth or ninth time that night and probably the thousandth time since he’d met the aesthetics-obsessed gym rat in their sophomore year at old Jim McGreevey High. That was back when Adam first started accepting that his own looks and intellectual capacity were ordinary even compared to his friends’. In the end both had determined his fate: his plain appearance and meh body had garnered him little success romantically, and the underpowered C-average he’d established then had dragged him eventually into the not-so-exalted ranks of junior client care advisor at Excelsior and Excalibur National Tax Services. Not where he wanted to be or what he wanted to do, but there were worse jobs.

Pushing Dmitri’s delectable arms out of his thoughts for the moment, Adam glanced over at Bruce and squinted. “Uhhh, not sure,” he admitted. “I think I got that one and a couple others over at the thrift shop. Last year maybe. Post-pandemic. It just… felt right.” He wiggled his brows. “I’m attuned to the forces of the universe that way.”

Bruce smirked, revealing a dimple to accentuate an olive-complexioned face already handsome enough to earn a few hundred thousand followers on PicThread or Insta, were he not generally inclined to view social media as an outright scam perpetrated on innocent teenagers. Dark, curly mops were in now, too, Adam had noticed—not that he spent that much time ogling thirst trap hunks on PicThread. His trademark extra-tall navy pocket tee and long-legged boot-cut 511 cords were a good look, too, suggesting his defined chest and firm thighs and calves without flaunting the goods the way Dmitri’s outfits always did, or making him look like a shapeless nobody like Adam’s black band tees and battered dad jeans or an uptight prep like Caleb’s polos and khakis.

“I see,” Bruce deadpanned. “No expenses spared for your best buds, eh?”

Adam smiled easily. “That’s right,” he said, settling back into the cozy love seat. A couple of hours ago he might have bristled at the dig, but the high-quality rum he’d served had gone a long way to smoothing his edges when it came to his little group of friends and their occasional sniping. “You have me all figured out, Bru.”

“Why aren’t you reading any historical fiction?” Caleb asked suddenly, brows furrowed, his childhood English Estuary accent slightly more pronounced than usual (as it usually was when he was being critical). He stooped to inspect the spines on the lower shelves of the case. Adam liked reading and hated Kindle screens, finding the strained his eyes after an hour or two, so the few books he had tended to be tangible things for everyone to see—and judge, apparently.

“I am,” Adam protested mildly, a bit nonplussed. Strangely, he couldn’t think of the title he’d meant to use as an example. Had he not gotten around to it after all?

Caleb shook his head, eyes still on the handful of older books at shelved at knee-level. His bony shoulders twitched in his thick-spun, entirely unrevealing coral polo. “You have no historical fiction,” he stated categorically and with flat disapproval, as though announcing Adam’s flat was missing something essential, like a fridge.

“I—” Adam felt sure that had to be wrong, but the more he thought about it, the more he came up blank. “—will be sure to remedy that,” he finished weakly.

“Be sure that you do,” Caleb said seriously, straightening and turning to face him. “You’re a really smart guy, Adam, whatever you think, and I know you love reading the good stuff. It’s ridiculous for you to limit yourself merely to mainstream novels.”

Adam eyed him with a kind of guilty annoyance. One of Caleb’s recurring refrains was that Adam tended to undersell himself intellectually. Maybe he was right—even that time he’d picked up Caleb’s copy of Proust he’d thoroughly enjoyed it. His bookshelf was overstuffed with a massive number books with more piled up on the bedroom floor and end-tables, with more than a few classics he didn’t dare bring up with the others about wedged in there amidst the trashier fare.

The thing was, he was too used to thinking of himself as not being up to anything requiring real wit and shrewdness for him to easily accept that he could do better—though something about the way Caleb was bringing it up now was making him rethink things at some basic, subterranean level, like the heavy furniture in his mental basement was being slowly rearranged. Two Adams seemed to overlap inside him—the struggling C-student, and the savvy, book-loving underachiever who hadn’t done much better than the less bright alter-ego that had once been the only version of Adam there was.

Not that he was ready to be open with any of that. “I’ll take that under advisement, Nigel,” he told Caleb calmly. Caleb rolled his eyes, his attention already back on Adam’s packed-in collection.

Dmitri appeared just then with a cork-lined tray laden with drinks. He distributed one to Caleb, who took his and sat on the sofa at the end nearest Adam, and passed another to Bruce, before handing a third to the host. “Drink these,” Dmitri said cheerily. “They’ll put hair on your chest, and an inch on your dick!”

Adam accepted his hot toddy gratefully. “Nice,” he said, letting the pleasant aroma fill his nostrils. “You’re a true angel, sir. Well, half-angel, anyway.”

Dmitri winked, his golden eyes seeming almost luminous in the muted lighting of the living room. “Don’t tell anyone,” he said with a grin.

Again, for a brief, alert moment something in Adam’s subconscious twisted. This time it was like a faint, uncertain awareness that universe-weaving potencies were being played with, the air around them seeming just for a moment to subliminally thrum as if its every mundane molecule and mote were forced-fed with the unseen, latent magic of the cosmos. On some low, arcane level he felt eerily in tune everything around him: the shape of the room, its nature and dimensions in space and time, the four life forces within it suddenly and silently burning with wild, chaotic, cerulean power—

All of that was forced right out of his head and forgotten when Dmitri, to Adam’s consternation, set the tray aside and blithely plunked himself down right next to him on the open side of the love seat, his own rum concoction in hand, as casually as if the space next Adam were the best and only seat in the house.

Adam stiffened. As always when they sat together he was distractingly over-aware of the near-perfect body scant inches to his left. If anything it was worse than usual when he was on the verge intoxication, like trying to drive while the sun blazed straight into your side window and your focus was starting to divide and fracture. Just the fact that their denim-clad glutes and thighs were almost touching was threatening to capsize his little mind. He almost made the mistake of scooching away and putting a bit more distance between them, but he he couldn’t risk offending his chiseled, delectable friend and making him think he didn’t want to be next to him (when, if anything, the opposite was true).

