“Hey, can I see a manager or something?” called a voice from near the front of the store, a few seconds after the bell on the front door hand tinkled. “There’s a problem with something I bought here.”
Mick clicked his tongue in irritation as he set down the two-headed long-sleeve jerseys they’d just gotten in. He was out of sight—the store expansion meant there was a part of the floor, back and to the right, that couldn’t be seen from the front—and considered hiding long enough for the guy up front to give up and go away. Ten minutes before closing on a Friday, and some wanker shows up with a complaint, he thought. He needed to jack off urgently—his front cock, already Pringles-can-huge soft, felt like it had been inflating all day from the rush of hot customers he’d had all afternoon, and his back one was worse. And that was without the flood of arousal that suffused him whenever he thought about what was waiting for him at home. Even his generous, Metaboi-model-perfect muscles seemed to get a hard-on thinking about “his” Luke, and how amazing it felt to feel his body, his warmth, his musky smell, his tongues in his mouth—fuck. Mick’s whole body seemed to flush.
“Hello?” came the voice—uncertain, but not on the brink of going away.
Mick sighed. “Be right with you,” he called, using all four hands to adjust his monster sausages (front and back) in his loose and super-comfortable four-legged khaki chinos, and then adjusted his hunter green, four-arm Metaboi V-neck sports tee, which oddly felt a little tight across the chest for some reason.
He strolled around toward the front of the store, all four of his big hands hanging easily at his side, the dark hair on his firm forearms tickling as he passed under the a/c vent in the middle of the store near the three-legged board shorts—and then he and the customer saw each other. Mick stopped, his big Timberland boots unexpectedly rooted on the cushy carpet right where he stood, six feet away from the customer; and the customer stared back.
Metaboi sold a lot of multi-ab shirts—lots of guys got a rush adding an extra row or two of tight abs, and it’s one of those augments that’s just as fun while the shirt’s still on—so you don’t need to buy the much more expensive Durations that let you keep the augment until morning even if you take the clothing off. Most guys stopped with a 10-pack (or, depending on how they were built, a Luke-style 9-pack), and Metaboi didn’t offer multi-ab shirts where you’d get any more than a 12 pack. But this guy…
He was young, maybe 17, ridiculously fresh-faced with shaggy black hair piled on his head. Buff but not massive, though he was wide-shouldered to complement his narrow waist—but between those landmarks was a torso that looked twice as long as it should have been, and Mick was stunned to realize that all of it below the tight, pert pecs that pushed out his black tee was abs, endless abs. The large black tee shirt hung loosely off his pecs but couldn’t manage covering anywhere near all the washboard real estate the dude had, a full 8-pack of hard, deeply creviced abs exposed between the hem of the shirt and his cobalt-blue jeans. In the right hand, at the end of a long, lanky arm, he gripped another shirt tensely.
He was standing close to the front doors, and with darkness gathering in the street through the glass doors and display windows to either side the brightly lit store made everything seem stark and impressive, as if it were lit for the stage. The boy’s broad shoulders, Mick realized, were level with the tops of the doors.
Mick once again had the strange sensation of his cocks—his whole body—pumping with arousal. “Fuck,” he whispered. “You are so hot.”
The boy was still staring at him, too, open-mouthed. It wasn’t clear if he’d heard. He cleared his throat. “You’re—you’re a jocktaur?” Mick nodded, and the boy seemed to be having trouble with a dry mouth. “Is that from here?” he asked.
Mick shook his head. “I was always this way.”
The endless-abbed dude was staring at Mick’s waist in awe. “You’re going to stain your shirt if you keep that up,” he rasped, both amused and aroused.
Mick looked down. “Damn it,” he muttered. His huge, thick front cock had worked its way out of his khakis and was standing straight up, pressed back against his too-tight dark green Metaboi tee and drooling on it just at the base of his heavy, perfect jocktaur pecs. He sighed, absently grabbing a loose athletic sock from a nearby bin and pulling it over the exposed cock even as he quickly turned his attention to the now-grinning customer. Mick noticed the guy’s package in his tight jeans had expanded impressively at the sight of Mick and his predicament, and Mick smiled back.
“So,” Mick said, trying to pretend he wasn’t standing in front of a customer with an enormous sock-clad boner thumping against his sternum, “what seems to be the problem—?” he said.
“Frank,” he boy jumped in, his eyes jumping up from staring at the sock-stretching monster as if he’d just remembered it was rude to stare.
Mick smiled again, this time semi-professionally, but his four big hands twitched, wanting to grab his own cocks even as his tongue seemed to want to stretch toward those hard, deep-riven abs. “What seems to be the trouble, Frank?”
Frank exhibited the shirt he was clutching in his hand. “This thing isn’t working right,” he said softly, as if he’d rather talk about Mick’s bod than his own. “It’s supposed to add abs—”
Mick opened his mouth, his head cocked to one side –
“—but it keeps adding them,” Frank went on.
Mick frowned. “What?”
“Every time I put it on, I get another new row of abs!”
Mick shook his head. “It’s not supposed to work that way.”
Frank grinned crookedly. “Duh.”
“Let me see,” he said, taking a couple steps forward so he was in easy reach of the boy and his entrancing abs. His movement had drawn attention to Mick’s feet, and Frank was now gazing intently at them, but he handed the shirt to Mick as he stared.
Mick did what he always did to test the merchandise for customers—he shucked his own shirt, exposing his own bulging shoulders, thick pecs and tight eight-pack, and, tossing his green V-neck over a rack of Durations muscle shirts close at hand, started to pull on the shirt—but then he paused, looking up and down Frank’s tower of abs. “Wait—so I can see ending up with a 12-pack, or even 14. But how did you—?”
Frank’s face darkened. “It was my stupid kid brother,” he said, exasperated. “Fifteen years old, but he acts like he’s 12.”
“I don’t understand,” Mick said, looking up at Frank’s supercute face.
Frank rolled his eyes. “I let him try it on,” nodding toward the shirt in Mick’s hand, “and even as I’m sitting there in our room looking at my abs and wondering why I still have a 10-pack with the shirt off, Joey is totally loving his new 8-pack under the shirt. Then he takes it off, and he’s back to six. So he’s frowning at my still having extras and yelling that it’s a rip-off, but I put on the shirt again to show him—and we both realize that now I have a fuckin’ 12-pack under the shirt. So Joey starts playing tricks on me. I laid out a shirt to put on after the shower, he swapped it for that one. I only got caught once with that one—okay, twice. But then I saw him staring at my 16-pack as we undressed for bed and he had this big boner, and I just reach over and punch him in the arm for doing this to me. You know, brothers, right? Well I go to sleep, and the fucker knows I sleep really heavy, right? So I wake up in the middle of the night with the shirt on—looking like this!” he added, gesturing to his tower of abs, “and he’s fucking straddling me and staring at me in the moonlight and jacking off! he’d been pulling the shirt on and off me while I slept, over and over, and every time he’d get even more turned on and blow a load all over me. Fuck, my abs were full of his cum, and it was all over the shirt—I had to wash it twice before I felt like I could bring it back.”
Mick lifted the wadded shirt to his nose, and imagined he could smell the teen’s concentrated spunk. He grinned, and Frank grinned back. “Brothers,” Mick said, in a whatcha-gonna-do manner, as if brothers gave each other miles of abs all the time. “But,” he added, pulling on the shirt (which grew an extra pair of armholes for him—a nice brand-new bonus feature that all the Metaboi clothes had now, allowing anyone to wear anything no matter how many arms or legs they had), “it’s not supposed to work that way.” He pulled down the shirt, which was as tight on him as the V-neck, and then lifted up the front to show off his (now) 10-pack abs. “See?” he said, smiling up at Frank.
“Not really,” Frank said wryly, nodding toward what was in the way. It looked even wider now, and neatly obscured Mick’s awesome new abs.
“Just move that out of the way and you can see it,” Mick said. Frank obliged, using both hands, and nodded.
He also did not let go of the sock-covered monster. He grasped it with his hands as if there were something strange about it, and Mick drew in his breath but pretended not to notice as he shucked the problematic shirt. “See?” Mick said again, nodding down at his abs. “Back to eight.”
Frank shrugged, still massaging Mick’s sternum-high cock as if that were an everyday thing to do. “It was like that for Joey, too. So how does that explain me?”
“Maybe it’s just that shirt.” Mick considered. “Come with me,” he said. He walked slowly backwards toward the rear of the store, so that the cute megatall teen wouldn’t have to let go of his monster boner. He realized he’d left his shirt up front just as he passed under that a/c vent, and shivered as the cool air flowed over him, hardening his thick nips and raising the hair on his forearms.
Soon they were standing near a display of bargain, non-Durations multi-arm tees, folded on a table in different solid colors. He grabbed a gray one and held it up to Frank. “Try this,” he said.
“What’s it do?” Frank said cautiously, but he reluctantly let go of Mick’s sock-clad cock and pulled off the tee he was wearing, dropping it to the (distant, for him) floor.
“Two extra arms, only while you’re wearing it,” Mick said. Frank paused doubtfully in the act of taking the shirt, but Mick wiggled all four of his arms at his sides. “What’s the worst that can happen?” They grinned at each other. Frank pulled on the shirt, and Mick whistled. “You are so hot with four arms,” he said.
Frank pulled off the new shirt and frowned down at himself—his naked torso was now augmented not only by endless deep-carved abs but by four long, lanky arms as well. He sighed. “Lucky for me,” he said resignedly, but even as he looked himself over Mick could tell he was totally into it. Suddenly Mick noticed Frank’s package jump in his jeans, but Frank didn’t seem to notice.
“Joey’s going to bust a nut,” Mick said appreciatively, and Frank, still staring at his four-armed torso, laughed. He started using all four hands to slowly caress his washboard highway. Mick’s cocks both suddenly pumped out a half-pint of precum as he watched, soaking the sock and the inside of his four-legged khakis, precum trickling down his legs inside the pants. his breath was ragged for a moment.
“Fortunately for you,” he said quickly, “We have some ab-substracting shirts here.” He handed a tee shirt up to Frank, who took it without looking away from his torso. He pulled it on a little awkwardly, not used to dressing with four arms—and then stared down with bugged out eyes. Now he had six arms!
Mick started laughing in aroused awe, and Frank looked at him in mock fury. “You did that on purpose!” he exclaimed, yanking off the shirt and tossing it in Mick’s face.
Mick laughed harder. “God, you really are an easy mark!” He pulled on the shirt himself, thrilling at the feel of six hard-muscled arms, just in time for Frank to tackle him to the spongy carpet, and they wrestled playfully for a while until the wrestling turned into making out while yanking each other’s remaining clothes off. “Dude your tongue is so long,” murmured Frank as they gasped between deep, passionate kisses.
Suddenly Mick flopped Frank on his back, straddling his narrow waist. “I can’t wait any more, dude,” he said, panting. They were both naked, except for the sock on Mick’s front monster cock and Mick’s shirt—he wanted to keep six arms for now. “My turn to pull a Joey.”
Frank smiled, flushed and panting. “You looked like you were ready to blow when I walked in,” he said shrewdly.
Mick laughed, drinking his partner in. As he sat panting over him, enjoying the look of Frank’s tight torso stretching away from him from narrow waist up long abs to firm pecs and wide, strong shoulders, Mick’s eyes drifted to his three right arms, and suddenly noticed that Frank’s right hands all bore a strange ring—a simple black circlet with a silver “M.”
“What’s that?” he said, pointing.
Frank glanced at his right hands and shrugged. “Dunno,” he said. “When I bought the shirt last week it was the store owner, I think, who checked me out. All I bought was the shirt, but when I got home the ring was in there too.” He held up the three hands appraisingly. “Course, there was only one before,” he said. Frank seemed fascinated by having more hands—Mick got the distinct feeling he was embracing his extras.
Frank glanced up at Mick. “Want one?” Mick shrugged, and Frank pulled the ring off his middle right hand and handed it to Mick, who pulled it on easily and instantly forgot about it.
“Just pull that sock off and let me explode cum all over your awesome body,” Mick huffed.
Frank pulled at the end of the sock, but it was wet and stretched tight, and in the end he had to work the sock off up from the bottom. After a moment it was clear why it was so tough to pull off: not only had the cock grown longer and thicker, but at the end there were two heads, side by side. “Fuck,” Frank said. “That’s too hot.”
Mick felt too hot. Suddenly he shucked his shirt at last, earning a whistle from the appreciative Frank for his hot jocktaur bod. He held the sock up briefly before casting it aside. “It was supposed to be for bigger feet and more toes,” he said. “Guess that’s what happens when you wear it on your dick!”
Both of the wide heads were fountaining precum down the unnaturally wide cock, and Frank’s six big hands were magnetically drawn to the massive shaft. He started stroking it, eliciting a deep moan from Mick even as he humped his oversized precum-spurting rear cock against Frank’s achingly hard surfboard-shaped eight-incher, both of them grunting and exulting in the feel of their meta-bods until all three cocks exploded startling amounts of hot cum like supersoakers, dousing Frank with spray after spray until every deep crevice of his long train of abs was completely full of cum.
Mick collapsed onto Frank and Frank rolled him over, so that all that cum drain onto Mick. “Hey!” Mick pretended to protest. But Frank bent down grinning and started hungrily making out with him, and Mick eagerly reciprocated.
Some time later—neither of them was sure just how long—the banging of the bells attached to the door announced a visitor. “We’re closed!” Mick shouted from where he lay, but Frank was looking up in surprise. “Joey?” he said in surprise.
They both got to their feet quickly, Frank towering over Mick, both of them naked and covered in sticky cum, both still completely hard (Mick’s front cock was now even thicker and was tapping hard at his collarbone). They took in a cute 15-year-old jock, with lighter hair but otherwise very similar in look and proportion to what Frank had looked like before his encounters with Metaboi merchandise.
To Mick’s surprise he barely glanced at him, an enormously cocked six-armed jocktaur (hey—why do I still have six arms?), and rushed over to Frank. “Thank god, you still have them,” he panted. He looked like he had suddenly and impulsively run all the way here from wherever they lived.
“What?” Frank said, confused.
“I thought you were going to get rid of them,” he said, gazing at his brother’s long train of hard abs. Joey raised up a hand and started gently caressing them, heedless of the dried cum. He gasped at feeling the dried and half-dried spunk. “They should always have cum on them,” he whispered as if to himself.
“What are you talking about?” Frank demanded.
Joey looked up into his brother’s face. “You can’t get rid of them,” he said. “You have to keep them. Please?” He was still stroking Frank’s abs, and Mick, glancing down, saw the head of what must have been a painfully hard cock trying to poke out of Joey’s well-filled jeans.
