An unexpected gift

by BRK   

Dancer Vince receives a package delivery he didn’t expect, leading to the unlocking of a few kinks he hadn’t known he had.

“Azamon.”

Vince frowned at the apartment intercom and pressed the TALK button. “What?” he said, leaning in toward the little microphone grate a bit more.

The muffled voice came through the speaker again, a ton of street noise behind it. “Azamon.”

Vince bit his lip. He hadn’t ordered anything and wasn’t expecting any packages, but he pressed the buzzer anyway. Probably they just had the wrong apartment, unless one of the slightly defective discount streaming services he couldn’t quite afford had decided to send him a random Christmas present as thanks for all the ridiculous amounts of high-intensity binge-watching he did between his sporadic Broadway dance-chorus gigs.

He was about to go back to his sit-ups when his doorbell jangled loudly, almost making him jump. It was the manual kind, with a turn on the other side that actually smacked around the inside of the bell on this side, and Vince had always found it kind of jarring—especially when he standing right next to it, as he was now. And especially especially when whoever he’d just let into the old building couldn’t possibly have made it up the stairs to his spartan fifth-floor garret in the time allotted. Was there an Usain Bolt-like metaphor for stair-leapers? Whoever it was, that was this guy.

With no small amount of trepidation he moved to the overpainted steel door and flipped the deadbolts, the clacks loud in the still apartment. Then, before he could second-guess himself, he whipped it open to find—no one there.

No fleet-footed courier lurked in the gloomy hallway. Instead there was just a small box standing on its end directly in front of his door, addressed to him in neat block lettering with no return address and no postage, no airbill, no nothing to signify how the heck it had got here. Weird. There was a faint smell—sage? Sulphur? He was never much good with aromas. Maybe the Delphinos downstairs were cooking for their relatives again. His sweaty torso felt chilly in the cool air of the hallway, so took one more perplexed look around the empty landing and down the wide stairwell, then shrugged and grabbed the box, retreating inside and locking the door behind him.

At his desk, he opened the carton and was surprised to find it contained an old-fashioned fountain pen in a clear plastic box, with no brandname or inscription. It came complete with a plain, unmarked packet of blue-black ink cartridges, but there was no note or packing list. By this point Vince was expecting the lack of provenance or explanation. “Mysterious,” he said as he pulled the pen from its packaging, the eeriness of it all starting to catch his imagination. “What are you for, eh?” he asked it, amused. “Why did you drop into my life?”

He unscrewed the pen, slipped in a cartridge, and found one of the old blank composition notebooks he kept on his shelf in case he wanted to start journaling by hand again. After a few dry scratches it started producing a bold, dark line on the page, which Vince found oddly pleasing. He smiled and began writing.

I bet, he wrote, that everything I write with this pen becomes true. Then he grinned and added, … in an exaggerated and sexy way. He considered this and penned an additional amendment pulling it back a bit: … that people think is no big deal.

Vince sat back, entertained by his little joke, its manic pendulum swings notwithstanding. Then his heart tripped as an elegant, blood-red check mark appeared in the margin immediately to the left of what he had just written, seeping into the paper from within in the space of a second. It looked for all the world as though some force in the universe had considered his proposal and replied with an ethereal thumbs up. “Okay,” sayeth Kronos the wild Titan, “sounds good.”

In a slightly delayed reaction, he dropped the pen and leapt from his chair, knocking it over behind him. His heart was thumping loudly now, and he was sure that was all fear and foreboding until he realized he was hard as a rock in his skimpy gray-cotton gym shorts.

Some small internal voice was urgently telling him to walk away, to throw the pen out the window and forget he’d ever received it. Didn’t he remember all those Goosebumps episodes he’d watched where stuff like this went bad? It had only been last month! (The whole series had suddenly appeared on WhatZone, and he’d never seen it as a kid…)

But the stronger part of him was into it, in a big way. His pounding pulse was all anticipation now, and his dick had never been harder. He was a creative type, he told himself—he was all about dreams and fantasies. This was his chance!

He crept back to the desk. Righting the chair, he sat and picked up the pen. He should at least test it and see what was possible, right? Check how it worked? Sure. Sure.

Thinking for a moment, he hovered the nib over the paper a couple lines down from the first entry, then wrote: I live in an elevator building.