Instead he took a generous gulp of the warm, potent cocktail and perched as still as he could on the none-too-wide cushion, urgently willing himself to get through the evening without boning up too much over his chronic ten-year crush.

Bruce dragged the seldom-used armchair that came with the love seat and couch over to face Caleb, forming a sort of circle around one end of the long coffee table. Surprisingly, he’d brought over the strange, unmarked box, having chosen this unknown game for their first round over more established fare, though whether out of curiosity or daredevilry Adam didn’t know. The former b-baller cast a brief, savvy look at Adam and Dmitri, like he saw right through Adam’s pretended nonchalance in such proximity to the sleeveless hottie. Then he turned everyone’s attention to the box, lifting the lid to reveal its mysterious contents. These turned out to be minimal: just a stack of cards, kept in place by a thin white ribbon secured around the deck, and a small instruction sheet. Adam frowned—was the game incomplete?

Bruce picked up the instruction sheet, and they watched him read for a minute, his brows lifting briefly in surprise or skepticism. Harry sang on in the background, subtly filling the silence as he worked through his setlist. “Well?” Caleb said, half playfully, half genuinely impatient. “We’re waiting.”

“Aware…” Bruce said slowly, his attention still on the text in front of him. In fact Adam was pretty sure Bruce was responding to the card, not Caleb, though the others seemed not to pick up on this.

“Well, then tell us!” Caleb persisted. “How do we play?”

Adam wanted to laugh. The hot buttered rum had clearly not unwound Caleb nearly as much as it had him. Maybe the second round of rum-based cocktails would help.

“Dude, drink your toddy,” said Dmitri, whose thoughts were evidently running along similar lines. “I made yours extra strong and relaxing,” he teased.

Caleb dutifully drank a long sip of his drink, though his hawkish gaze remained fixed on Bruce.

Bruce set the instruction card down inside the box—face down, Adam noted—and met each of their gazes in turn. His green-flecked acorn-brown eyes seemed alight with interest, and, possibly, mischief, and Adam felt a strange thrill of anticipation. “So, the rules go like this,” he said. “Each of us takes a turn asking the others a question from the card, going around the circle clockwise. The host picks the most desirable answer by smooching the player who gave it, after which the answer will become ‘official’.” Adam exchanged a glance with Caleb, whose bright blue eyes quickly cut away. As far as Adam knew he and Caleb were the only ones out of the four who’d ever tried adding a physical dimension to their friendship; and, as a certain ghost-video narrator liked to say, it did not go well.

Bruce was still going over the ground rules. “The host rotates to the right when a new round starts,” he said. “You can’t undo a previous round, and… you need to be at least a little intoxicated to play.”

He said this last with another dimple-popping smirk, and Adam joined him. “No problem there,” he said. “We’re definitely all more than at least a little intoxicated.”

Even so, Dmitri, perhaps just to make sure they were in their cups enough to qualify for a bacchanal, immediately jumped up and, grabbing the empty tray, returned to the kitchen to make another round, weaving slightly as he went. Adam smiled, letting himself admire the blond’s exquisitely round ass.

“What kinds of questions are they?” Caleb asked.

“Maybe they’re dirty,” Adam said distractedly. “It’s that kind of night.” His gaze was still riveted on Dmitri’s glutes, which were now in profile as he worked on preparing the second round of toddies. To Adam this game was sounding more and more like truth or dare, and he’d read some very hot erotica using that particular game as a premise. His cheeks felt warm as he remembered Bruce had already said there would be kissing involved. Maybe lots of kissing. That would make this the best game ever.

Fuck, how buzzed was he?

“Let’s find out,” Bruce said, picking up the deck of game cards and sliding the ribbon off. Clearly he meant to take the first turn.

“Uh uh uh,” Adam objected, raising a hand. “You don’t get to run the whole show. You enjoy being bossy too much.”

Bruce’s piercing gaze met his. “You like it when I’m bossy,” he said, a rakish smile unexpectedly curling his lips.

Adam tried not to flush. Damn, Bruce really did have him figured out. “You like it what I’m bossy even better,” he shot back defensively. He’d expected snark from Bruce, but the playful licentiousness caught him off guard, triggering a fight-back response. “Caleb goes first.”

Bruce’s smile widened, and Adam felt a tremor of excitement in his belly. Bruce was hot when they were like this. Why had he been obsessing over Dmitri again? When Bruce passed the deck obediently across to Caleb, a fiery rush of arousal to stole through Adam, one he couldn’t be sure wasn’t embarrassingly obvious to his two friends. Quickly, he tossed down the rest of his drink, the warm burn mixing agreeably with his sparking sexual alertness.

Caleb accepted the cards, flicking his gaze uncertainly between Bruce and Adam. “Errr—” he began. It looked like he was planning to ask what was going on between them, but after a moment’s hesitation he clamped his pink lips shut and said nothing, leaving the three of them looking at each other.

Just then Dmitri returned, his tray laden with more aromatic cocktails. “What’d I miss?” he asked with a grin, his brows knitting slightly when none of the others seemed to know quite how to answer.

Since they had drinks already, this time Dmitri just set the tray down on the coffee table between them and resumed his seat next to Adam, glancing curiously at the others. Adam immediately swapped his empty glass for a full one, taking a small sip as a kind of christening. Bruce followed suit, having evidently tossed back the rest of his first drink as well. This time Dmitri had applied his good whisky to the mix instead of the dark, rich Goslings Adam had used for the buttered rum and blue bananas Foster. Adam approved. He didn’t take another sip, but he kept the drink close to his face for a moment, letting the vapors alone do their work.