Frank shuddered—he was already hard, and Joey stroking his abs was somehow getting to him as if the younger brother were fisting his hard cock. But he said in a falsely stern voice he almost pulled off, “You have to promise to be nice to me.”
Joey smiled up at him. “I promise!”
Mick broke in softly, “You better put your clothes back on,” and handed them to Frank. Frank, still staring down at Joey, pulled on his jeans without bothering with underwear, and then drew on the tee shirt—and shouted. “Hey!!”
Joey and Mick stepped back, staring at Frank in aroused delight. Instead of two perfect pecs under the tight orange shirt Frank now had four—stacked, a bit bigger and thicker than before, and each set of pecs had its own set of six arms.
“Damn it!” Frank glared down at Mick—he was now even taller, by another eight inches or so, and at least a 12-pack of abs was now visible between shirt and jeans—but was rather mollified as both Joey and Mick came hard just from looking at him, both of them spraying ropes of cum straight up in the air, Mick’s shooting well up over his head and landing in his hair.
Frank huffed, his face flushed and eyes wide, but opted to continue pretend sternness. “I’ve had enough tricks from you—from the both of you!” he said. He stomped off to leave the store, having to bend deep under the door frame, and—after a quick glance back at Mick, and Joey—was gone.
Joey made to chase after him, but Mick grabbed his wrist and shoved a couple of packages at him. Joey blinked at them. They were both ordinary looking gray boxer briefs. The wrapping on one package said, “Megacock”—the other, “Multicock.” Joey looked up and grinned. Mick winked, and Joey turned and eagerly tore off toward home.
Mick shook his head happily after him, and turned to try to find his clothes, idly sucking the left head of his enormous cock, which now seemed to have stabilized at shoulder-height. He was so looking forward to seeing what Frank looked like in a few days…
What an appropriate way to spend Reverse Valentine’s Day. August 14th was the perfect day to hate the idea of being in love.
All Jess wanted was a quiet Saturday at work—no crazy customers, no new products they hadn’t bothered to brief him on, just a quiet eight-hour shift with no stress. He felt awful and sluggish, like every bone in his body was forged from heavy cast iron.
He was slowly folding three-legged jeans from out of one of the boxes of new shipments at his feet, standing at one of the tables near the changing rooms. (Why do we even have changing rooms? Everyone just shucks their clothes and pulls on the new stuff right here on the floor.) He was folding with only two of his six leaden hands, trying very unsuccessfully to pretend his brain didn’t feel like it was being mashed by five gees of pressure while being smacked with ball-peen hammers.
He was sure of one thing. If there was anything worse than a colossal hangover, it’s a colossal hangover that’s the direct result of a three-bar all-night bender you went on because your boyfriend of three years suddenly dumped you for sexy identical twin jocks fresh out of high school.
Sure, Jess could fondle Ricky with six nicely muscle-thick arms (at least temporarily, thanks to the Durations six-arm tee he’d saved up for), running six big strong hands over every hard, tight surface of Ricky’s hot bod—but could Jess give his boyfriend the apparently deep satisfaction of being the filling in a Ricky sandwich? He’d dreamed of working at Metaboi, had beaten off constantly thinking about the merchandise he could finally afford on an employee discount—and Rick had loved the six arms he’d finally been able to manhandle him with thanks to the Metaboi tee shirt he now wore all the time even more than Jess did. Until last week, that is, when Ricky had run into those mesmerizingly beautiful identical muscle-twinks at the Super Wal-Mart. They have everything in quantity there, Jess thought sourly.
And to top things off, it looked like his stress-free day was in peril anyway. From the sound of it a couple of bored teenagers had wandered into the store and were having a grand old time snarking about everything they saw. Jess put off turning around to deal with them, electing instead to listen to them for the moment and glance up occasionally at the semi-spherical thief-watcher mirror set into the ceiling not far from him. As long as they kept talking and dissing the store, he was good. If they decided to steal something or try to cause some damage, there’d be a tell-tale moment of quiet first.
He almost wished they would. The security system in this store was—impressive.
They were keeping their distance from him, idly having their fun without provoking the so-far passive store employee with his back to them.
“What do you think this does?” said one—from the reflection in the thief-watcher, the one with a dark jersey and close-cropped dark hair. He had a higher voice than the blond and was a bit taller, and, from what he could tell in the distorted reflection, not without cuteness.
“Nip-cocks,” the longer-haired blond read from the small package. He wasn’t that much shorter than his buddy, but his green European soccer jersey set him apart from his somber-clothed friend. “I guess it gives you cocks where your nipples should be.”
“Ew! Who’d want cocks on your chest?” the first one laughed. “I don’t even want nipples there.”
“You should try ’em, man. If you had three cocks you’d be sporting almost three whole inches!”
“Fuck you,” said the first, but he was still laughing.
Jess sighed and kept folding. These guys weren’t going to buy anything, but they were probably harmless.
They were now investigating the shirts and hoodies hanging on the side wall. “This one has four sleeves, dude!” the first one said. “That’s fucked up!”
“Shut up, Scott, he can hear you,” said the blond.
“Fuck him, think I care what some six-armed freak thinks?”
Jess smiled to himself. He used to get angry when the rare idiot would call him names for being multi-limbed (part of the Metaboi clothing transformation was acceptance by the rest of the world, he’d been told during training—but the acceptance effect only worked on 98 out of a hundred people). But that wore off pretty quickly. Now he just wished that Mick were working today. A tall, full-blown boytaur with oversized pecs and a double-headed front cock that topped out at his shoulders—now that would really freak this kid out. And Mick would love it.
“Fuck, Steve, look at this! This hoodie has four sleeves and two hoods!” the first one, Scott, was saying, the derision clear in his voice. “That’s so fucked up.”
“Ha ha, we should try putting it on together,” the blond said. Jess smiled to himself as he opened the next box of three-legged jeans (boot cut, this time). Blondie was clearly a little curious about his taller friend.
“Right,” snorted Scott. “I can barely stand you when you’re over there.”
“Fuck you,” said the blond amiably. “You just wish anyone else could stand you at all.”
His friend wasn’t listening. “You know, Halloween is coming—” Scott said, suddenly sotto voce, and then they were both quiet. Jess was alert now, expectant. He carefully kept his back to the teens—he wanted to make sure they thought they had an opportunity. One heartbeat… two…
The security system didn’t have an ear-splitting alarm (thank god). There was just a single, clear chime—tching!—and the lighting in the store suddenly went red. Jess heard the bolt of the front double-doors automatically snap into place.
The teens had been about to reach for the doors and were now turning to face him, staring at him, obviously afraid. A second chime sounded, a couple of tones deeper and just a bit ominous. Jess turned around. He smiled grimly at them.
“Guess what that means,” Jess said, moving slowly toward them. The teens looked like they wanted to back away but couldn’t—there was nowhere to go, their backs were nearly to the doors, and anyway they were rooted to the spot.
“The ‘freak’ is now in complete control of you.” He paused for effect, dropping his grim smile. “And I’m in a bad mood.”
The teens were gibbering in terror now. “Please, mister—” Steve, the blond, started to say feebly. He trailed off, quailing before Jess’s menacing glower. He was absently rubbing his abs under his shirt, probably a nervous habit.
Scott, the dark-haired one in the black West High jersey—who was pretty darn cute, though as it turned out not as cure as his bright-eyed friend—was trying to form words and failing. He was still clutching the charcoal hoodie he’d been trying to lift. Following Jess’s gaze he quickly dropped it as if it were on fire, and it flumfed to the carpet next to him.
Jess glared at them for a long moment, building tension. He was thinking clearly, even though, if anything, the adrenaline rush was making his headache twice as bad. Then, eyeing them both carefully, he said, “Strip!”
Fuck, we’re gonna get raped by the six-arm freak passed visibly across Scott’s stricken face. But he instantly started hauling off his dark jersey, and his blond buddy quickly followed suit. A second later they were naked to the waist—both tightly built but not muscular, just well-proportioned young men who’d not caught the gymrat bug—and kicking off their sneaks. Scott fumbled at the buttons on his jeans with nervous hands, but Steve was wearing long elastic-waist soccer shorts to go with his team jersey, and they were already at his feet. He kicked them away. They were both standing in front of him in their briefs and socks, and in record time.
Jess glanced at the briefs and then met their eyes. Reluctantly they both pulled off their tube socks, and then, even more reluctantly, shucked their briefs. They were naked. And clearly avoiding looking at each other.
Jess nodded at the hoodie crumpled on the floor. “Put it on.” As Scott bent to pick it up, still staring at Jess as he did so, Jess added, “Both of you.”
The teens exchanged glances. Scott was now clutching the wadded up hoodie in front of his nakedness. Jess turned and, half-listening with a certain amusement to the grunts and whispered exchanges about logistics behind him, went back the short distance to the table he’d been working at and snatched up a pair of the jeans he’d been folding with two right hands. He returned to a strange tableau: the two teens had struggled into their hoodie and were starting to realize that from the waist up they were already sharing a single two-headed, four-armed torso, subtly augmented with just enough muscle to fill the upper sleeves of their arms and make the drape over their pecs obvious despite the darkness of the hoodie’s thick fabric. Their eyes were as big as saucers, aghast, alarmed, and—Jess could tell—extremely intrigued.
“We—” Steve, now (from their perspective) the left-hand head, started to say, and Scott was trying to speak too, but at a renewed glare from Jess they fell silent. Jess considered them for a moment. He knew this would be he right first move. He’d been absolutely right about them. Two guys couldn’t merge so completely like that unless they wanted to, even when the store was in Security Command Mode. Their cute faces looked so right on the same broad shoulders, side by side, both being washed by successive waves of complex sensations and emotions.
That was the main thing Jess remembered from Security Command Mode. It was a two-step process for shoplifters. Step one: Something they don’t know they want. Step two—well, that would be even more fun.
Jess glanced at their still-separate lower halves. He’d been guessing to himself which one would get in back—one behind the other was the only way for two guys to put on one of those hoodies—and was gratified to see he’d guessed right: the front legs were a shade darker and dusted with black-brown hair, while the legs in back were fairer, mostly hairless, and a little more developed.
Time to finish step one. He tossed the jeans at them. “This too,” he said, nodding toward a padded, backless bench near the register. They caught the jeans easily with their front hands (even in this red light Jess noticed that these had just a bit of dark hair on the backs of the hands—their rear hands did not) and, looking down at their legs to watch their feet, carefully walked step by step over to the bench and sat down. Tentatively, holding the jeans open before them with all their hands gripping the waist, they lifted their four naked legs and slowly pushed all four feet into the pants. A second later, three slightly larger feet emerged from the cuffs of the jeans.
They got cautiously to their three new feet, seeming to realize as they did so that they were rising to a full height that was a bit more than they were used to, and—still with all four hands—slid the jeans up the rest of the way. As they zipped the flies (not easy considering the size of their new equipment) and buttoned the waist-buttons they turned to face Jess, who nodded approvingly.
Scott/Steve was now a tall, nicely muscled young hunk with a narrow waist, generous pecs, broad shoulders, four arms, and three long soccer-ready legs—and two different but cute heads, Steve and Scott, which now were taking a moment looking down at their shared new metabod. Their big bare feet wriggled experimentally, their right one a bit hairy, the middle one (also a right foot) not so much, and the left one not at all. Jess realized that his hangover had cleared enough for his own ample cock to stir from its slumber in his comfy boxer-briefs.
Now for step two. Step one, his boss had said, was something they didn’t know they wanted. Step two (and here the boss had laughed wryly): something they really didn’t know they wanted.
Jess knew just the thing. He turned and headed for the corner of the store the teens had first been wandering through and came back with a couple of small boxes. He tossed them to Scott/Steve, who again caught them easily. They looked down at the boxes (it was easily to read what they were even in the red light of Command Mode) and then quickly looked back up at him in shock. “Do it,” Jess said, trying to sound angry—though in fact he was quite curious and increasingly aroused.
Quickly they pulled the heavy silver-cable neckchains out of the boxes and dropped them down over their heads, lifting up the collars of their hoodie to let the chains drop inside against their naked torso. They looked down at their chest expectantly.
“They won’t show unless you’re really aroused,” Jess explained. “But then they’ll be irresistible to whoever you desire.” A devious thought struck him, and he favored them with a crooked smile. “They must be broken in by twins,” he lied. “You guys go to West High, right? Did you know Mike and Mark Sullivan?”
Their eyebrows went up, and Steve nodded. “They graduated last year,” he said hesitantly. “I, uh, kinda had a crush on them.”
Scott glanced quickly at his body-mate, then took a deep breath—weird to watch their shared chest rising from just one head breathing in. “They are pretty hot,” he admitted.
Now Steve glanced at Scott. “I’ve never heard you talk like that, dude,” he said. Scott looked away, not sure what to say.
Jess resumed his stern voice. “These changes are now permanent,” he said, and the two looked up at him in surprise. “You can keep these clothes, but you’ll find that all of your regular clothes have transformed to fit your new shape.” He picked up Scott’s West High jersey from the floor and handed it to them as proof—the teens gasped in amazement to see that it now had four sleeves and two head holes.
The jersey, however, prompted a new worry. “But—but what about school?” Steve said, looking back up at Jess in sudden alarm.
“School will be taken care of by my boss,” Jess said. He dug in his memory—he’d only heard of customers deliberately merging using the multihead clothes a few times. “From what I understand, you’ll take classes and get graded together. You both can control all your hands and everything, so at test time whichever of you knows the answer can write—”
“Wait—what about our parents?” Scott broke in. “Yeah—where will we live?” Steve added. Jess noticed with a bit of amusement that their left hands were absently rubbing their hard eight-pack abs under the hoodie.
Jess smiled. “Your families will have to figure that one out,” he said. “Which means you’ll have to tell them how you got this way—and why.” They both hung their heads simultaneously, which struck Jess as adorable. He shook his head, bemused at himself. His hangover now seemed to be completely gone, and his cock was definitely waking up.
“Come back in a month and, if you promise never to try to steal again, I’ll reverse it all,” he said with a magnanimity that surprised him—Security Command Mode allowed him a lot of leeway to make the changes permanent, temporary, contingent, or reversible, and until this moment he’d fully expected himself to leave the transformations in place forever. He still wasn’t sure why he was relenting.
“But,” he went on, still trying to sound threatening, “you have to live with this until then.” He moved to the register computer and tapped a few keys, and the lighting reverted to normal with a quiet, clear one-note tone. The bolt on the front doors clacked open. “Now grab your stuff and get out.”