He watched the page anxiously. Would it be a red check again, or—well, how would rejection be communicated, anyway? A sinister, blackletter X? A lingering, painful death? Hopefully it was the X. That thought was crowded out by a new anxiety, that whatever was interpreting his words would take him literally and he’d end up living in a building that was itself a giant elevator, instead of a building with an elevator like he’d meant. He didn’t want to go up and down all day with a bunch of passengers in his place getting on and off all the time. Surely whatever elemental force or godly majesty was controlling this would understand basic English idiom and not—

The crimson check appeared, and almost immediately Vince heard a very distinct ding from the short, quiet hallway outside his apartment.

He whipped around to stare at the door, then rose slowly to his feet and crept nervously toward it. Scared and impossibly excited, he undid the bolts for a second time and opened the door. Where the blank wall in front of the stairwell had been, ten feet away, there was now an old-fashioned cage elevator, clean and well-maintained but obviously as old as the building itself. The collapsing gate opened and a man stepped out—the operator.

In a fancy place he might have been uniformed and proper, but this wasn’t a fancy place, and the young, extremely handsome Latino was dressed in old jeans, beat-up white high-tops, and a faded Mets tee shirt that showed off nicely the gentle swells of his very pleasant-to-look-at pecs and, more generally, his naturally built, honey-toned physique. His hair was long and loose, brushing his shoulders in a way Vince found strangely inviting—he wasn’t a hair guy normally, but this guy’s subtly wavy black hair was made to have fingers run through it and hands slid under it, grasping the strong nape beneath.

As a dancer Vince did appreciate himself some nice legs, and this guy’s lower half was fine to the point of exceptional, with firm, well-shaped thighs and visibly developed calves. At first the legs seemed a touch long proportionately, but when he looked up he saw the guy’s torso was kind of long, too.

Vince drew in as breath. All of him looked long. Long—and limber.

The newcomer leaned nonchalantly against the seam of the elevator, the gap between car and building positioned perfectly between his shoulder-blades, and lifted a hand in greeting. “Hey, Vince,” he said, smiling sexily. He dropped his gaze briefly and then up again, his smile a bit wider.

Too late, Vince awkwardly jerked his hips to the left behind his door in a weak effort at hiding his raging erection. “Uh, hey…” he started, trying not to stare at the sweet legs and the very nice chest. Then, to his shock, he realized he knew the guy’s name. “… Julio,” he finished, saying the name slowly.

His stomach fluttered. This man was a stranger. How did he know the guy’s name? How did he—he remembered this guy! Vince goggled as he reviewed a memory full of a whole year of flirty rides up and down with Julio.

Julio, and the elevator, had always been here, ever since Vince had moved in. This was true, though Vince also knew that was not true. Had not been true?

Had the elevator thing gone backwards in time? But of course it had. He hadn’t written My building now has an elevator, after all. His revision to reality was that this building was, by its nature, an elevator building.

Julio was still eyeing him with a friendly, not to mention rather smoldering, gaze. “Er, how’s business?” Vince asked lamely, trying to organize his thoughts.

Julio shrugged. “It has its ups and downs,” he said. Then he grinned in a way that went straight to Vince’s balls.

Fuck, dimples and everything, Vince thought, almost shivering with helpless appreciation. He laughed nervously.

A soft buzz sounded from inside the car, and Julio glanced in, then back at Vince. “Mrs. Cranston is back from window shopping,” he said, rolling his eyes. “See you later?”

“For sure.”

He watched as Julio stepped into the elevator, closed the cage, and tossed him a wave before descending to meet Mrs. Cranston. As he closed his door, Vince realized he was unaccountably jealous that his flighty third-floor ex-socialite neighbor would get to enjoy Julio’s hotness and not him.

He stalked back to his desk, feeling all jittery with nerves and arousal. Sinking into his chair, he picked up the pen almost without thinking. He felt oddly like he was still on the fringes of real change, tantalized but not satisfied. His first wish had been cautious to the point of peripheral. He had to make something happen for real.