Once they were all settled, Caleb turned over the first card and frowned at the brief inscription he found there. “What feature of the person on your left,” he read, “would you like to have for yourself?”

“Weird question,” Dmitri said, taking a sip of his warm cocktail and relaxing into the love seat, his naked shoulder seemingly mere microns from Adam’s. “It’s like truth or dare meets Cards Against Humanity or something.”

“Right?” Adam said. “That’s what I was thinking.”

Dmitri grinned. “Except when you play this game, whatever answer wins becomes true!”

Adam laughed. “That would be wild.”

“Heaven help the universe in that case,” Bruce snarked, but his green-flecked eyes were glinting with amusement.

Even Caleb had a slight smile at that. He looked around the circle uncertainly. “Which way does the play go again?” he asked Bruce.

“Clockwise from the host,” Bruce answered. He pointed as he said the names. “Adam, Dmitri, me.”

Caleb snorted a giggle, the first sign he was as tipsy as the rest of them. “I know your names,” he responded with a wide smile, taking in the little group. “I know everything about you.” He turned to his left. “You go first, Adam Bartholomew Schroeder,” he said, leaning on the name.

“Whatever you say, Nigel Rupert St. John Smith-Smythe-Smith,” Adam said, making up the most ridiculously British-sounding name he could think of, and feeling rather proud he’d remembered the correct toffy-nosed pronunciation of “St. John” (“Sinjin”) from Four Weddings and a Funeral. He blinked. “Uh, what was the question again?”

“Feature of the person on your left that you want for yourself,” Caleb summarized with a small smirk.

Adam flitted his gaze to his left, his vision suddenly filling with Dmitri’s sculpted and exposed golden arm. He could feel Bruce giving him a very knowing look. “You have to tell the truth, Adam,” the mop-haired b-baller goaded wickedly.

Oh well, he wasn’t keeping his secrets very well tonight anyway. “His muscles,” Adam sighed. The heady admission in itself stoked his verging arousal and further chubbed the heavy-feeling cock that was definitely done being curled up and snoozing in his burgundy CDLP boxer briefs.

“Pfft, you wouldn’t know what to do with them,” Dmitri joked, nudging his bare shoulder lightly against Adam’s. Adam laughed and took a sip from his drink, ignoring the embarrassed warmth in his cheeks in favor of the much more pleasant warmth of the cocktail.

Dmitri considered Bruce, taking a sip of his drink. “Well, ‘personality’ is clearly out,” he said after a moment. This elicited a low, unison oooooooo from Caleb and Adam, like they were back to being high school freshmen appreciating a buddy’s sick burn. Bruce just smiled and waited for the verdict. “So,” Dmitri said slowly, “I guess I’ll have to go with… height?”

“Too easy,” Caleb scoffed, but he was already looking at Bruce.

Bruce gave Caleb a piercing look. “His talented tongue,” he said.

Adam looked back and forth between Caleb and Bruce. “Uh, wut?” he said.

“No way!” Dmitri said. “Did you two—?!”

“So now I pick the winner, right?” Caleb interrupted quickly. Without waiting for an answer he smacked his drink down on the coffee table and turned to Adam, using the hand thus freed to pull him in by the back of the neck for a long, searching kiss.

Fuck, Bruce is right, Adam thought, the throttle on his arousal opening up to full as the kiss deepened. He’s really good at this. The flavor of rum seemed like an extra layer of awesome on top of Caleb’s expertly louche tongue-wrestling and mouth action. Adam could have done this all day.

After an uncertain amount of time the kiss broke at last, and as Adam stared into Caleb’s blue eyes he was too preoccupied with the need to adjust his three-quarters-hard dick to notice the way his clothes were suddenly feeling rather tight across the shoulders, chest, and thighs. It was only when Dmitri jolted away from him with a loud “Ho-oly shit!” that he realized something was wrong.

Caleb sat back too, now staring Adam up and down the same way Bruce and Dmitri were. “What?” he said, feeling slightly unfocused from the booze and the amazing kiss.

Adam looked down and wanted to gasp. He was ripped. Round pecs were aggressively pushing out the top of his black, formerly flat Chilis tee, and the loose legs of his jeans were now filled with firm swimmer’s quads. The sleeves of his shirt felt snug, too, around delts and upper arms they’d barely been troubled by before. Somehow, in the space of a kiss, he had gone from “whatever” to “fuck yeah.” “Holy shit,” he whispered. His sharp, inquisitive brain was already putting together the pieces, but just now he was too stunned to take it all in.

“That’s what I said,” Dmitri breathed.

Slowly, he lifted his left arm up and made a muscle. He glanced at Dmitri, whose expression was one of utter amazement. He did the same with his right arm, flexing as Adam did. Adam gulped. Though the definition wasn’t the same, presumably owing to Dmitri’s lower body-fat metric, the shape and bulk of the peak, the unflexed tris below, even the forearm, all looked essentially identical.

“My muscles,” Dmitri said as he scanned their matching pipes, both awed and impressed. He blinked up at Adam. “Can I feel?”

“Y-yeah,” he said. “Uh, hang on real quick.” With his free hand he reached down and wrenched his straining, now-iron-hard dick into a more comfortable position. It felt big and ominous.

Dmitri grinned. “I don’t blame you,” he said, cupping Adam’s still flexed other arm above and below with both hands and slowly caressing the hard muscle. “I get turned on by my muscles too.” He sounded as if he meant it as a joke, but Adam was sure it was pretty much the unvarnished truth.

“You should have a second body just so you can muscle worship yourself,” Adam said softly, almost fondly.

“I’d like that,” Dmitri said distractedly, stroking along the peak of Adam’s flexed bicep. “Hold it out straight.” Adam did as he asked, and Dmitri stroked some more, making Adam’s heart pound a little faster, hard-on pulsing excitedly against his hip.