Quickly Scott/Steve gathered up their belongings and fled, still barefoot. Jess never saw them again, though he heard from Mick that they’d come back a few days afterward, shyly apologizing, and looking for presents for their sexy identical twin boyfriends.
Two Saturdays later Jess was about to close up when the bell attached to the front doors clattered. He looked up to see Ricky standing sheepishly near the front of the store, his body language all but shouting his regret.
Jess tried to keep his face blank, though the sight of his supremely sexy and unnaturally well put together ex-boyfriend seemed to suddenly flood his mind and body with passionate love and his cock with profound arousal.
“Hey,” Ricky said.
Ricky kept his gaze locked with Jess’s. “Jessie, I—” his face contorted with distress that threatened to break Jess’s heart. His wildly surging emotions crystallized into conviction, and in one move he leapt feet-first over the counter and ate the distance between them, catching Ricky up in his six strong arms.
“I love you,” Ricky breathed into his ear. “I’ll never walk away from that again, ever.”
“I love you too,” Jess said, setting his lover down with a huge smile. They fell into a deep kiss, a new first kiss, and then Jess pulled back to say, “And just to make sure you don’t—”
“I won’t!” Ricky said earnestly.
“I know. But—well, there was an attempted shoplifting a couple weeks ago, and for handling it so well I got a bonus: one transformation, completely permanent.”
Ricky’s eyes danced, now very curious. “So what’d you pick? The arms?”
“Nope,” Jess said smugly. “I picked something that will help me keep an eye on that gorgeous body of yours.”
Ricky sensed someone coming up behind him and joining them, adding six more muscular arms to their embrace. “Forever,” breathed the other Jess in his ear, and Ricky, overwhelmed with infinite love and intense arousal, laughed in pure and simple joy.
“You sure you’re good to lock up and everything?” Mick asked again with an easy smile, hovering by the store’s big double glass doors, his middle right hand was poised motionless over the handle. He had been gabbling nonstop all afternoon about the big end-of-summer beach bonfire bash he was heading to with “his Luke” and a few dozen of the shop’s best customers, but he had paused at the door, waiting expectantly for this one last reassurance, like he was fully prepared to scrap all his big plans for a night of wild metaboi partying if Xander said the word.
Xander managed a huff that he hoped sounded casual and derisive. “For someone with a huge double-headed cock two inches from his mouth, you sure find things to stress out over,” he said, and Mick’s smile turned into a big grin, sending a secret shuddering wave of desire tearing through Xander’s tall, tight bod, from his shoulder-length dirty blond hair to his size-14 sneakers.
Xander swallowed. He was pretty sure that he sounded sufficiently blasé, and that the urgent and increasingly desperate need that had been taking firmer and firmer hold of him over the last eight hours—to close the carefully maintained distance between them and rip every stitch of clothing off this gorgeous, unbearably hunky six-armed jocktaur—was safely bottled up, out of sight and under control. Sure, his own extra-large boner was hard to miss in his worn, snug Levis, but he knew Mick was used to having that effect on guys, not that Xander hadn’t been feeling almost unnaturally horny since he’d first laid eyes on Mick, hardly a week before.
Xander had stopped off at the sprawling but low-key beachfront grocery after a grueling run, knowing he had to pick up pasta for himself and a bag of dog food for his scruffy malamute pup Jake. Standing there in line, clutching a basket filled with food for man and beast and feeling proud of himself for having pushed himself, he noticed the skinny but cute checkout guy idly checking out what his sweat-soaked white tee was inadvertently showing off as he rang up the guy in front of Xander, and was letting himself feel good about that when a phone went off behind him with a ringtone sampled from one of his favorite groups, the self-described “post-hipster” band Unheard—the very band he was listening to on his old clip-on iPod nano. Xander turned and, despite all his training ingrained over his entire postpubescent life, he literally could not help but stare.
Standing behind him was a vision, a man so palpably erotic that not only did his heavy cock slam into perfect hardness in his running shorts but he felt instantly close. He stood there drinking in the apparition standing there in line with his own basket of banal necessities clutched easily in the middle right hand. He took in the relaxed stance as he waited patiently, laughing quietly into a phone held with another right hand, a loose jersey with the sleeves ripped off tossed over his generously muscled six-armed torso, bicep muscles bunching as he held the phone to his ear. Xander’s eyes drifted downward and he could not suppress a gasp at the shape of what was obviously a massive soft cock hanging down his sweats, kissing the knee of his front right leg.
The gasp had drawn the jocktaur’s attention. Their eyes met and Xander sucked in a harsh breath. The boy held his gaze with a warm smile and a shrewd expression. “Hey Jess,” the jocktaur said into the phone, still smiling, and Xander guessed he’d raised his voice just a little to let Xander hear, “didn’t you say we had an opening at the store? Yeah, I think I just tripped over a member of our target audience.” As he said the word “member” he’d coyly flicked his eyes to Xander’s huge and obvious boner, and then snapped them back to Xander’s, and Xander, for what he was pretty sure was the first time in his life, felt himself blush.
He blushed harder when the jocktaur cocked his head toward the cashier and he realized skinny checkout dude was waiting on him. Xander turned hastily and faced the checker, and started clumsily tumbling stuff out of his basked onto the conveyor belt.
“Jeez, dude,” the checkout guy said in a low conversational tone as he scanned his six boxes of tortellini and matching jars of marinara, “I know he’s bonerific, but not any more than you are!” In fact, much to Xander’s amazement, the thatch-haired youth was still keeping his eyes on the hard abs and bulging pecs Xander’s wet shirt were plastered to as much as he could, dropping his gaze only to put his freckled hand on the next item on the belt. He’d snuck his other hand down below, just out of sight, and given himself a quick adjustment before the hand reappeared. Xander gaped at him, his expression unseen by the appreciative checker. How could anyone look at him when—? He himself looked back over his shoulder to stare at the gorgeous multi-everything muscle boy behind him, as if to show the checker more appropriate behavior; and the object of his gaze, still conversing into his phone but watching Xander shrewdly, tossed him a grin and a wink that went straight to Xander’s cock.
Xander walked slowly across the parking lot, making for the shore drive (he lived a couple blocks down and a block inland), but when he got to the bench on the greensward by the drive he sat down instead, dropping his grocery back to the grass by his feet, and looked out over the wide, busy beach. His eye caught a bunch of hunks playing volleyball almost directly in front of him, clad in tee-shirts, shorts and sandals, and he started and leaned forward, his still-hard cock flexing urgently, as he realized that at least two of them had four bronzed, muscley arms, and one of the others had three thick, toned runner’s legs, as sexy and beautiful as his own, descending from russet-red three-legged shorts. His right hand started slowly stroking his own thigh without him really realizing. Beyond the volleyball game he spotted four guys emerging from the surf—no, wait, it wasn’t four guys, because there were four heads but only three shirtless, well-built torsos. The guy in the middle had two heads. As he watched, fascinated, they walked up out of the water, the two-headed guy—guys?—draping their arms, two on each side, around their friends, who looked almost exactly like each other. The one on the left drew the twin on his side into an eager and passionate hot kiss, and the other one quickly followed suit.
Suddenly, as he sat there on the bench, Xander’s thoughts jumped backward to something he wasn’t sure he’d seen a few weeks before. It had been just a glimpse, a guy in the showers at the gym across town, as he’d hurried out to catch the last crosstown bus. An extremely tall teenager, standing naked and alone in the shower, except not quite alone as he was being soaped town by a more normal-bodied friend who facially was pretty similar—a brother, maybe? Remembering again the image that he’d tried not to think about as rode the bus home he now realized the guy was so tall partly because he had two big sets of pecs, one set stacked on top of the other, with each row sporting its own set of six arms, but mostly because of the endless length of abs underneath them. As he stood under the coursing water, half covered in suds, Xander had also glimpsed what had obviously been obviously multiple huge soft cocks, some of them looking like the ministrations they were getting as the tall teen got carefully scrubbed down would ensure they would soon be as hard as the brother’s massive boner.
“For most people it doesn’t really register that we’re, you know, meta,” said a soft voice nearby, and Xander resurfaced from his thoughts to squint up at the gorgeous jocktaur from the store, silhouetted against the sun behind him. “Just that we’re fucking hot,” he added coyly.
Xander cleared his throat. “So what does that make me?” he said, acutely aware of the throbbing of his cock against his hip.
“One of us,” the other man said knowingly. Suddenly he smiled again and thrust out a big, tanned right hand—the frontmost one, Xander thought, loving the very idea. Xander took it and had to fight to keep from spontaneously cumming just at the simple contact of warm strong hand against warm strong hand. “I’m Mick,” the boy who’d called himself “meta” said.
Xander said his name, unsure he was capable of conversation any more involved than that at that moment.
“Xander,” Mick repeated with a smile. He didn’t let go of Xander’s hand. “Xander, do you need a job? I just got promoted to supervisor at Metaboi,” he went on with boyish pride evident in his voice, “and I need someone to, er—”
“Work under you?” Xander finished, surprised at his own drollery. Mick laughed, and Xander liked that it was an ordinary guy’s laugh.
“Yeah,” Mick said, still sounding amused. He let go of Xander’s hand. “Interested?”
Xander did not, in fact, need a job. His ample trust fund provided for all his simple needs. But then and there he could not have said no to almost anything Mick had suggested. “Absolutely,” he said.
And so here Xander was, working at Metaboi, the object of new obsession suddenly his boss and so out of reach (at least for the moment). Xander also knew that even if it weren’t bad form to jump your new boss on your first day on the job, no matter how magnetically, intoxicatingly hot he was, no matter how much his many big, strong hands mesmerized him, it was definitely bad form to jump a guy who, as Xander had learned in long conversation during their mostly uneventful shift, had an even hotter boyfriend at home, however complicated it was. (He still wasn’t quite sure he’d gotten it. “This guy Luke is a twin?” he’d said, a little confused by the hints Mick had dropped. “Not exactly,” said Mick with a crooked smile.)
So he hung back, hands in his back pockets, and waited for the long afternoon of agony/ecstasy that had been his first shift with Mick to come to an end, so he could close up and then go home and … what, fantasize about Mick? Flog his thick meat imagining he was fucking Mick? How lame, he thought. His boner ached, flexing insistently, demanding Mick’s hard muscular ass. It was all Xander could do not to grab himself hard through his own jeans. His hands pushed a little further in his back pockets instead.
“Okay then,” Mick said. He tossed one last grin at Xander and went out the glass door, already pulling his phone out of a front jeans pocket as he strode across the small parking lot toward the drive and the beach beyond. As Mick moved through the pools cast by the various security floodlamps Xander watched Mick’s ass and legs and sandaled feet and the thick, beautiful arms swinging and rubbing together with such longing that the vision of himself fucking that ass, pushing his generous cock deep into Mick’s amazing muscle butt, overwhelmed him and he realized he was cumming, hard, right there of the shop floor in full view of anyone that happened to walk by.
He turned away from the glass door in a panic, still cumming, his heard pounding. “Shiiiit!!” he shouted. He looked down at the huge dark wet spot in consternation. He was still soaking his jeans with cum, his immense orgasm only just now starting to subside. He had to do something! No one could see him like this! His face felt hot and he realized he was blushing furiously again, anticipating his prospective humiliation.
Quickly he started heading for the desk, where the keys were. But he stopped partway there. He’d wanted to close up and run home. To escape. But the store was supposed to be open another two hours. He couldn’t run out, especially on his first day, not even at the cost of mortification.
He stared down at his soaked jeans, the outline of his big, still mostly hard cock visible against the clinging wet denim. The tail of the oversized Unheard concert tee that he’d worn to work in honor of his first meeting with Mick was sopping with cum as well. He sighed, looking up at the store around him.
The idea of changing into Metaboi clothes struck him as ironic, because he’d already been apprised that until he’d been working there for six weeks the clothes wouldn’t work on him unless he actually bought them for himself—an old rule Mick had said was put in place after a couple of early employees loaded up on clothes and then split (though Mick had also hinted that they had later been found and were … not quite the same afterwards). So, Xander thought, the good news was he could put on anything in the store and wear it the rest of his shift without any effect on him. That was also the bad news, he added to himself with a sigh.
A car honked out on the road and suddenly Xander felt the urgency of his predicament. Someone could come in any moment! He imagined some customer pointing and laughing, word getting back to Mick—shit. He had to get changed and look presentable immediately. He found the nearest table of jeans and, rifling through them rapidly, grabbed a pair in his size. He looked quickly back at the door, keeping himself facing away from it, but there was no sign of anyone. He snatched a pair of boxer-briefs from the next table and hurried around to the part of the L-shaped store that was out of sight of the front door, already shucking his shirt as he did so.
As soon as he was out of sight he kicked off his battered old untied sneaks and, dropping his tee, started pulling off his wet jeans and wet briefs, but no sooner was he stark naked and shivering under the blasting A/C than he heard the jangle of the front door.
Xander froze, his heart slamming in his chest. Then: “Hello?” came a male voice, sounding curious and a little excited, like Aladdin peering into the cave of wonders.
Xander remembered himself with an effort. “Just a moment, sir!” he called. How did he tell a customer to stay put and not wander back to where he was naked and half-crouching behind a rack of two-headed rugby shirts? “I’ll—I’ll be out front in just a second, sir!”
“No problem,” came the voice. Was it nearer? “I just need something for the bonfire,” the voice went on conversationally, “but it’s not starting for a while.”
Hastily Xander hauled on the gray boxer briefs he’d grabbed, but as the elastic slapped against his tight waist he realized something felt very weird. He glanced down, stunned. The crotch was packed, and way more than his equipment would have normally accounted for even half-hard. He pulled the waistband away from his hard, flat belly and goggled. There were three of his own thick, generous cock in there. Actually they looked even bigger then usual, but it was hard to tell because they were expending before his eyes. As he stared at them they were started to thicken and shove against each other, trying to grow big and hard and tall, and the rubbing of three cocks trying to get hard felt so amazingly good that Xander stood there insensible to anything else for a moment, eyes glazed, his fuses completely blown.
“Do you guys have anything on sale?” came the voice, this time from not very far away at all. Probably browsing the golf shirts just around the corner. Xander almost squeaked in dismay.