He started writing. I have a roommate who loves to… He thought a moment. Mess around? Fuck? His arousal seemed to spike, and he finished, …make me cum instead. He considered what to write next. Maybe he should describe him? He mulled how to flesh out his ideal potential fuckbuddy, but then realized he didn’t need to. He’s Julio’s identical twin, and like Julio he’s extra hot, and extra into me. He blinked. Was that okay? He was all but forcing Julio’s extra-hot twin to crave him. Was that ethical? But it was already too late for second thoughts—the crimson check was already there, and then there was a mouth at his neck, making him almost insta-cum from the shock and pleasure of it. “Writing about me?” teased the soft voice that went with the lips.

Vince set down the pen and turned to face his roommate, rising from his chair. Sure enough, Jorge looked exactly like Julio—but not the Julio he’d just seen. Everything about Jorge was a notch… more. Extra, Vince realized, remembering what he’d written. More. And his memories now told him Julio had always looked like this, too. Both brothers were taller than normal, more attractive than normal, more hung than normal…

Vince drank his roommate in. Jorge was smiling and shirtless. Strong hands wiggled at Jorge’s sides, showing off fingers longer and, it looked like, more numerous than usual. Though he wasn’t swole to the point of carting around heavyweight-bodybuilder brawn, his topless state did reveal strong arms, powerful delts, and prodigiously hefty pecs looming over a ten-pack of firm, chiseled, lusciously lickable abs with the faintest line of fine dark hair leading down to soft, skintight jeans. Vince followed this southward and his jaw fell open, as protruding from his jeans were the upper reaches of two fat, iron-hard, indomitable-looking cocks, both of them damp with pre and, as if to signal their readiness, tinged slightly redder than his smooth, honey-brown skin.

“Jesus,” Vince whispered, raking back up his fantasy lover’s impossible body to eyes that were now dark with urgent need.

“Pick one,” Jorge rasped, lips quirking in a smile. “Please.”

Vince hadn’t previously realized how subconsciously he was into the whole multi thing, but clearly he was because this Jorge he’d created from nothing was the hottest guy he could ever have dreamed of.

Before he could think better of it, he turned quickly, picked up the pen one last time, and scribbled: Julio and Jorge have all the extras they want. Then he dropped the pen and turned around.

He half expected wild changes, and sure enough Jorge now had two sets of those sweetly massive pecs, stacked one above the other, and four arms instead of two, plus an extra pair of long, lovely jeans-clad dancer’s legs behind the originals. Vince’s whole body thrummed with approval. From his pec-boosted height Jorge loomed a bit more, but his lust was even more obvious. This time, there was a glint in his eyes.

“You know what? I’ll choose for you,” Jorge said roughly, placing his lower set of strong multi-fingered hands on Vince’s bare, well-defined shoulders. He smiled wider, like he knew they’d both like this. “And I choose… both.”

And then Vince seemed to slide apart like clouds separating to reveal the sun, and in the space of half a heartbeat everything was shifted left and right and Vince was standing there, shoulders pressed hard against… himself. He could feel… both? He was—what had—?

He looked up with two sets of eyes at Jorge, his dual-perspective vision swimming only for a moment before syncing on Jorge’s extremely captivating face. His lover was, if anything, even more turned on and needy than before. Of course. They’d done this many times in the 12 months they’d lived together. In fact, Vince was pretty much always like this now, because as it turned out the one “extra” a two-cocked, roommate-craving, frequently insatiable Jorge needed more than anything was… an extra Vince to help satisfy him utterly and completely.

Sometimes there were more Vinces, when Julio and his multi-bodied, minor-league soccer-player boyfriend stopped by to casually mess around with his brother and his guy. But even when it was just them, Vince hardly every had just the one fuckbod.

Either way, Vince knew what to do. His two selves took their positions in a close side-by-side embrace, smiling at each other as Jorge shucked his jeans, letting his two front cocks free and spattering Vince’s chests with honey-sweet precum. The even bigger rear cocks that came into view at this point would be round two, Vince knew; but for now all they had to worry about stood proud and tall before them, the sexiest cocks on the sexiest of men.

He looked up at Jorge. “Welcome to my life,” he said in unison. Jorge grinned so beautifully Vince’s hearts stuttered. Then Vince went to work and put loving mouths to needy, throbbing cocks, sliding his tongues along the rigid, extra-wide, enticingly delicious shafts, and the moans that followed sent the three of them into the most amazing, exaggerated, sexy, no-big-deal pleasure Vince could have imagined.

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