“Nice,” Dmitri complemented, his gold eyes almost ablaze as he looked to meet Adam’s heated gaze.

“Okay, shirts off, both of you,” Caleb said abruptly. “We need to compare.”

Adam and Dmitri both started, having momentarily forgotten about the others, but they quickly complied, Adam doffing his tee and tossing it on the floor beside the love seat, Dmitri doing the same with his hoodie on the other side. They both looked down, turning their torsos this way and that as the others scrutinized them. Apart from the differences in definition and Adam’s marginally browner skin tone, it appeared they both shared exactly the same sculpted, semi-divine physique: round-bottomed, square-topped pectorals that were impressively thick even up toward the collarbones, though with a dusting of dark hair on Adam’s contrasting with the pale, platinum fuzz peeking out of Dmitri’s cleavage; bowling ball delts and sloping traps; thick, corded arms; and hard, flat abs that made a visible eight-pack even on Adam’s slightly less lean torso.

“Fuck,” Caleb said. Then: “Dmitri, since when do you have chest hair?”

Dmitri, who’s been scoping Adam’s new shape out as avidly as Adam himself was, looked down at himself. “The hell,” he said, fingering the patch situated between his otherwise hairless pecs. “I waxed two weeks ago.” He looked up at Bruce and Caleb. “Weird.”

It was silent for a beat. Adam gulped, feeling self-conscious and very un-Adam with no shirt and Dmitri’s muscles. Even Harry Connick was humming instead of crooning, as if aware of the oddly charged moment.

“It’s just like you said, Dmitri,” Bruce said finally, enunciating the solution Adam had already guessed like a sleuth doing a drawing room summary. “Whatever answer wins in this game… comes true.”

They all stared at him, then at each other. No one spoke.

Bruce turned to Caleb and held out a hand, palm up. He nodded to the stack of cards Caleb was still clutching. “My turn, I believe,” he said.

Adam watched the handover of the cards with sudden trepidation. “Maybe we should—” he started to say.

But Bruce was already reading the question off the next card. “What should the person opposite you have twice as many of?” he read.

As Bruce gave them their next prompt, Dmitri put a reassuring arm around Adam’s shoulders. It relaxed him a bit on some ways, but not others, and his heavy, hard dick throbbed impatiently against his jeans. He took a long pull of his whisky drink. Dmitri, for his part, settled in comfortably next to him, his fingers idly caressing Adam’s delts, and Adam couldn’t be sure if Dmitri was trying to calm him or he just really liked the idea of feeling “himself” up.

Bruce was looking at Caleb, and mildly sloshed though he was Adam realized with a start that the person opposite Caleb was… Dmitri. Shit, Caleb could actually make the two bodies thing happen! he thought, awestruck. All Caleb had to say was one word—body—and then, if Bruce kissed him…

Adam held his breath, his cock trying to get even harder at the very idea of two mutually appreciative Dmitiris. Was Caleb aware, though? Had he overheard their quiet conversation before?

Was it possible? Even if it was possible, was it crazy to make it actually happen?

Caleb was looking at Dmitri intently. He seemed very aware of all the things that might happen on the strength of a few words from the three players and the choice of the host afterwards. “I know exactly what you want,” he said carefully, his gaze flicking for a second to where the blond was lightly stroking the identical muscles of Adam’s shoulders. “But I’m thinking, maybe something less—extreme.”

Dmitri was watching him back, the ghost of a smile on his face. Dmitri was pretty chill, so maybe he was willing to wait for the right moment. “Such as?” he asked, nonchalantly taking a swig of his own drink.

Caleb matched him with a tiny smile of his own. “I’m thinking… cock.”

Adam drew in a breath. “Fuck,” he whispered.

Dmitri shrugged infinitesimally. He was willing to give that a go, apparently.

Bruce turned his head looked at Adam.

Shit, Adam thought. My turn. Between the booze and the sudden strangeness of the game his brain was a chaotic mess, like a jungle full of monkeys. Then: I have to do Bruce. Shit and double shit.

“I should say ‘measures of humility’…” he said, stalling with a joke.

Bruce smiled. “The more you guys tease me, the more I know you love me,” he shot back.

Unexpectedly, Adam found himself smiling. He did love Bruce, in fact, just like he loved all three of his friends. As if to reinforce this, Dmitri squeezed him around the shoulders in a kind of side-hug.

Okay, he was being too nuts about this. He downed the rest of the toddy, feeling the whisky burn flood through him, and leaned forward enough to set the glass back down on the tray before leaning back. The others decided to do the same, as if it were a ritual, downing the last of their drinks as well and setting aside the empty tumblers. Caleb had only sipped his, so he had to almost chug, but he got it all down with a bleary smile that he wiped with the back of his wrist.

“Okay, let’s do this,” Adam thought, though he managed to say it aloud for some reason. His gears, though very lubricated and a bit skewed, were turning. If he said something crazy, Bruce probably wouldn’t go for it—but it would escalate the set of possible answers, opening the hellgate to wilder choices later on. “My answer is… arms.”

Bruce’s dark eyebrows lifted toward his curls. “Tempting,” he said.

Caleb’s expression was thoughtful. “I’m wondering, given what this game can do, if there’s a way we can normalize having, like, extra arms like that…” He trailed off.

“Maybe it’s all temporary anyway,” Dmitri said. “If that’s true, maybe tomorrow Adam will look, you know—”

“Blah,” Adam finished.

Dmitri hugged him again. “—Like his normal cutie-pie self,” he insisted.

“Whatever,” Adam said, though inwardly he was a little touched. He looked down at his new beautiful brawn. “Feels pretty real, I gotta say.” He popped his pecs experimentally. He hadn’t even known he could do that, but, evidently, he could.

“It is real,” Bruce said definitively. “Everything that happens in the game is real and permanent.” Adam could almost feel the force of his pronouncement, like them saying it was making it so for them and anyone who played the game.