“Th-the fall jackets,” he stammered. He prised his eyes away from the three slabs of wide, hard monster boner now standing straight and tall out of his briefs, straining against each other, two in back hard against each other and one in front shoving against them like it was trying to push past immovable bouncers to get into a bar, already pearling at the tips with precum. He released the waistband gently against them and, his mind blurred and unfocused, leaned his ass against a nearby table to yank on the jeans. As he pulled them up he noticed they were three-legged jeans, but any expectation that they’d have no effect and that he’d be walking around looking silly with an extra pants leg vanished as he pushed first two stocking feet out the legs of the jeans, then a third, then a fourth.
“Great,” said the voice. “Where are they?”
Without being able to think at all Xander stood up to pull his jeans over his ass and fasten them. He looked down at himself. Wriggling nervously on the carpet below him were four white-stockinged feet, at the ends of four nice, well-formed legs. Not two in front and two in back, like Mick’s jocktaur body, but side by side—they way, he realized, they were supposed to be with three-legged jeans like this.
Despite having four legs side by side, and—he felt with his hands to make sure—four asses, his waist wasn’t twice as wide. In fact it was exactly the same, a tight 32 inches. Xander’s offhand comment during their tour of the inventory, that some of the clothes compressed physical space somehow for exactly this sort of reason, came back to him. Inanely he was glad his flat, hard belly was still the 32 incher he was so proud of maintaining, though it looked a little different with all these boners pushing up out of his jeans—three throbbing clusters of three, barely separated from each other. He stared at them in simple wonder, the sensations crowding his mind. Three crotches. Three huge, hard boners each. All throbbing and shoving against each other and drooling in tight-packed crowds of cock against his abs.
Suddenly he was not alone. Flustered, it came to him that he’d answered the customer’s query before without even really being aware of it. The jackets. He had answered him. The jackets were back here.
An extremely handsome, very muscular Hawaiian-looking guy in a thin black and red Cowboy Bebop shirt and extremely worn jeans had moved into view and was standing as few feet away, stock still. He was staring not at the light fall jackets on the wall behind Xander but at Xander himself, mouth a little open.
“Welcome to Metaboi,” Xander said lamely. He could feel his blush coursing not just through his face but flashing down his bare torso. He half expected the dripping precum of his nine writhing monster boners—nine!!—to sizzle against his inflamed skin.
“Thanks,” the customer said, running a hand through his close-cropped black hair self-consciously. “I, er, wasn’t expecting quite this kind of in-store demonstration—”
At some level Xander realized it was kind of ironic—he was mortified after all. He’d been caught out by a customer after all, and, fuck! Did it have to be by someone so hot? Quickly, his eyes on the customer’s impressive chest, distracted by the surreality of the such bonerific muscle packed into an anime tee shirt, Xander snatched a navy and white, short-sleeved rugby shirt off the XL end of the nearest rack and hauled it on. He reached to finish pulling it down with … six hands …
He dropped his eyes to peer at them, confused. After a beat he then slowly dropped four of the hands away and concentrated on using just the two in front, pulling the thick, snuggly shirt the rest of the way down over his beltline. He let the arms fall back in a kind of reverie. The rub of his heavily muscled upper arms against each other was almost as intoxicating as his slick super-hard cocks thrusting against each other, and he lost track of the fact that a customer was watching him until he heard a whispered, “Wow.”
He looked up at the hunky customer and realized there was something very strange about his peripheral vision. Or rather, as he turned to look, something strange in his peripheral vision. He was looking into his own bright blue eyes. Another head. Impossible. To try to gain some tactile evidence he shifted his head to try to brush his blond-stubbled jaw against the identical jaw of the other head, and realized he was moving that jaw too. Both heads were his, his own. As the jaws touched he felt both of them. He shifted his consciousness to the right-hand head before he realized he was doing it, and glanced back over to his left—at two other heads.
“Wooowww,” the customer whispered again, almost to himself. “That is fucking hot.”
Xander glanced over at the guy with his right head and smiled wanly even as he used his other two heads to look for the tag on these rugby shirts. He saw it with his left head and grabbed it with a random left hand. He bent all his eyes over it. He saw that the rugby shirt was a from the Indulge line, which really just meant it wasn’t a Durations: the transformation worked only while you wore it. But what grabbed his attention was the transformation: it was supposed to give you two heads and four arms. He looked up from the tag, again with all his eyes, and actually counted the sleeves and head holes of the shirts that were hanging there. Four, and two.
Xander swallowed. The shirt was supposed to add one head; but on him it had added two. It was supposed to give him two more arms—
Suddenly he realized the customer was right there, inches away. He was just a bit shorter than Xander, and even cuter up close. His dark eyes were dancing from one head to another. Xander felt an intense urge to pull him into his many arms and make out with him. And, other things. His cocks felt massive and hungry for ass.
“I’m Kai,” said the man whose implausibly cute face was so close to Xander’s.
Xander couldn’t speak. He felt ridiculous somehow. He smiled, three friendly smiles.
The warmth of Xander’s smiles seemed to encourage his customer. He took in a huge breath. “I—fuck, man, I’m so turned on,” Kai said, almost apologetically. “This is so much a fantasy of—would you—? Could you—?”
“I’m not supposed—” he started to say, but he realized he was saying it from all three mouths, his voice sounding a little more rumbly and basso as a result. Kai moaned. “With a customer,” he went on, this time deliberately with all three voices.
The Hawaiian muscle-hunk moved even closer, and Xander noticed that the guy’s shirt-straining pecs were so big, out of proportion even to all his other huge, hard-won muscles, that they were brushing against his own pecs even though there was otherwise still a few inches separating them. It was only now that Xander realized he himself now had three massive pecs under his widened shoulders. Unable to help it he flexed, and Kai flexed back, their muscles brushing through the tight fabric of his own top and Kai’s thin Cowboy Bebop tee.
Below them Xander became aware of a warm wetness and realized that the steady flow of precum from his battalion of huge cocks thrusting hard against his abs and each other had already wet through the bottom of the confounded, trouble-making rugby shirt.
Kai was smiling thoughtfully at him, more confident by the minute as he drank in Xander’s own intense arousal. “Do you mean to say,” Kai said now with mock disbelief, eyes bright, and shifted forward again just enough that their pecs were now pressing hard against each other, “that you can’t help out a customer even if it’s your fault he’s drowning in erotic desire?”
Xander shook his heads, feeling his long blond hair brushing across three necks. Xander wasn’t sure why he was behaving this way. He knew for a fact that Mick had had sex with customers—for one he’d bragged at length, so to speak, about what had happened with the endless abs guy after Xander had mentioned seeing him in the shower. And Luke had been a customer too, he realized.
But Xander said, as if deciding to bend the rules, “Maybe if it were as a result of trying something on,” he said, still with his three voices, watching avidly the instant pleasure-inducing effect on Kai. “Then we’d feel obligated to—resolve the situation.”
“What do you suggest?” Kai said instantly.
Xander glanced down with just his right head, keeping the rest of his eyes fixed on Kai’s. He was already so used to processing multiple input that it was all unconscious now. Of course the magic worked that way, he thought abstractedly, feeling kind of proud of his store. He concentrated on what to do with Kai, but the area of first interest was obvious. “You have amazing pecs,” he said, his triple voice deep and breathy, forcing another soft moan out of Kai.
“Thanks,” Kai said. He flexed his massive chest hard against Xander’s, but instead of flexing back Xander lifted one of his right hands and just gently brushed against the side of Kai’s thick pecs with his knuckles through the thin black shirt. Kai drew in a breath, eyes still jumping back and forth between the two heads that were looking at him.
Having just thought of him in connection with Mick, Xander’s mind’s eye drifted back to the glimpse he’d gotten of the boy with the endless abs. “How would you feel about stacking them?”
Kai’s face seemed to light up. “Show me.”
Xander started to move, but Kai was right in front of him, pressed against him hard enough that it seemed odd Kai’s hands were still at his side and not around Xander’s more-V-shaped-than-before back or cupping his four-pack bubble butt. He swallowed and gestured with his leftmost head. “They’re behind you,” he said.
“Oh, right,” Kai said, suddenly self-conscious, and backed up a couple steps. For the first time since he’d gotten them Xander was aware of his four big stocking feet down below. He’d never walked on four feet, he realized wryly, and a millisecond of fear flashed through him that he’d fall on his face in front of Kai. But he tossed the fear away and started walking, and his feet took turns as if they’d always been like this. Besides, he thought with a smile, maybe tripping and having Kai catch him wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
As he walked the narrow aisle, making for the stacked-pecs shirts near the corner where this part of the store opened up on the main floor area, Kai walked backward in front of him, watching him wraptly, the big smile of a man enjoying the manifestation of a fantasy making him even more cute than he was without it, and Xander smiled back playfully. Suddenly it soaked through his mind that Kai was looking at him the way he’d looked at Mick, and he liked that, not just because it was fun to be appreciated but because he and Mick had become fast friends, and maybe that would happen with Kai, too. With some amazement, as they arrived at the stacker shirts display, Kai coming to a stop once again only a few inches away from Xander and looking at him with shining eyes, Xander realized that his imagination had already moved past the night of lovemaking he yearned for with Kai to spending all day tomorrow in bed, stirring themselves only to make brunch and find his laptop to watch a buttload of old anime.
He roused himself from his dream and gestured again with his left head. “Here they are,” he said with his three voices.
“No,” Kai said, his eyes raking Xander’s taut torso, lingering on his three swollen pecs pushing out the rugby shirt, “I meant: show me.”
Their gazes held each other. Abruptly Xander grabbed the precum-soaked bottom of his shirt and hauled it off, a little regretful that his Indulge-line additions were about to go away.
He needn’t have worried.
“Fuck,” breathed Kai, obviously relishing taking in the magnificent sight of Xander’s beautiful bare torso, three close-together heavy pecs overhanging a chiseled eight-pack belly half-bidden by nine wide flexing boners shoving hard against his abs and each other. Xander gaped back at him, three mouths hanging open. How was he—??
Kai had wrested his eyes away from the vision of shirtless Xander only long enough to choose a thick, dark red tee off the stacker shirt table and hand it to him. “This would look good on you,” Kai said.
Mindlessly Xander accepted the shirt and started pulling it on, his brain still wrestling with what had just happened, or, rather, hadn’t happened. These clothes shouldn’t even work on him, but instead not only were they working, working so well that their effects were being doubled every time, and what was the deal with that?—but they were—what, were they permanent—?
Suddenly he realized what he was putting on, but it was already too late. As he finished pulling down the shirt he realized that between his three heads and his four legs and nine fat cocks were now three stacked rows of his thick heavy pecs, each row with six arms each!
He started panting. He thought he might pass out. But his eyes caught Kai’s, considerably below his now, and they were full of lust and admiration and—more somehow. He centered himself on Kai.
He started pulling off the shirt, eager now for what would happen next. “Your turn,” he said, with three huge grins.
“Hey Xander,” Mick called, as Jess drew his lover to him between both bods and started a beer-enabled grope session right there by the door. “We thought we’d come by and invite you to the afterparty at my—holy fuck!” he interrupted himself, catching sight of an amazing sight. In the center of the store a tall Polynesian dude with massive stacked pecs was making out with—“Xander?”
The hot new associate was shirtless, showing off three rows of thick triple pecs and long abs that were surely, to Mick’s experienced if beer-addled eye, a 12-pack despite being completely hidden by nine massive pillars of forearm-thick cock thrusting up out of his jeans and pushing hard against the lowest row of pecs. And those jeans were—twelve-legged?
He stared at the couple slack-jawed. All Mick, impaired as he was, could think as he stared at the apparition was: We don’t have anything that gives you 12 legs. Or, he added as his eyes drifted up Xander’s augmented frame, anything that gives you three heads, either.
“Fuck,” said Jess behind him, finally noticing the show going on in the middle of the store. “Who’s that?”
By way of answer Mick called out, more loudly now: “Xander!”
Xander and his one-headed friend started and looked over at them. They dropped their hands and stepped away from each other slightly, looking guilty.
Mick covered the distance between them, feeling his front and back cocks chubbing dramatically in his loose jeans. As he got closer he realized that Xander’s profusion of massive, hard pecs were all steadily drooling what looked like precum from their nipples. Mick licked his lips, watching it drip down from one pec to another to another before dripping to the floor, and then forced himself to look up at Xander’s face. Faces.
“What the hell?” he said, giving vent to his confusion. “I leave you to cover the shop for two hours, and you—? How did you even—?”
Xander blushed across all three cute faces and down his wild torso. “I dunno, Mick,” he said, speaking out of the rightmost head. “I just—I needed a change of clothes, and they weren’t supposed to work but somehow they worked, um, extra,” he finished lamely. “And then,” he started to go on, glancing at the stacked Hawaiian dude, who broke in, “It’s my fault. We got—carried away.” Xander already had a couple arms around his shoulder, as if this were already habitual for him.
A lightbulb went off in Mick’s mind. “You’re a doubler!” he said, amazed. “I thought—I didn’t think you guys really existed!”
Xander knit three sets of brows. “A doubler?”
Mick laughed. “Fuck yeah! Your bodies are so hungry for magic that they absorb two of every transformation and keep them no matter what! Fuck, you really are one of us. In spades!” He looked at Xander’s faces excitedly. “You must have put on a shirt that is supposed to add a second head, right?” he asked.
Xander nodded. “It was kind of an accident,” he said sheepishly.
“Wow,” Mick said. He sensed the two Jesses and Ricky behind him, gazing up at Xander in wonder. He giggled drunkenly. “I feel like I’ve discovered a unicorn or something!”
“What?!” Xander said.
“Dude, pick something more manly!” laughed the Hawaiian guy in the stacker shirt, and Mick looked up at him.
“This is Kai,” Xander explained.
The guy put out a hand. “Xander’s boyfriend,” he added, and Xander, looking down at him quickly, broke into three huge smiles.
“So how are we going to get this Adonis back to your place for the party?” Ricky said suddenly. “I think even normal dudes like me might notice how, um, extra’d up he is.”
“You’re not very ‘normal’ at the moment, mister two dicks,” Mick said over his shoulder, and Ricky snickered. Then Mick’s eyes met Jess’s.
“The inhibitor cuffs,” Jess said, and Mick immediately headed for a small display by the registers. He came back with a pair of leather wrist laced-up cuffs, which he handed to Xander.
He took them and stared at them. “What do they do?”
“They suppress any extras you have when you have acquired in the last week while you’re wearing them,” Mick said. “We have more expensive ones for other time frames and so on, but since this is all from tonight—”
“Which wrists should he put them on?” Kai wondered, looking up at all of Xander’s bulging, hard-muscled arms in deep appreciation, but Xander had already started tying one of the cuffs to the frontmost right hand of his upper tier of arms. As he cinched up the other one on the opposite wrist he was already rapidly shrinking arms, seeming to collapse together, pecs merging, legs drawing together, and then within the space of a heartbeat Xander was standing there, one head, two pecs, two arms. And one massive cock, thrusting up a good six inches out of his two-legged jeans. Xander frowned down at it, but Kai suddenly pulled him in for a kiss.
“Just so you know,” Kai said, between long deep kisses, his four arms wrapped around Xander’s still shirtless musclebod, “I like you this way too.”
Mick chose a dark green tee from a nearby table and tossed it to Xander, who reached out and caught it without thinking. Mick winked at Kai, who raised a curious eyebrow at him. “C’mon, ‘Trip’,” he said. “Put that on and let’s go.” The two Jesses and Ricky were already turning to go, but Mick nudged them to wait.
Sure enough, as soon as Xander had separated from Kai and pulled on the shirt, Mick laughed and clapped. Standing around Kai were three Xanders, all looking adorably perplexed.
“Whoa,” said Kai.
“Was that a body double tee?” Jess said, and his other bod added, “Indulge or Durations? Though with him I guess it doesn’t matter…”
Ricky was rolling his eyes. “Okay, now can we go?” he said with an amused snort. They all turned and headed for the door, Kai and the three Xanders trailing a little behind.
Mick glanced over his bulging shoulder at them and grinned. “Kai, you look like a boy who got a second Christmas,” he said delightedly.
“Fuck yeah!” Kai said, and the three Xanders grinned a little self-consciously, as if he still couldn’t quite get what Kai saw in him. But the four of them crowded together happily, their arms already all draped around each others’ shoulders.
“So wait,” Jess said as they all gathered outside a moment later while Mick locked the outer doors, slurring his words very, very slightly, “when he takes off the cuffs, does that mean there will be nine of him?”
Mick stopped what he was doing for a moment and frowned up at Jess. The other Jess stood behind him, and they were both looking confused. “What?” Mick said. “No!” He turned back to the keys in his hand. “No,” he repeated. “I’m pretty sure.” He shook his head, confused now himself, and concentrated on the locks.
As they headed away from the shop, the three Xanders, arms around Kai and each other, thought contentedly with one mind: “Best first day at work ever.”
Mick’s promotion to supervisor of all the Metaboi sales staff had already got him thinking that it was his job now to take care of his team. Then he learned that his new title came with company-owned digs as well: a stunning, three-story clifftop oceanfront house down in Laguna Beach, with a modern alabaster façade almost entirely given over to picture windows and wide glass-enclosed balconies. Bringing the guys he was most fond of in all the world here to share this spectacular space for a weekly all-hands (so to speak) Sunday brunch seemed like a no-brainer.
The first few gatherings over blueberry French toast and cinnamon-sugar scones were a great success, and Mick and his quiet but passion-inflamed lover Luke II found themselves agreeing to more regular get-togethers for the boys during the week: football parties with pizza and beer on Mondays, board game nights on Thursdays, dancing (complete with deejay) on Fridays in the soundproofed underground party room. It was too easy for everyone to come over, and too tempting for them to stay. When Mick had first invited everyone around for that inaugural brunch, they’d expressed the same trepidation he had about the distance, the commute, the awful L.A. traffic. Then he told them about the big door downstairs in the back by the juke box that somehow opened directly into the basement storeroom at Metaboi, and suddenly faces lightened and grins spread and now, slowly but surely, Mick’s awesome beach house was becoming a second home to his motley crew of fellow employees. And Mick was starting to wonder if having the guys around practically all the time was a good thing.
It wasn’t that he was getting tired of having his boys around, he thought as he stood before the bathroom mirror, using his middle right hand to languidly brush his teeth. As always when he stood in front of a mirror he was trying unsuccessfully not to stare at how awesome his towering, positively monolithic two-headed cock looked against the thick, tight, tanned muscles of his torso, as it stretched its wide, hard, quivering-with-arousal, and (thanks to the private balconies of his beach house) equally tanned expanse all the way to his thick, defined shoulders, topping out right in front of the hollow of his throat. He kind of loved how was hard these days pretty much 24/7.
And it wasn’t just about having a huge boner all the time. He was constantly turned on, wanting and needing to touch, to be touched, groped, kissed, fucked. His whole jocktaur bod was thrumming with hot, heavy arousal every second of every day, awake or asleep, and it all radiated from the burning need radiating from his enormous cocks—he shifted as a single thought directed its way made the two-foot-long, forearm-thick rear boner thrust and nose rudely between his front legs, smearing the sack containing his grapefruit-sized front balls with slimy prejizz. Mick moaned a little in the back of his mouth, barely able to keep himself from fucking his own legs while he sucked himself off, just like he did before his shower, and, for that matter, every chance he got every day—that is, when he and his still-slumbering Luke weren’t crazy-fucking like they were both organisms designed solely to generate the most ecstatic and sustained erotic pleasure possible in living beings.
Geez, he was so horny all the time. He semiconsciously let his rear cock start shifting back and forth very gently between his hard, well-muscled front legs as he thought this. And Mick knew that some of that had to with getting used to having a house filled with darn-close-to-unbearably hot metaboys.
His mouth still full of toothpaste foam, he took a deep breath through his nose to try to gain control of himself, though he knew he wasn’t entirely successful as his rear cock was sliding forward and backward between his now-generously-slicked legs almost of its own accord. He elected to ignore it, and, grabbing his front cock firmly with a couple of left hands, pulled it slightly to the side so he could spit into the extra-large vanity sink in front of him. His iron girder of a cock was always so rigidly hard lately that it didn’t shift more than a couple inches, but that was enough to let him bend over and spit. As he bent to do so. the fat heads of his cock slid along his neck in that responsive space where it met the bulge of his traps, leaving twin trails of slickness along the sensitive flesh, and another groan seeped through him.
He was thinking about how much his Luke loved it when Mick fucked that narrow, sensitive opening between his necks with his huge, blunt, double-headed cock. It always made Luke let loose a deep, rumbling moan in thrilling stereo that kicked Mick up into a state of arousal beyond imagining. Luke tended to keep his consciousness pretty much in his main body, which meant that Luke II wasn’t so much a boyfriend as a huge, bonerifically hot, two-headed, multilimbed and multicocked repository of raw, animal passion and constant sexual need.
Again with hardly any prompting Mick’s rear cock picked up its pace, and his already fully stiff front cock seemed somehow to stiffen even more.
Quickly, urgently, Mick spit just to free up his mouth, and it was with a wave of flushed, burning need that he shoved his cock back into position with all his hands now, jamming the too-big double head into his desperate mouth. The sharp, unaccustomed tingle of the toothpaste froth as he licked and mouthed and sucked his amazing organ spiked his arousal even as his rear cock pistoned frantically, now pushing six or eight inches past his legs, his tight front balls jostling as they rode the palm-wide shaft. In minutes he was cumming hard, mind-plowing pleasure roaring through his muscletaur bod as he shot six or seven gouts of hot seed down his own throat and even more from his forward-straining rear cock, pints and pints of glede-hot jizz shooting again and again from a seemingly inexhaustible supply.
He panted hard through his nose, mouth still wrapped around his cock as a fierce warmth rose through every square inch of his skin. Looking down he saw his rear cock still straining forward like a dog pulling on a leash. He’d managed to get most of the cum into the sink somehow, as usual, even though trying to control his uncontrollable double orgasm must have been the farthest thing from his conscious mind; but there were thick gobs and streams of his warm translucent spunk on the countertop, faucets, and even the mirror as well. It was better when he had someone’s mouth down there, he mused as he turned on the water to wash down the cum in the sink with one hand and reached for a towel to start leaning up the mess with another. Or someone’s ass, he added to himself. The thought threatened to rile him up again, so he released his cockheads from his mouth with a pop and made a concerted effort at concentrating on finishing his morning ablutions. Geez, three rounds of amazing sex with his Luke already today, plus getting himself off twice in the bathroom. He wondered wryly to himself how he got anything done at all.
After a stop in the bedroom to smile down at his dormant lover and step into an old, comfortable pair of snug four-legged cargo shorts, Mick padded down the softly carpeted stairs to the kitchen, glad he could already smell coffee. Someone was already up. Sure enough, the great ocean-facing floor-to-ceiling retractable glass doors already open and the primo sea-gazing spot on the expansive terrace occupied by a rangy, perfectly-assed form leaning well-defined folded arms against the chest-high, thick-timbered railing. As Mick entered the kitchen, Pete turned fully around and beamed shyly at him, the already bright morning sun infusing his short blond hair and seemingly infusing him with an Adonis-like glow, and Mick almost gasped at the man’s radiant beauty. Pete was wearing white board shorts and a brilliant smile, and Mick wondered, not for the first time, how distracting his colleagues were even to the people who couldn’t see their “metaboi-ifications”.
Mick happened to know from when, a few weeks ago, he hired him as a cute but somewhat bashful new clerk for Wednesday through Sunday afternoon shifts that Pete was definitely all of 27 years old; but he had been so sweet and so filled with bright-eyed energy that he’d kinda come across as just out of high school even when Mick had first interviewed him.
And then something weird had happened. Or rather, two weird things. During his first week Pete had started trying on the merchandise, as all employees did, delighting in their temporary effects while they gained insights into how to talk about them with customers. He’d particularly enjoyed the Plus-Pecs shirts, and late on his first night alone in the store he’d gone a little crazy and put on, like, ten of them, one over another, topping the whole thing off with the Teen Me sunglasses that were always good for a laugh. He’d giggled at his reflection in one of the store mirrors, getting hard (with both of his 9-inch cocks thanks to the Durations-label Multicock boxer-briefs he was wearing) at how awesome his enormous pecs looked under their layers of clothes, when he suddenly started to feel warm and flushed. Remembering having seen a mostly full bottle of flavored water under the counter—some oddly named brand that Pete had never heard of—he’d gone and grabbed it and chugged it down—and then he’d collapsed in a faint behind the register.
When he’d come to a few minutes later, a concerned (and aroused) fitness-model hot customer bending over him, Pete had felt a rush of raw energy unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. It also seemed to make him irresistible to the very cute model-hot customer, a stubbly cop-in-training named Dale if Mick remembered correctly. They’d started feverishly going at it right there behind the registers. It was only after they’d kissed goodbye and a naked, slightly awestruck Pete had languorously locked up behind him, still awash in afterglow, that he’d realized he still had his enormous, freaky pecs and his twin, straining cocks. Weirder still: looking in the break room mirror confirmed he didn’t look a day over 17.
He’d carefully dressed in the jeans he’d worn to work—the size-medium tee shirt he’d worn was out of the question—and gone home to his little studio apartment waiting nervously for it all to go back to normal, not sure what to hope for. But when he woke up the next morning, still double-dicked, freaky pec’ed, and looking like a teenage boy’s wet dream of a teenage boy, he started to suspect he was like this for good, and it didn’t take him long at all to be pretty damn okay with it.
So here he was in Mick’s kitchen, grinning at him like a young Adonis and yet at the same time just a bit adorbably geeky, and Mick’s cocks responded automatically to Pete’s uncanny beauty despite their recent workouts. Pete had taken to staying over after his late shifts at Mick’s suggestion—that little apartment was a long way from the store and nothing to write home about anyway—and lately he’d been staying over at Mick’s beach house the other nights too. Yesterday he’d even floated the idea of subletting that little apartment to his cousin, who was just moving to town to go to school. It was all but asking if he could just live here at Mick’s big beach house, and Mick had just shrugged. They were all here most of the time anyway, and the truth was he liked having a houseful of hot guys.
“Morning, Mick,” Pete said, moving off the wide boardwalk-style terrace to join Mick as he poured himself a mug of fresh coffee.
“Morning,” Mick replied with a smile. He took a sip, and no sooner had he lowered the mug from his lips than Pete stepped right into Mick’s personal space and stared right into his eyes, his boyish body signaling a persistent, unflagging need not unlike Mick’s. Pete bit his lower lip adorably, and Mick took in a breath.
Mick set the mug down on the counter. “You know you don’t have to ask permission,” he said with a quirk of his lips. He’d spread the word weeks ago that in his home, kisses were like hellos. Pete, never taking his eyes away from Mick’s, smiled broadly and closed the space between them. As their lips met, Mick was instantly overloaded with contrasting sensations: the sweet and gentle, even tentative pressing of Pete’s lips somehow intensified the pleasure of Pete shoving his huge pecs rudely against Mick’s own oversized chest, their hard muscles compressing as Pete and Mick moved into each other, wrapping hands and arms around warm, naked torsos. The most profound effect of the deepening embrace and increasingly intimate snog was that Mick’s huge, hard, throat-high monster cock was trapped between them, with nowhee to go but up and down in their joined pec-cleavage. And as Mick’s already permanently high level of arousal ramped higher, engulfing both of them, the enormous double-headed cock trapped in their muscle cleavage began to spew precum, fully lubricating what was now a perfectly positioned fuck passage for Mick’s insatiable cock.
Mick and Pete both moaned into each other’s mouths, both enjoying the other’s rough morning stubble. Mick pressed harder into the kiss, enjoying the eagerness of Pete’s tongue (which matched his own). He slid his two middle hands along the boy’s hips and into the white board shorts and shoved them roughly down, feeling them pool over their bare feet. Mick then wrapped those hands around Pete’s steel-hard uncut 9-inchers, massaging Pete into a new and maddening level of arousal, if the frenetic abandon of his kissing and groping was anything to go by. He used his back hands to drop his own shorts, letting his already slick rear cock once again start to push rhythmically between his front legs. It would delight in doing that 24/7 if he let it, Mick knew, and he was usually quite tempted to let it.
Meanwhile Mick’s huge front cock was even more thrilled to fuck his and Pete’s hard but yielding, precum-slicked chest cleavage like it was cherry ass, the fact of its being almost too big for the tight space only making the sensations that much more intense. Mick found himself aflame with a yearning for orgasm more in line with someone who’d had to hold off jacking himself for a month, rather than someone who’d spent the morning blowing wad after wad. Doing this as part of breakfast, though, with the aroma of coffee and fresh sea air wafting gently about them, somehow made it seem to Mick like he was starting the day with a clean slate and a fully charged libido, and Pete’s eager gropes and licks and thrusts told him his partner felt the same way. Mick breathed in deep through his nose, taking in the boy’s heady scent—half clean soap and half musky sweat—and felt an electric shudder run through him.