“How can you be sure, though?” Caleb said.

“Does it say that on the instruction card?” Adam asked.

Bruce just grinned. “It’s allll real,” he said, like he was surrounded by Narnia unfolding around them.

Caleb bit his lip. “But… not necessarily normalized,” he said.

Bruce shrugged. “We’ll figure something out.”

Adam huffed a laugh. “If anyone could talk people into accepting it’s not weird to have four arms, it’s you,” he said. “You could convince anyone of anything.”

“Heaven help the universe in that case,” Caleb said, echoing Bruce’s earlier remark.

Bruce laughed. “Your turn, buddy,” he told Dmitri.

The blond hunk shocked them with his answer. “I’m going to say body,” he said, with an easy smile. “I want to see someone try it out first.”

They all gaped at him. Then Bruce, evidently making a snap decision, reached for Dmitri’s neck and pulled him in for a smooch.

“Wait—!” Caleb objected uncertainly. But it was too late. When the messy kiss was done, and Dmitri dropped back against Adam looking rather satisfied, they saw that sitting next to Caleb was another Caleb—coral polo, khakis, blush, and all.

Adam stared, so shocked and turned on he was almost short of breath. To his left he felt Dmitri adjusting his erection in his jeans, finally catching up to the level of sexual buzz Adam had been feeling this whole time.

They looked absolutely identical, more than mere brothers, even twins. “Is he—?” Adam got out. “Are you—?”

The Calebs stared at each other. “I have two bodies,” he said in unison. They turned in tandem to the others. “I have two bodies!”

“Dude, you gotta kiss,” Dmitri said urgently. “You just—gotta.”

Bruce, his expression playful, started chanting, Kiss… kiss… kiss… kiss… Adam quickly joined in, then Dmitri, a shade more enthusiastically than the others. Caleb rolled his eyes in stereo, then turned his bodies toward each other. After a moment’s hesitation, they leaned in and kissed sweetly—though not at all chastely.

“Whoa,” Adam moaned.

“Awesome,” Dmitri said.

Bruce wolf-whistled, and the two Calebs broke apart in happy chagrin. “I hope we figure out the normalization thing like you promised,” he groused, this time using only one voice, as he settled back in the corner of the couch. He snuggled his second body in close to him as he did so, Dmitri watching almost reverently. “Everyone knows I don’t have a twin brother, or an identical cousin or anything. Parents included.”

The booze was hitting Adam pretty hard by now, slapping against his moorings like an untamed sea. “I’m sure human mitosis is a thing,” he heard himself say.

The Calebs looked at him. “Human… mitosis,” they said skeptically.

“Adult human mitosis,” Adam said carefully, trying not to slur the words. “It’s a thing.”

Dmitri gasped. “It is!” he told Adam, then turned to the others, his gold eyes bright. “I remember reading about it. It’s like this, this, strange genetic mutation no one understands. Super rare, but—” He licked his lips, staring at the two Calebs. “I wanted it so bad, but it’s just as hot seeing it happen to someone else.”

“Good, because it’s not yours, it’s mine,” the Calebs said in perfect unison.

Bruce was looking shrewdly back and forth between Adam and Dmitri, and whatever he was thinking, Adam didn’t like the implications. “Dmitri’s turn,” he said loudly, catching Bruce’s attention.

Bruce smiled that smile that was also a bit of a leer. Smug bastard, Adam thought. “That it is,” Bruce said, handing Dmitri the cards. “Let’s see how you up the stakes on your turn.”

Dmitri still had his arm around Adam’s shoulder, so he took the stack of cards in his left hand. “Uh, I dunno about that, bro,” he said. “Things are pretty wild already.”

The others just looked at him, waiting intently for the question. “Okay then,” Dmitri chuckled. With unexpected dexterity he slipped the already-used top card under the stack one-handed and read the next question. “What characteristic does the person to your right possess that the rest of you should as well?” he read. His eyes widened, and he quickly turned to Adam. “Please say adult human mitosis!” he pleaded.

Adam glanced at the Calebs, who seemed less than receptive to the idea, then back at Dmitri. “No way,” he said with a grin. “If he decides to beat me up it’ll be two against one.”

“Say something Caleb doesn’t have,” Bruce said abruptly.

Adam frowned at him. “What?” He was just that little bit too lubricated to exactly grasp what Bruce was getting at, but a phantom of it was dancing around the edges of his rum-soaked brain.

“I just want to test the… parameters,” Bruce not-explained. “Say he has something that he doesn’t.”

Adam, nodded a few times, not really processing. He had to admit he was curious as to the limits of what was going on here, and anyway couldn’t really think of a reason not to do what Bruce suggested. He turned to the Calebs, mulling over possibilities and getting stuck on Caleb’s own previous suggestion.

“Well,” he said told them, unconsciously snuggling closer to the warm, equally-firmly muscled torso, legs, and butt of his seatmate, “since you already brought it up… how about his biiig, fat double-dongs.” Worried he was being too ambiguous for the game to parse as intended, he clarified in the general direction of the box the game had come in, “That’s the two big dongs he has per body, I mean.” Satisfied, he settled back, letting his head rest gently on Dmitri’s sweetly muscled arm.

The Calebs looked hesitantly over at Bruce. “Would that… even—” he stared to say, in unison again. Then his eyes widened on both faces. He looked down at his laps, then up at Bruce again, looking shocked. He started to speak, but Bruce lifted a finger to his lips. The Calebs blinked at him, confused.

“Your go,” Adam said. Again he felt like his brain was working all this out, and it was as shocking to him as it was to Caleb, but the booze was telling him just to roll with it.

The Calebs nodded. They looked at Bruce, now in the role of the player on Caleb’s right. “Should I—?” he started to ask.