Suddenly Pete broke the kiss and let his head fall forward a little into the crook of Mick’s neck. Mick felt his warm, slightly damp cheek against his own heated skin as Pete panted into his neck, “Mick—I’m gonna—!”
“Yeah, do it,” huffed Mick. He quickened the thrusting of both his cocks and increased the pace of his jerking of Pete’s cocks to match. Pete grunted and panted hard, licking the salt from Mick’s bulging traps as he did so, then suddenly Pete threw back his head and keened in ecstasy, his bucking cocks painting double trails of warm jizz over Mick’s perfect ten-pack and his monster cock and apple-sized balls with long, audible splats punctuating Pete’s load moans. The stimulation broke Mick’s last layer of resistance and he exploded with both his incredible, straining erections, showering their chins and faces (and Pete’s hairy legs) with multiple geysers of hot cum so powerful that they both started laughing even through what turned into, somehow, Mick’s biggest, most extended orgasm of the day.
They were still chuckling as they fell against each other, flushed, hot, and sated, though their kissing (mixed with licking cum off each other’s cheeks with their long, wet tongues) as interrupted after a moment by enthusiastic applause.
They looked up in surprise to see everyone else who’d stayed over the night before gathered at the entrance to the kitchen. The all-shirtless crowd included the two Jesses, grinning, and his boyfriend Rick, with a sardonic smile; the three change-suppressed Xanders, all delighted, and his boyfriend, Kai, looking amazed; his towering, double-headed Luke II, who tended to say little with only a portion of Luke's consciousness in him, but who liked to watch Mick with blazing eyes; and the endless-abbed, multi-armed and quadruple-pec’ed Frank and his exuberant kid brother, Joey, who’d both been spending a lot of time hanging out with the guys lately (and, like the rest of them, using the very well equipped basement gym).
Thanks to all the abs a guy could want and then some plus two rows of pecs, Frank was even taller than Luke and whose head was actually bent against the smooth white surface of the kitchen’s high ceiling. He must have realized he had the best vantage point in the group for the show Pete and Mick had been putting on, because, as Mick now saw with a wash of chagrin, he was recording them on his iPhone, his lips quirking in a wry grin.
Mick glanced at Pete and saw that he was actually blushing, though he was obviously delighted by the attention. Instead of letting him go Mick wrapped all six arms around him and leaned in for a long, friendly kiss, earning them playful hoots and encouraging cheers from the peanut gallery. Once they broke again Pete and Mick both turned toward their audience with big grins, though Mick quickly shifted to feigned annoyance. “All right, very funny,” he said, eyebrow cocked. He pretended to glare at them all. “Are you going to just stand there, or is someone going to toss us a towel?”
The guys smirked at him, but Joey turned instantly and grabbed a huge, tawny towel from the adjacent bathroom and pitched it to them. Mick started attentively wiping cum off Pete’s face and hard muscles, kissing each cleaned area as he wet. That was making Pete blush again. He was pretty bold, Mick thought, when it was one-on-one, but he still wasn’t used to the effect he had on multiple guys at a time.
“That was so hot,” Frank avowed, to a general murmur of assent.
“Dude, forward me that video, will you?” Rick said, clearly trying to hide the extent of his arousal despite being all but wrapped up in his double-bodied lover’s many arms, his own fat dual boners stretching obviously above the waistband of his cutoffs. His request was followed by “me too”s from everyone else—including Pete, though speaking up made his cheeks even redder.
“Definitely,” Frank promised.
“Fuck,” Joey muttered, openly grabbing at his own boner through the long, red canvas swim trunks he tended to wear when he was staying over at Mick’s with one hand, while the other, wrapped around his brother’s trim waist, continued its seldom-interrupted fondling of Frank’s long, rock-hard abs. “You guys should totally sell that video online. You’d totally make, like, a billion dollars.”
Rick snorted. “Is ‘metaboi dot xxx’ taken?” he said.
“Forget it,” Mick said. By this point, he was already done cleaning up Pete from his still-damp hair to cum-covered thighs and globbed up shins and ankles. Once he was spic and span Pete pulled up his shorts and was now following suit with Mick, mopping up all the cum that had coated the handsome jocktaur, though for his part Pete had elected to start with the rearmost of Mick’s enormous permaboners, and was using his tongue as much as the towel. Mick found it more than a little distracting. He reached unsteadily for his mug of coffee, relieved to find it was still warm as he took a long swig.
“No, you should totally do it,” Joey persisted excitedly. “You could shoot it here!” He gestured around them at the beach house. “—And you’d seriously make a fucking killing! You guys are the hottest dudes on the entire planet!” Mick noted that Joey was gazing awestruck up at his own amazingly-abbed (and generously multicocked, Mick knew) gorgeous older brother as he said this last.
Frank, in turn, raised his eyebrows to Mick and shrugged his wide, almost ceiling-adjacent shoulders. “Sounds like it would work,” he said.
“My cousin’s a top-drawer web designer,” Jess put in unexpectedly. “He’s done porn sites before.”
Mick suddenly felt like the conversation was slipping out of control. Were they all crazy? Or had his new responsibilities made him less open to wacky ideas than he had before. He had been considering, in his idle moments of intense arousal as his mind filled with how incredibly hot his coworkers were, that maybe something like a calendar might work. But this?? He could not possibly do this. “I’m not a porn star!” he blurted out. No sooner had he said this than Pete moved his towel and tongue cleaning process up to Mick’s towering front boner, eliciting from Mick a helpless moan he couldn’t quite suppress.
“You sure about that?” Rick grinned.
The three Xanders and Kai had broken the tableau and were moving to prepare a general breakfast for them all, rooting through the refrigerator, pulling down pots and pans, prepping the stove, and setting the table respectively. Kai, his impressive pecs a single row today without the pec-doubling tee he liked to wear, paused in the act of gathering fistfuls of silverware from a drawer under the pass-through.
“Wait,” he said, looking slightly confused and looking around at the guys. “What would normal people see if they looked at the site?” He addressed Mick. “Would they see you like this,” he asked, gesturing up and down at Mick’s jocktaur body with his cluster of forks, “or as just a normal, hot guy?”
Mick opened his mouth to speak, but just then Pete started carefully licking cum from around the too-sensitive heads of his quivering, still aroused boner, and Mick shuddered and had to set down his mug again, this time almost missing the counter. He gathered his wits and said, “Anyone who’s not prepared to see—or become—a metaboi won’t see the augmentations. That’s good for real life, pictures, videos, whatever.”
“Fuck, that’s even better!” exclaimed Joey. “Everyone will be able to get off on you guys, not just guys like you—shit, you really will make a billion dollars!”
Kai nodded and went back to setting the table. “Awesome,” he said.
One of the Jesses disengaged from Rick and pulled a phone out of his pocket. “I’m texting my cousin,” he said.
The Xander who was at the stove frying eggs and bacon said, “We’re going to need a videographer. Not that you’re not good with a phone,” he added, winking up at Frank, who winked back at him.
“But this should be professional,” another Xander said from where he was making more coffee.
“This could actually work,” Rick mused, and Joey chimed in, “It will totally work.”
Mick wanted to shout “WAIT!” like someone in a Peanuts strip, making everyone bowl over. But Pete was now tenderly cleaning his face, using his tongue almost exclusively, and Mick realized that Pete’s slow, methodical attentions had riled him up so much he was already very close to cumming again. He cleared his throat and said in a quavering voice, “Let’s just sit down to breakfast, okay? No need for things to get—”
He trailed off as Pete’s lips brushed across his, his tongue lilting gently along the stubble of Mick’s unshaven mouth and chin. “Breakfast first,” Pete agreed, “then porn.” He moved in for a real kiss, Mick opening eagerly to him, and suddenly, unable to help himself in the slightest, Mick came again, and again.
Pete wasn’t at all sure why Metaboi was even open on Thanksgiving, even if it was just for a few hours. Who’s thinking about dick-doubling Speedos on Turkey Day? Clearly no one, Pete thought with a sigh.
“It’s a tradition,” Mick had told him at breakfast that morning down at the Laguna beach house. They were all at the big dining table, looking through the calendar proofs on Frank’s tablet as they ate (despite Mick’s ongoing chagrin over the project).
“The new guy always does a few hours on Thanksgiving,” one of the two Jesses put in from where he was looking over Frank’s shoulder—no easy feat, as it involved a lot of hunching from Frank and a lot of craning from the lanky, six-armed hunk. The other Jess wasn’t around, Pete noticed—but then, neither was their love-addled boyfriend, Rick. Jess nabbed a buttered English muffin from his plate as he watched Frank swipe through the proofs. “I had it the last two years in a row,” he told Pete around the muffin.
“And I did it the year before that,” Mick added.
“Wow,” a Xander put in from the kitchen where the three of them were washing the pans from the eggs and bacon they’d made for the group. “I dodged that one completely.”
“But why?” Pete asked Mick and Jess. He was dead sure it would be tumbleweeds in the store, and he wanted to be here, at the beach house, with all the rest of the guys.
Mick smiled at him, but his tone was serious. “Because for us, Thanksgiving is has a… history,” he said cryptically. “It’s about us as a family, and it’s about the store, too, the physical space. It’s… well, it’s a focal point. It’s important to spend some time there sometimes, just you and the store.” He squinted doubtfully over his shoulder at the Xanders, as they each dried off their hands with dish towels. “I have half a mind to send you with him,” Mick said, “since you weren’t here last year, and you missed out this year—as you were kind enough to remind me.”
All three Xanders exchanged comical looks and tossed aside their dish towels in unison. “I’m… going for a run,” one of them said abruptly. “Anyone want to join us?” Getting no takers, they disappeared.
“Anyway, it’s a thing,” Mick said, turning back to the images going by on Frank’s laptop. A shot of him came up, completely naked and extremely aroused but photographed against a creamy white backdrop as if he were doing a fashion shoot for GQ. Mick looked away, cheeks and ears reddened.
“And,” Jess concluded, “at 3 o’clock you close up, hop through the magic door, and join us here for a big Thanksgiving dinner.” He grinned. “And you don’t have to work Black Friday,” he added with a wink. Mick groaned.
“Is it really that bad?” Pete asked, eyes widening. He tried picturing their quaint shop overrun with a deluge of crazed, bargain-mad shopper-berserkers and couldn’t quite do it.
“It’s just… a little busier than usual,” Mick said.
“A store full of hunks looking for that special something for their special someone,” Jess explained indifferently.
“Hot guys rubbing shoulders as they squeeze past each other,” Mick went on.
“In and out of the changing room modeling their new transformations.”
“Or just shucking what they have on and trying it on right there in the store.”
“Making out because they’re all turning each other on.”
“No big deal,” Mick concluded, with just an edge of teasing in his voice.
Pete knew they were playing with him, but he still said, “Fuck, guys! Can I please work Black Friday instead?”
They’d laughed and, very deliberately, turned back to the calendar proofs, comparing notes with Frank on various images and completely ignoring Pete sitting there next to them with a mulish look on his face.
Now it was a little after noon on Thanksgiving day, and Pete was here, looking around the deserted store and shaking his head. The place was packed with everything from hats to shoes, from outerwear to skivvies, all in beautiful, clean, upscale displays arranged in a curvy, traffic-friendly geography that should have won someone a retail-space design award. Along the back, folded tee-shirts, muscle shirts, and tank tops in every color and every conceivable body configuration neatly filled dozens of large, square cubbies, giving way as you looked across the rear wall to all kinds of jeans stacked in yet more cubbies, as the L-shaped store reached into the half-hidden back-right floor-space where Metaboi wrapped around behind a dry cleaners that seemed always to be closed whenever Pete walked past. A gentle tide of racked henleys and smart-looking slacks (in various leg counts) lapped silently toward the rear of the store, while elevated, faceless mannequins looked on serenely like bathers caught casually wading into this strange cotton and cashmere strand, showing off what the goods here might look like if you wanted a slim boytaur physique, or enjoyed gadding about with a superfluity of legs, or two torsos, or a stone-carved ten-pack.
Masculine jewelry glinted in the glass case he was leaning against, forlorn but patient, waiting to broker transformations ranging from the subtle to the extreme; but Pete kept his attention on the clothes, knowing the earring, rings, and bracelets, as much as he’d loved to have them, were beyond his means, and a little too much for him in other ways. There was a silver stud shaped like a double-threaded knot in the case behind him that he knew would look fantastic on him, but he’d spent so long admiring it on one of his first shifts that he’d finally forced himself to go cold turkey and not even look at anything in the case unless it was for a sale. The clothes in the store were more his speed, he thought. He could look, without needing to have.
Not that he was doing much better with that at the moment. He had been staring for the last few minutes at nearby a table that was piled high with thin snuggly sweaters in demure tones that positively cried out to be tried on by somebody, anybody, whether they wanted the extra arms they offered or were lucky enough to have them already. They looked amazingly comfortable. And they’d definitely fit over his massively out-of-proportion pecs—unlike just about anything he tried to buy at any other store that wasn’t shaped like a tent.
A lot of Metaboi stuff would fit him, thanks to the magic tailored into the clothes, but he’d gotten used to being shirtless after the accident in his first week working here that had left him prodigiously pec’ed, doubly endowed, and a sweetly beautiful as a seventeen-year-old demigod. He was fine in what he most always wore these days when he wasn’t at the beach house: cozy, dark wool slacks with a crease, dress boots, and formal suspenders that seemed to hug his tanned, mountainous boulder-pecs. He’d always liked looking nice, and the juxtaposition of fine haberdashery below and acres of bare flesh above, bridged by the stark lines of the dress braces, would have satisfied some internal itch to subtly provoke even if he weren’t constantly assured of the ensemble’s utmost effectiveness by arousal-drunk coworkers and the ardent swains he seemed to gather in all his travels wherever he went these days. Like his handsome, smiling neighbor Anand, who always stopped to compliment his slacks or his choice of suspenders whenever they passed in the halls or met up at the mailboxes in the lobby—much to the chagrin of his all-knowing wife, Veda, though he’d noticed her scoping him out, too. Or there was that surfer-type who ran the registers afternoons at the food co-op he went to for certain things, with that lip-biting salacious grin that made Pete blush a little every time they interacted across the little counter. Or… Dale.
Dale. His first real crush since that one smirky, Italian-American figure drawing instructor in college with the hairy chest… the one he’d never managed to say more than two words to in a whole semester of form, proportion, composition, and media. Pete knew he was pathetic when it came to men. Even before he’d started work at Metaboi, eager for a change of venue after years at dead-end office jobs while he spent his off-hours drawing webcomics that still didn’t pay the rent, Pete had hung out with plenty of hot guys—but none of them had ever stood out before. He’d never been special to anyone before, not the way he’d been for those two minutes with Dale.