Bruce shook his head. “I think it’s just Adam,” Bruce said obscurely, a statement that struck Adam as… questionable?… for reasons he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Then Bruce did the leering smile again, spreading his arms. “Fortunately, there’s no shortage of assets to work with,” he added with a wink.

The nearer of the two Calebs sorted, letting the other one go back to resting his head on his double’s chest. “When you say things like that, I almost believe you.” He sighed. “Actually, Dmitri already used your only good quality, so I’m going to go for… smarm.”

“Oh god, don’t pick Caleb,” Adam said to Dmitri, who chuckled.

They looked at Bruce, who considered the cheery platinum blond for a moment. “I’m going to say… his taste in music,” he said with a smirk.

Dmitri snorted. “Fuck you,” he said without heat. He turned quickly to Adam.

“He totally threw that one,” Adam said.

“He totally did,” Dmitri agreed.

They kissed.

For a make-out that Adam had dreamed of for years, even beaten off thinking about, it was oddly serene. Instead of frenzied passion, Adam felt a deep connection, as if their mouths joining had sealed their souls even as it stroked their fevered erections and sent the cum-production for their next orgasm into overdrive.

They parted. As he had with Caleb, Adam hovered close after the kiss, staring into golden eyes. He had a joke about them sharing identical tongues now too almost ready, but the quip died on his lips as he realized that the raging and pulsing going on in his pants was no longer… singular.

“You feel it too, right?” Dmitri whispered conspiratorially, his face still mere millimeters away.

Adam nodded.

“Okay, show and tell, everyone!” Bruce boomed, breaking the moment.

Feeling as though he were in a warm and sexy dream, Adam quickly decided that the weirdness of showing off his boners to his three best friends was easily outgunned by (a) the fact that he had boners, plural, and (b) the fact that they were extremely uncomfortable mashed, as they presently were, into his no-longer-loose jeans. He popped the waistband and unzipped, hearing similar noises from the guys around him, then stared in amazement at the two very hard, very eager monstercock erections that broke free of their confines and immediately jumped to a stiff and immovable vertical.

“Looks like it definitely heard the ‘big’ and ‘fat’ parts of what you said as well as the ‘two’,” he heard Dmitri say.

“And then some,” Bruce murmured.

“Did everyone get a size upgrade?” the Calebs asked.

“Oh yeah,” the others said in a kind of ragged harmony.

Adam had long been well accustomed to his very average, very straight, very flat six-inch erection. What he was looking at now was the same cock, sort of—same circumcision line between pink and brown, same wide, pointy head, same dark freckle at the one-third mark up the backside—only significantly sized up in length and girth… not to mention number. These rigid tools had to be at least ten inches long and half again as broad as his previous wang, maybe more. At this size the wide, flat shape made them look a bit like pink-and-brown surfboards for six-inch dudes, planted in his groin and ready to be ridden. His hands twitched, but for all they were showing off their meat to each other like curious teens at a summer camp for double-dicked prodigies, he wasn’t quite ready to start a two-fisted stroke-off while Bruce, Caleb, and Dmitri watched.

He glanced around at the others. Dmitri’s looked suitably perfect, long and red-gold and supremely elegant but still thick as anything, the exact size to call out to your mouth and positively beg to fill it. Bruce’s were purple menhirs, slabs of cock that looked ready to choke or wreck any target the b-baller aimed them at—again, apt, Adam thought, feeling his lips curve despite his intense arousal. And as for the Calebs… fuck. There was “big and fat,” and then there were these curved, chest-nudging dual colossi both Calebs were sporting, cocks so big, thick, and hard they looked like they’d never go back into a pair of pants no matter how many times they came.

Soon they had all moved on from the wonder of their own multiplied junk to stare at Caleb’s. “You… you sure you weren’t like that before?” Adam said finally. Like the others, Calebs included, he was having trouble taking his eyes off them.

“Not until you said I had them,” the nearer Caleb said.

Adam wrenched his stare away from Caleb’s dicks to meet the man’s troubled, sky-blue gaze. “You mean, you got them when Dmitri and I kissed, and the answer was made… official… right?” Even as he said it, though, he knew it wasn’t what had happened.

Caleb was already shaking both heads. “It’s like, I’ve always had them? But I know it’s a retcon. Adam—”

“He got them when you said he had them,” Bruce finished, in a way that made it clear that this was what he had known would happen from the start of the turn. And obviously, he had. Why else would he have suggested Adam give an answer about Caleb that wasn’t true?

Adam looked around at his friends. He wanted to laugh—such earnest faces above, such hard, enormous boners below. “You’re saying there’s something going on here, tonight,” he said, “that isn’t just about the answers to each turn in the game coming true.” Even broaching this truth so obliquely made my insides flutter, like we weren’t supposed to know about this kind of power.

Bruce nodded sagely, then grinned. “Wild, huh?”

Adam looked at the Calebs, then at Dmitri, who offered him the deck as though it might be a live grenade. “Your… turn?” he suggested with an adorably meek and crooked smile, his eyes betraying a boyish excitement at what might possibly come next.

Adam took the stack of cards from Dmitri, his slowly sobering thoughts still a jumbled mishmash. Though his cocks weren’t quite as massive as the Calebs’ were, he felt like he had to stay constantly aware of where their heads were at all times, just so he didn’t smear his own messy precum on anything. Absently he slipped the top card underneath, then looked at the card underneath it without really seeing anything but an unfocused blur for a couple of seconds.

Fuck, he was so hard and needed to cum so fucking bad. “Okay,” he said, glancing around the circle. “One last quick turn in this round, and then we’ll, uh, take stock.” He caught Bruce smirking at that. It was left unsaid, but they were all tacitly agreed that that “taking stock” would likely involve a lot of mutual orgasms.

Adam cleared his throat, still not letting his eyes focus on the text enough to read it. He could tell it was an interesting font, and he had a passing curiosity as to who had designed it and how the thing had been produced.