Mick had been dead on when he’d asked Pete, in a bantering moment after he’d officially hired him, how someone as cute as he was, who knew he was cute, could at the same time be so adorably bashful. Pete thought he had that part figured out. After growing up ignored by four older brothers, two older sisters, and a mom and dad who seemed to forget how many kids they had, Pete knew he liked catching people’s attention, but he wasn’t used to thinking he deserved it. He loved being part of a group of guys out having a lot of fun, whether it was drinks at the local Irish pub with his artist buddies, or hanging out watching the game over pizza with the gang from one of his old temping gigs, or paintballing with his high school track team (still in touch, however improbably, after all these years). But it was different when it wasn’t a group, when he faced the prospect of dealing with another guy, one on one. So he hung back. He never seemed to gee himself up to make the first move, and he always shied away when someone made a move on him.
If he was honest with himself, he knew the mileage he got out of the whole bashful thing. His modest, lopsided smile and ducked head made people instantly and ridiculously fond of him, usually in a kid brother kind of way—though he’d been starting to rethink habits like that now that his apparent age had been dialed back so far he looked like he wasn’t old enough to vote. His short, shaggy blond hair got ruffled a lot these days.
So he wasn’t starved for affection, or even sensual interaction. The casual eroticism with Mick and the other guys when they were at the “hunkhouse” meant that kisses were like hellos there, and the atmosphere of heightened arousal often turned to mutual pleasure and release; but that wasn’t anything like having someone who treasured a shared, intimate happiness that Pete, he was realizing more and more lately, had been craving like a drug for a long time.
He’d lost consciousness so quickly that day it was almost like one minute he was laughing with the stunningly handsome cop-in-training about how mashed he was feeling from the multiple layers of Pecs-Plus tees he’d pulled on just to see how freaky big his chest could get—mostly because Dale had let slip while they were joking around that the chest was the first thing about a guy his eyes were drawn to—and then the next minute he was in a naked heap on the floor, his whole outfit—the layers of tee-shirts along with the multi-cock undies and the Teen-Me shades—completely vanished, and he was staring into the only eyes he ever wanted to look into again. Jade green flecked with shimmering gold, and unfathomably beautiful. Dale was staring into him with an expression of wonder like Pete was giving him the answer to all things, and yet with a slight twist to his lips, as if to say, Wouldn’t you know it, I finally meet my Mr. Right and he’s a big, adorable goof.
Their eyes riveted on each other, without conscious thought they drew their faces together and then… oh, then they were kissing, tentatively at first and then with deep exhilaration, like lovers whose hearts had long been gifted into each other’s keeping. When Dale pulled away, sensing Mick and the other customers rushing over in response to where Pete had collapsed behind the counter, for Pete it was like they were being ripped apart, and he lay there, panting up at him, willing him to resume the kiss. Their eyes stayed locked on each other as Pete lifted a hand and stroked tenderly along Dale’s dark, bristly jaw with the backs of his fingers.
Pete had wanted to ask him not to go, but even in this singular, exceptional moment he held back, afraid to speak. Dale, too, seemed stunned by the intensity of their encounter, but before Mick and the others were bending over him, crowding him out, he managed to say: “Call me. Call me… and I’m there.” And then he drew away and vanished into a sea of faces, Pete’s heart still pounding, his lips tingling from their kiss, wanting more. Only later did he realize he’d never gotten Dale’s number—he’d thought he had it on the sales form, but he’d been in the process of keying it in when he’d crumpled to the floor like a shirt falling off a hanger. He felt like the quintessential loser from every schmaltzy romcom: the one guy he might actually be able to psych himself up to call back, and he’d never gotten his digits. If only he were in a romcom, he’d thought: those guys always found love in the end, no matter what.
As the weeks had passed since the accident and that brief, shining moment with his beautiful future-cop, Pete had sometimes felt like he was drifting in a half-awake dream, waiting for some jolt yet to come. He was aware of the newly intensified effect he had on people and a slowly growing confidence born of the trust his new, close-knit family had in him, but the random compliments from strangers and acquaintances on his looks and his outfits, the flirting and byplay with customers and friends and coworkers, it all receded into background noise. He still dressed to get the attention he wouldn’t do anything with, like he always had, but now… now it was only one man’s gaze that he truly wanted, only one man’s honest, passionate, lip-quirked appreciation that he coveted. He hadn’t told anyone that Dale was the real reason he went shirtless, because almost the first thing he’d learned about the man was that one half-joking remark about how his eyes always went to a guy’s pecs before anything else. Nothing beat a well-built, bare-chested guy, Dale had said with a wicked, half-dimpled grin, and some crazy, superstitious part of Pete’s brain had apparently convinced him, however irrationally, that if he covered up his pectoral assets, if he stopped being a well-built, bare-chested guy, he’d never connect with Dale again.
That day also provided the other reason he didn’t try on any of the store’s clothes. He didn’t even shop here—he still bought his slacks, his boots, his suspenders, socks, and underwear at the mall or online. It all went back to that accident. He loved the body he had now, but he’d tried on all those clothes and things on in a silly mood, palling around with a good-looking, drolly sarcastic customer; and then he’d had some weird reaction with a sports drink where the changes he was trying out on a lark had ended up permanent. And—the guys had said it was probably a one time thing, but there was no way to know because nothing like this had ever happened before.
There weren’t even supposed to be people like him with permanent transformations. Okay, apart from his boss, Mick, who kept saying he’d always been a boytaur, though no one had ever heard of anyone else being born a boytaur. And maybe Xander, but doublers weren’t supposed to exist anyway, evidently. And Luke and Luke II, he guessed, though there was no one like them, either. And Frank. But apart from those guys, the way it was supposed to work was, you pulled on your Metaboi duds and they changed you temporarily, and then sooner or later (sooner if you got the cheaper stuff, later if you went top of the line) you were all back to normal. Pete’s accident, him getting changes that didn’t go away—that was a fluke, pure and simple. Not supposed to happen.
Which meant that as deeply, deeply curious as he was to find out what it would feel like to pull on that sweet rust-red V-neck on the top of that pile not five feet from him and suddenly fond himself with two sets of arms and pecs, stacked vertically (which was what those particular sweaters gave you, according to the elegant little wordless diagram mounted in the metal stand behind the pile), he wasn’t quite ready to sign up for yet another change, hot or not, if it turned out his internal undo-freakification button was busted for good.
Those lightweight sweaters did look scrumptiously comfortable. They’d fit him like a second skin, he knew it, hugging his unusual torso like they were made for him (because that was how the clothes worked here, but especially the henleys and lightweight sweaters). Also, it just so happened that where he was standing, with his very fine butt resting against the accessories counter, was both (a) where he was supposed to station himself whenever he was here alone because it was the only good place to keep an eye on the whole store, not that he really needed to be able to do so with no customers in the place, and (b) almost directly under that arctic air vent blowing the nipple-hardening cold air that Mick had warned him on the first day.
Pete bit his lip. That rust-red sweater was calling to him. It would look so good on him, too, and the soft fabric would feel amazing against his skin. And—he could live with stacked pecs and an extra set of arms, right? If it came down to it? I mean, why not, right?
His dicks, soft for once and thick in his snug Aussiebums, already perked up and a bit chubbed from thinking about Dale, started trying to seriously harden as he considered a fluid collection of very intriguing mental sketches depicting his possible new configuration. His pulse quickened, too, in sympathy with his growing arousal. He realized that not only was he wavering in his rejection of the sweater, he had pretty much ninety percent convinced himself to sigh hugely in self-exasperation, stomp over to the table, snatch up that rust-red V-neck, and pull it on with all the determination he had in him—undo-able or not. He was just lifting his shoulders for the sigh when he heard a sudden noise coming from the rear of the otherwise quiet store—exactly the kind of metal-on-metal clanking noise that no shop-boy alone in a store ever wanted to hear.
Pete jumped up from where he’d been leaning his ass against the glass display case, and stood there uncertainly for a moment, waiting for another noise. The store was dead quiet for a moment, and then—clang. “Shit,” Pete whispered to himself, as he stared toward the back of the store. Whatever that noise was, it was coming from the other side of the employees-only door in the far back corner. Behind it were the locked rear door and two sets of stairs, one going up to the offices and the other down to the storerooms. Pete wasn’t sure, but it felt like it was coming from below, as if something were happening in the back end of the lower level.
Clang. There it was again. His pulse racing, Pete wavered indecisively, trying to figure out what to do. Maybe it’s just workmen, he thought hectically, but he immediately shot that idea down. It’s Thanksgiving, you moron, he thought. It had to be something else. Someone trying to break in? A thief, or worse? Would someone actually be trying to break into the store in the middle of the day, in broad daylight? Maybe they thought the store was closed for the holiday, though. And come to think of it, the daylight wasn’t that broad at the moment: it felt a little dim in the store despite the bright overhead lights, and a quick glance out the glass-paned front of the store showed that alarmingly oppressive clouds had rolled in at some point during his daydreaming, turning what had been a bright SoCal afternoon into an ominous twilight.
“Shit,” he said again. Heart pounding, he reached for the phone in his pocket, but then he stopped himself. If he called the beach house, he’d be interrupting all their preparations for the big feast later, and for what? The back door was supposed to be infallibly secure, he remembered Mick saying, so he couldn’t be in any real danger. And it wasn’t like he could tell them anything. “It was a sort of ‘clang’,” he imagined telling them pathetically. Suddenly it occurred to him that it could be something completely innocuous, like the heating system. Shit, the radiators in one of his old apartments had made a clanging noise exactly like that when there’d been too much steam in the system.
Clang. Shit, Pete thought. By now he was berating himself for just standing there waffling about what to do like a doofus. He wished he were more forceful, more resolute. What would somebody strong do? What would Dale do? Well, that was easy. He’d find out what was making the noise, then report in if necessary. Pete drew in a breath, deciding that this made sense. Mick and the others would want actual facts, not just him going wobbly over a weird noise that might be nothing. He squared his shoulders and made to start heading for the shadowed far corner of the store, and the inconspicuous door with the “employees only” sign that he now had to go through no matter what.
“I wouldn’t go down there alone if I were you,” said a wry voice behind him.
Pete whipped around, gaping in alarm at the tall figure standing right there calmly in the wide center aisle of the store, not two feet from where he’d been leaning against the jewelry case. He took in the well-filled black LAPD uniform with its shiny badge over the left breast. The stout legs, narrow waist, strong arms, and broad shoulders. The handsome face with the three-day stubble and the crooked grin. The bright jade-green eyes flecked with gold. Dale.
Pete grabbed at his bare chest as if to keep his heart from slamming out of his body. “Jeeeesus,” he gasped.
“Sorry,” Dale said, still with the crooked grin. “Did I scare the shit out of you?”
“Very nearly,” Pete said honestly. “What are you doing here?”
Dale’s expression sobered a little. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “We had a half-shift today, and on our way back to the station I just, I thought I’d stop by and… ” He trailed off and picked up again. “So when I saw you were open and you were the one working, I had my partner drop me off.” He bit his lower lip uncertainly, then said in a rush, “I can’t explain it, but I felt like I should check in here, with you. Like, this was where I needed to be.”
Clang. The noise came again, and their eyes both shifted toward the door in the back corner. Pete met Dale’s eyes and found reassurance there. “C’mon,” Dale said, making the first move. Pete moved to join him, but remembered he was alone in the store with the front doors open for customers. He reached over and behind the jewelry case and found the button that locked down the store remotely in case of bathroom breaks and the like. He pressed it, and there were a couple of loud clicks followed by a quick double-tone beep from a speaker somewhere overhead. He turned and trotted over to Dale, who’s paused to wait for him, and they headed toward the back together.
“You, uh, finished your training?” Pete asked as they walked.
“Yep,” Dale said. “I’m I real, honest-to-God cop now. I can arrest folks and everything.”
“Impressive,” Pete said, tossing Dale a smile. Dale grinned toothily back at him.
They were at the door. Dale moved to open it, but Pete moved ahead of him. It was strange, but the sudden arrival of his handsome knight in shining armor made Pete want to be more assertive, to stand toe to toe with him. Especially as this was his space, his home turf, and, he realized with a sudden clarity, his responsibility. He opened the door and stepped through, Dale close behind him.
Beyond was a short, wide corridor with two broad double-doors opposite that opened on the outside. Pete glanced at the security panel beside the doors, but all the lights were green. Against the wall to the left an array of fifteen or so largish boxes was stacked, all unmarked except for a large “A” in permanent marker. This surprised Pete, as this area was always kept clear and stock was never to be stacked in this space, but he couldn’t think about that right now.
To the right were narrow stairs leading up, and another set of stairs leading down.
Pete glanced at Dale, who already had his flashlight out just in case. Pete nodded, and they headed down the stairs as quietly as they could.
As they turned the bend in the stairs, Pete froze, and Dale, just behind him, nearly bumped into him. They stared at what they beheld before them.
Pete had been down here many times—not only were the storerooms down here, but so was the magic door to the Laguna beach house where Pete had been living officially for a few months now, and had been spending most of his time even longer, since the strange events of week he’d been hired. But what he expected to see—basement corridors and dark gray steel doors—wasn’t there. Instead, the stairs he stood on descended into a sunlit glade. At the center of the glade, ten or fifteen yards away, was, somewhat improbably, an open-air smithy, complete with a hugely muscled blacksmith tending the glowing forge, its red heat seeming to give the man’s dark-tanned skin an inner fire. Behind it was a little whitewashed two-story house with a clay-tiled roof and a thick, oaken door.
The smithy, the little house behind it, and the bit of stairs Pete and Dale stood on were the only intrusions of a human, industrial world onto the bucolic scene. The verdant glen extended around them in all directions, rising from the center like a shallow bowl. The lush green grasses and flowers eventually shaded into a wide ring of taller grasses rustling in a gentle wind and then, suddenly, to nothing at all, as if the viridescent depression gave way there to plummeting cliffs, or a perhaps a boundary even more exotic. A midmorning sun blazed down on the scene, catching on bright yellow and purple crocuses amid the greens as butterflies flicked among them and unseen bees droned a slowly undulating accompaniment.