“You know, maybe before we do this round we should test—” Bruce said.

“I’m not performing reality change for your entertainment,” Adam said sharply, looking up at Bruce with his bossiest stare. Bruce instantly backed down, eyes alight, and his exposed cocks jumped and nuzzled against each other. All at once he remembered telling Bruce that he liked it when Adam was bossy, and—fuck, how was it possible to feel both abjectly guilty and tremendously turned on stem to stern at exactly the same time?

He was about to finally read the question, but Dmitri squeezed his shoulder, getting his attention. “It might… be temporary, though,” he said, his tone more conciliatory than Bruce’s.

Adam gave him a dubious look. “Use it before you lose it?” he said flatly.

Dmitri shrugged. “Dude,” Caleb said, “this is literally once in a lifetime. We should—”

“Fine!” Adam said, exasperated and, weirdly, very slightly hysterical. “Reality change, then the last turn, then we nut all over each other. Okay?”

They laughed, once again four fond friends with a lot of history and a lot of hormones. “Okay,” Bruce said briskly, “let’s make a list.” He stood, looking around for supplies.

“Bruce has a yellow legal pad and my green felt tip pen in his hands,” Adam said blandly.

Bruce blinked and sat down slowly, arranging the pad in his lap in front of his boner-slabs. “Uh, thanks,” he said, sounding like he was trying to pass off being ever so slightly shaken. Adam, for his part, was too busy attempting not to be overwhelmed by this incontrovertible demonstration of eldritch powers, however temporary, to worry about how freaked out Bruce might have been over having paper and pen pop into his hands like he’d been holding them the whole time. He still had a feeling, from something in the magic of the room, that it wasn’t just him that had gained this temporary universe-altering power; but he knew even more strongly that it was wrong to be conscious of having the ability. Bad enough he did, so it was probably for the best that the others made him the focal point for whatever it was they could do, even if it was just for the night.

“Wait,” Caleb said abruptly, “what if Adam just says that his powers are permanent? Then we don’t have to worry about trying to get everything in now.”

Adam quickly adopted the mien of a horrified Gandalf. “Do not tempt me, Frodo!” he bellowed, eyes wide and mouth near to frothing.

The Calebs laughed. “All right, point taken,” they said. “Let’s avoid creating any Dark Lords if we can help it.”

“A good rule to follow in general,” Bruce agreed, eyes glinting. He poised his pen over the legal pad. “Shall we?”

“One page,” Adam said flatly, nodding at the pad.

“One page,” Bruce confirmed, then turned to the others. “Okay, boys, the floor is open.”

They went through the usual—financial security, health and youth, love and happiness, stamina and pleasure, the ability to help others—with Adam mostly abstaining. Ideas were piled on thick and fast, filling more and more of the yellow sheet with dark green ink in Bruce’s neat, square capitals. Harry Connick looped around to the start of his playlist and started warbling “I Could Write a Book,” which made Adam laugh.

He vetoed several of the more ridiculous proposals—did they really need to be able to fly? what good was invisibility to anybody but kids who’d never seen a girls’ locker room?—but superheroey suggestions kept creeping in, and Adam gave up trying to intervene. At last viable propositions started petering out. Bruce wrote down the last few toward the bottom of the page and then detached, the rip of the perforation sounding weirdly final, and handed the sheet to their temporary god.

Adam temporarily handed the cards to Dmitri, then, took the sheet, looking it over the sheet with pursed lips. He frowned at an entry he’d somehow missed and reached out to Bruce for the pen. “Werewolves? Really?” he said to Dmitri.

“Why not? It’ll be fun!”

“‘It’ll be fun,’ he says,” Adam repeated, shaking his head. He took the proffered pen from Bruce and very thoroughly crossed out the lycanthropic suggestion, while Dmitri grinned next to him. Then he considered how best to make all this real.

He’d intended to read all of the entries in as comically bored a drawl as he could manage, but that would take forever and quickly get boring. So instead, he said, “Everything written on this page, excepting anything crossed out, will become permanently true about all four of us starting at sunrise tomorrow morning.” Then he folded the page, reached forward, and dropped it into the box the game had come in.

Adam settled back against Dmitri, who hummed with satisfaction at the efficiency of Adam’s solution. The Calebs looked nonplussed, as if they’d been presented with an anticlimax. “Will that work?” he asked, looking between Bruce and Adam.

“It will work,” Adam said with certainty. He wasn’t sure how he’d ended up plugged in to the abstract workings of this cosmic power, however faintly, but he knew that come tomorrow they would be… well, more. He hoped the attunement, at least, would stay with him once his (their?) power of reality command started to fade away. “The cards?” he said, smiling at Dmitri. One last turn, and then there would be a whole lot of jizzin’ going on.

Adam wandered into the vast, padded sex room of the modest secluded mansion he shared with his three forever-lovers, letting the pleasure wash over him like a wave. He was already in here, somewhere—two of his bodies were fucking each other, and a third was languidly sixty-nining with a Bruce or two. A fourth Adam body was in the showers beyond, slowly, mindlessly sucking himself.

Of course Dmitri had suggested they all be capable of spontaneous human mitosis, revised after debate to a more simple statement that each of them could have as many bodies as they liked. And, as it turned out, they all “liked,” not just Dmitri and Caleb. Adam always had at least a couple of bodies, and Bruce, the egotist, never had fewer than five or six.

The weird thing was that although the four of them each only had one consciousness and controlled all of their split-off bodies equally, they’d gradually discovered certain autonomous—or perhaps autonomic—functions that their extra bodies could perform without much direct management. These seemed to include sleeping, eating… and fucking. Not too shocking that they each spent a lot of time in this moodily-lit, well-supplied room, even if they were also busy elsewhere. Dmitri claimed it didn’t distract him too much when he was out on his EMT shifts, but they still tried to keep things light and tantric on any Dmitris they found in the playroom when he was out at work.

A sixth sense pulled him toward the open terrace at the far end of the room. Pulling a water bottle from one of the cases stacked by the door he jogged in that direction, his adamantine cocks shifting against his precum-smeared eight-pack. The others went naked a lot when they were home, Dmitri almost exclusively, but Adam liked the shirtless, barefoot, and jeans look. Especially with his still trim, sculpted, Dmitri-duped physique (now defined to the point of precision) and the two extra-wide ten-inchers shoving past the waistband. He didn’t have to look like this—voluntary unlimited shapeshifting and normalized acceptance of whatever they shifted themselves to look like had both been on the list, of course. But this body felt like home to him, and equally as gratifying was the way the others appreciated it just as much as he did.

He drank as he ran. The question for the last round of The Game—”What should you all have that you don’t have now?”—had resulted, perhaps inevitably given their hyper-aroused state, in a winning answer of “The ability to cum endlessly and as often as we want.” Which was all well and good… except that no one, not Adam with this “universe-attunement,” nor Bruce with his opportunistic list-making, nor any of the others, had thought about the hydration factor in relation this particular little change. Thus, lots and lots of bottled water wherever they were. As utopian oversights went, Adam thought, they were pretty well off. The delivery guys sure didn’t seem to mind.

Tossing the empty bottle in a nearby bin, he got to the open terrace just as two Calebs appeared in the darkening afternoon sky, their vivid pink tights and cinnamon capes unmissable against the deepening azure. He shook his head to himself as they approached, admiring the way the once uptight Caleb, of all people, had taken to this line of possibilities out of all the gifts they’d been given. He saw they both had an extra stacked set of pecs and a matching brace of muscular arms, and wondered if six arms had been more helpful for his superheroing that day than his usual four. Their massive chest-high erections, as visible under the tights as if the tights didn’t exist, probably weren’t as useful; but then, normalization of giant cocks didn’t mean they didn’t get appreciated, and maybe, just maybe, the admiration they inspired was a force for good. Somehow.

Soon the two Caleb-bodies were alighting next to him and immediately hugging him from both directions. “Where are the others?” they demanded, sounding extra-English in their excitement. “We have news.”

Soon they were all assembled in the media room—at least, that what Adam called the converted ballroom, two walls of which had been converted to vast television screens accompanied by the highest-end multi-point sound system in existence. He looked around, checking who was present. There were the two six-armed Calebs, still in their pink hero outfits; four Adams, all in his standard sexy uniform of jeans and nothing else; two very naked, very hard-bodied (and very hard) Dmitiris, both grinning at the similarly built Adams; and eight, count ‘em, eight Bruces in identical Levis cords and navy pocket tees, half of them making out with each other. Adam was sure Bruce’s chronic and very blatant self-proliferation was at least partly about goading Adam into demanding he consolidate his body count down to a more reasonable number; but just because they both liked it with Adam bossed Bruce around didn’t mean Adam had to indulge him. Not every time, anyway.

“So what’s the news, Super-C?” a Dmitri asked.

“Well,” Caleb started, speaking in unison. He paused, seeming to focus, and when he spoke again it was just one of him talking. “I was up in New England for a charity fund-raiser,” he said. “And I ran into this very interesting fellow named Jack. We got to talking, and it turns out that he used to be trapped in a blue pumpkin.”

There was a bit of consternation at this. “What?” “That’s weird. He had to been full of it.” “Why was it blue? Is that important?” “How can you get trapped in a pumpkin, anyway? Was he a Ken doll?”

Caleb held up a few hands to quiet them. “Boys, please,” he said. “It’s a long story, and I’ll tell you the whole thing later over dinner. He was very… convincing, is all I’ll say now. The point is, the blue pumpkin, Jack said, was an artifact of the universe and granted—wait for it—temporary reality altering abilities.” He weighted the last words for effect, eyeing the Adams in particular.

It was starting to dawn on the group in stages. “So the key factor was the blue pumpkin,” Dmitri said.

“And if there could be a blue pumpkin…” Caleb said meaningfully. They were all looking at the Adams now.

In a sudden flash, Adam thought of the lonely hand of four cornflower-blue bananas tucked away in the huge grocery store pile of normal, yellow bananas. “No way,” he said, looking around the group. “But wait, we all ate the bananas! See, I knew we all had the power that night, not just me! It was the bananas!”

“The bananas and The Game,” Bruce said, looking around them and seeing what the two catalysts had wrought together. “I wonder if they’ve ever converged before.”

“If they did,” Dmitri said, “whoever they did it for are probably fucking at this very minute.”

There was a general ripple of laughter. “What an excellent idea,” Bruce said.

“All right then!” Adam said. “Orgy now, then food, then more fucking. Sounds good?”

“Sounds awesome,” Dmitri said, pulling an Adam in for a feverish kiss. Bruce and Caleb found an Adam too, and none of them were coming up for air.

Adam felt himself flushing with three sets of intense stimulation, his hard cocks instantly wet with pre. “Okay then,” he said huskily. “Orgy, food, more fucking. Sounds like a plan.” He found an extra Bruce, a Dmitri and a Caleb moving in from both sides, and Adam let himself submerge in the pure pleasure of multi-form, multi-partner, high-intensity pleasuring until the sun had set and the cooks had to come find them.

The Adams and Calebs and Dmitris and Bruces all kissed and hugged the blushing cooks as they took their much-needed water bottles from them and made their way to the dining hall, ready to enjoy their shared meal. As they moved en masse through the halls of their love house, Adam considered that they brought in quite a lot of produce every week, including, most of the time, a fair supply of bananas. He wondered if he needed to tell the staff to be on the lookout for the blue ones. Then the Calebs caught up with him, wanting to gossip about his trip, and the idea slipped right out of his mind.

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