Pete stared awestruck at the smith, knowing Dale was doing the same. He was huge, practically a giant—his head was more or less at eye level for Pete standing on the four steps up from the grassy ground below, making him easily eight or nine feet tall, with powerful muscles clearly thickened from years of forging metal to his will. He was wearing dark blue breeches of some kind, thick, worn boots, leather gloves, and a sturdy leather apron marked with long use. His eyes were marked with thin lines to either side, and if his shoulder-length black hair and short, dark beard were sparked here and there with shocks of white, he was nonetheless handsome and vibrant, mature and in his prime rather than old, and the more impressive from the accomplishments heralded by his muscles, lines, and scars. At the moment he was examining the hank of glowing metal he was holding with a pair of large iron tongs over an honest-to-goodness anvil—the first one he’d ever seen outside of a Road Runner cartoon. In his other hand he held, loose but ready, a blunt steel hammer. In spite of the strangeness of the situation, Pete felt a frisson of arousal course through him. He wondered what it would be like to touch that warm, sweat-damp skin, and feel the iron-hard muscles beneath, without the leather apron and breeches in the way (he could keep the boots on). Then his imaginings shifted and it was not him alone with the giant smith, but him and Dale together, exploring the huge man’s hardened physique with curious, deliberate caresses—hands at first, fingers and knuckles and open palms; then, perhaps, mouths and tongues.
Pete felt Dale’s hand on his bare shoulder, and the momentary fancy subsided out of his consciousness, though it remained in the back of his mind. The two men exchanged a quick look, assuring each other with a glance that they were both really seeing this. A glint in Dale’s jade eyes and a slight quirk of his lips told Pete that his friend might have shared that momentary fantasy, too, and Pete felt a impulse to kiss him, hard and deep, right in the middle of this inexplicable place that should have been the basement storage rooms of a Los Angeles specialty menswear shop.
This thought reminded Pete of how the stairwell they’d come down. Did it still go back to the store? He looked behind them over his shoulder, and Dale followed suit. The basement stairs they were standing on continued up a few more steps from where they stood, and then they just… ended, with nothing but blue sky behind them, like aircraft stairs without an aircraft. Though as he looked closer he saw that the back of that last step was a little fuzzy and hard to look at, as if to remind the viewer the passage home was still there. If Pete hadn’t been using a magic door that took him from the store to Laguna every day, he might have been a little more unnerved by this sight than he was; but where the concrete floor of the Metaboi stockroom met the cushy dark carpeting of the downstairs game room in Laguna exhibited the exact same kind of hard-to-look-at blurriness, and he knew he was looking at a kind of magic related to the stuff he’d gotten used to quite a while back. He smiled at Dale, and Dale smiled back, reassured.
As they turned their eyes back to the glade the burly smith spoke for the first time. “Took ye long enough,” the giant growled at them without looking up, in a voice that boomed loud enough to carry easily to the edges of the wide grassy bowl and well beyond. He tightened the grip on his hammer and, in a fluid, powerful motion, brought the business end down the glowing slab with a deafening clang. Pete resisted an urge to plug his ears, unsure if it would offend the gruff, giant blacksmith.
The smith looked up at Pete from under his brows, pinning him with his gaze. His eyes were the fiery yellow-red of his forge, and in any other situation Pete would have stepped back from such a penetrating gaze. Dale’s hand gripped his bare shoulder reassuringly. “Got a name?” the smith asked curtly.
Pete swallowed. “I’m Pete,” he said. He hesitated, almost afraid to draw attention to his companion, but he had a strange sense that the smith was someone who valued courtesy, however rough-hewn. “This is my friend, Dale.”
“Hello,” Dale said.
The smith’s eyes flicked to him, taking in his uniform at a glance. “Who are you?” he asked. “Palace guard?”
Dale’s brows lifted. He opened his mouth to respond, but the smith cut him off. “No, I know about policemen,” he said in a chiding tone, as if they had accused him of being out of touch. “I may be older than the hills, young whelp, but do I keep up. Your master—” (here he shifted his piercing gaze back to Pete) “—showed a program once on his television, with policemen in it, and police cars as well. What was it called?” he added to himself, pausing and looking away with a frown.
“Er, CSI?” Dale offered. “NYPD Blue?”
“No, no,” the smith said irritably, like they were trying to mislead him. Then the memory evidently came to him, and his brow cleared. “Adam-12, that’s what it was called. They were dressed just like you,” he said, nodding at Dale’s patrolman’s uniform. “All in black, like the inner retinue of Arias the third,” he mused to himself. Regaining his focus, he scrutinized the metal piece he was working on again, struck it one more time with a final resounding clang, then turned and dropped it into a nearby barrel filled with what looked like oil. He pulled off his gloves, tossed them on a worktable, and then gestured to them with a broad scooping motion. Before they could respond, he’d turned his massive back on them and started lumbering toward the front of the little house behind the smithy. Pete and Dale, as if unfrozen by the summons, hastened to follow, scampering down the remaining stairs and across the wild grass separating them from the forge and house beyond.
When they got to the house, they discovered there was a little garden near the large oaken door, with tulips in bloom, several kinds of fragrant bushes, and four wide, iron benches set around a small flagstone patio. The smith stood in the middle of the little space and, as they approached, offered his hand.
“I am sorry for the discourtesy,” he said. He took Pete’s hand in his, and Pete couldn’t help but be amazed, impressed, and a little turned on by how much larger the smith’s hand was than his. “I am Andras,” the giant said. “You may call me Master Andras.” He spoke in a booming, portentous voice that rumbled deep inside him, as always, but a glint in his eyes told them he wasn’t as fearsome as he might seem.
“I’m pleased to meet you,” Pete said politely, and Dale did the same when Andras turned and shook hands with him as well. They sat in the two nearest benches, Dale and Pete on one side, Andras on his only a couple of feet away on the bench adjacent to theirs. The sun warmed them, and the droning of bees could still be heard from the sprawling meadow around them. Andras seemed to watch him, waiting for him to speak first—something Pete knew he was no good at.
Pete struggled to sort out which of the thousand questions buzzing around in his head to ask first. Where was this place? Who was Andras—and how old was he? That ‘older than the hills’ remark didn’t sound like it was made entirely in jest. Who was the ‘master’—his master—that Andras had mentioned? He knew it couldn’t be Mick, so it had to be the shadowy, seldom-seen owner, whom Pete had never met. All these and more questions ran through Pete’s mind, but he decided there was only one question that really mattered. “Master Andras,” he asked, “why did you bring us here?”
Andras smiled fondly, though his smile was more inward than a response to Pete’s query. “It still amuses me,” he said, “that your master never tells his young apprentices about the larger world they are embroiled in, but waits for them to discover it on their own. Though I see you have already tasted some of that draft,” he added, casting an amused eye over Pete’s magically enhanced pectorals, and then alighting his gaze on his well-packed crotch, not doubt detecting the half-hardened dual equipment straining against their cotton prison. Pete blushed and could not respond, tongue-tied as he was by Andras’s appreciative appraisal. He could almost feel Dale’s crooked grin without having to turn to see it.
Before he could manage any kind of reply, Andras went on. “I have been forging enchanted tools, weapons, and adornments for longer than you can imagine,” he intoned, though the dry tone of this pronouncement suggested that Pete should take it as a playful taunt belittling the stunted limits of human inventiveness. Pete almost rolled his eyes. “I am adept with metal, as your master is with woven goods. As we each have projects that involve both metal goods and garments, we conduct an exchange once a year.”
Pete nodded at him, eyes wide. The most shocking thing about this was that it was actually all making sense. A bizarre image came to him, of Andras and another, shadowy giant whose face he could not see, lounging on a massive leather sectional in some modern-looking rec room, downing flagons of heady ale while they watched old Dragnet reruns on a giant flatscreen. He wanted to laugh—and in that moment a strange peace descended on him. He belonged here. He belonged here, because it all came with… whatever it was that he had become a part of, unwitting but willing. He was supposed to be here—and so, he knew with certainty, was Dale. Without taking his eyes off the giant blacksmith, he rested his hand on Dale’s strong thigh, and Dale placed his own hand over it and squeezed.
Once a year, Andras had said. His thoughts returned rapidly to the conversation at breakfast, about how this was a tradition with meaning for the guys who had been brought together by the store. “Why Thanksgiving?” he couldn’t help but ask.
Andras considered how to answer. He sat back against the scrolled ironwork back of the bench, and if Pete weren’t sure that these benches had been crafted by the Master himself he would have wondered whether they could truly withstand the muscle-giant’s incredible weight. “In my world, there is a day set aside to celebrate bonds of love and kinship, celebrated by the sharing of food,” he explained in his penetrating, rumbly voice. “When we began our latest exchange, nigh on—has it been a century? I do not know. But when we began this latest exchange, I asked your master if there was a similar holiday on his end, and he said that there was. We wanted to involve our own people, to celebrate the bonds they had made amongst themselves.” He nodded with a smile at Dale and Pete’s clasped hands, and Pete felt his cheeks warm a little. “And, perhaps, to forge new bonds, as well.”
As he said this, Pete caught sight of a movement behind Andras, over his brawny shoulder. Pete looked and saw a surprised-looking young man cautiously traversing the grassy glade beyond the house and smithy, from the direction opposite the stairs Pete and Dale had descended. Beyond the newcomer, halfway to the raised edge of the depression, stood a wide, blue-painted wooden door, ajar in its frame. The frame was, of course, attached to nothing: the door stood alone amidst the sunlit grass.
The young man had reached the edge of the garden and was pausing there in hesitation, his eyes dancing between Pete and Dale and the giant smith. “Master Andras?” he asked deferentially. Pete looked him over. He was tall, taller than Pete, but skinny like a snake, with pearlescent, almost translucent skin that revealed just a hint of blue and red veins beneath the skin. He had an attractive face with high cheekbones, and loose, platinum-blond hair with a faint blue tinge down to his not-quite pointed ears. He was shirtless, and while this was clearly not for the same reason as Pete his torso was toned and extremely defined. Two long, strong-looking arms hung from each round shoulder, ending in long-fingered hands graced with one or two more digits than he was used to seeing, and below were three narrow but equally strapping legs in loose cyan pantaloons. His feet were hidden by the grass, but Pete had gotten the impression as the young man had walked toward them that he was wearing sandals rather than shoes or boots, and Pete found himself wondering whether the young man represented the normal form of his people, or some kind of exciting augmentation, like his extra cocks, or the more extreme deviations like Mick or the Xanders when they weren’t wearing their binding cuffs. Sliding his eyes back up the stranger’s sexy, attenuated form Pete met red-brown eyes, like a darker version of Andras’s, and they were staring now into Pete’s, darkened with the same unexpected lust that Pete could feel welling up in himself.
“This is Erom,” Andras said. “Erom, meet Pete and Dale.”
Erom said nothing, apparently transfixed by Pete. He did, however, soundlessly mouth Pete’s name. A shiver ran up Pete’s spine. Belatedly, he remembered the amped up effect his youth-intensified beauty seemed to be having on the people he met in his everyday life, especially strangers meeting him for the first time. Nervously, he glanced at Dale, but Dale was eyeing him with a shrewd but otherwise unreadable expression.
Erom, seeming to feel the introduction gave him permission to enter the garden, moved into the center of the flagstone paving and stood directly before Pete, looking down at him as if beholding the raw source of all arousal. Responding to an impulse he did not understand, Pete stood, the erections pressed against his hip now obvious in his wool dress slacks. Erom stared down into Pete’s eyes, seeking something there. Pete, for his part, felt a strange connection that was entirely unlike the bond he’d already formed with Dale. That bond was deep, unconscious, and unending, a bond made of lives merged and passions magnified a hundredfold by the love forming between them. This, the skittering charge between him and Erom, was something else entirely. It was simpatico, a feeling that they were of a kind, like he felt with Mick and the other guys at the house. And, as with Mick and the others, it was a connection that could be expressed through pleasure, gratification, and release. Without needing to see, Pete knew that Erom was as aroused as Pete was, maybe more—he could feel it, strong and ramping up stronger, and Pete’s arousal was likewise spinning itself higher and higher just from the two of them standing there, facing each other, with twitching fingers and throbbing erections.
“Please,” Erom said suddenly, licking his lips. “May I—? I need—”
Pete wavered. “I… ” he began, then he remembered his fragile new confidence, and who and where it came from. “I’m sorry, Erom,” he began again. “I have—”
Before he could explain that Dale was his boyfriend, however, Pete realized Dale had risen and, unbuttoning his uniform shirt, was moving behind Erom—very close behind. His jade eyes, seemingly lit to a heartbreaking brilliance by the bright sun overhead, met Pete’s from around Erom’s doubled shoulder. “It’s all right, Pete,” Dale said, offering Pete a crooked smirk that Pete knew was just for him. “We know what this is,” Dale said, nodding up at the arousal-drunk Erom. “And we know what we have.” He locked eyes with Dale, and suddenly Pete knew that there could be hours of sweaty release this afternoon, with Erom, with the whole queue of men besotted by Pete’s radiant allure… but tonight there would be lovemaking. It would be passionate. It would rough, and tender, and then frantic, and then sweet. It would be the physical intertwining of two souls that could not be separated. And it would be the beginning. Pete nodded.
Not taking his eyes from Pete’s, Dale leaned forward and kissed Erom’s pale, perfect right rear tricep, lifting a hand and caressing the bare skin of Erom’s flank as he did so. Erom made an involuntary sound, and Pete looked up into eyes darkened with lust and need.
“Please—?” Erom whispered.
Pete smiled at him. He wanted to exchange one more look with Dale, but he realized he did not have to. He nodded to Erom’s lust, just as he had to Dale’s unbending love. Not wanting them to get in the way, he slipped his suspenders off his shoulders.
Immediately, and with great urgency, Erom bent and covered Pete’s mouth with his own before the suspenders had even finished falling against his thighs, sliding a long-fingered left hand around Pete’s neck at the same time. More arms wrapped around Pete’s torso, and Pete did the same, folding Erom’s narrower frame into his arms, caressing Erom’s back with the palms of his hands and Dale’s suddenly bare chest with the backs. He could feel Dale stroking his hips from both sides, pulling him against Erom’s. Pete was curious what he would feel there, but he was distracted by Erom’s tongue sliding into Pete’s eager mouth. It was much larger and longer than Pete’s, and the flood of increased arousal at how hot it was to have that huge, thick tongue in his mouth was tempered at first by an unwelcome undercurrent of “tongue envy”. Only—when Pete responded in kind, slipping his ordinary-sized tongue into Erom’s hot mouth, Erom started going nuts. His kissing became more frenetic, and the more Pete swiped his own tongue among Erom’s, or along the side of Erom’s mouth, the more he seemed to be driving Erom to new transports of ecstasy. Pete realized that Erom must have some kind of extra pleasure receptors in his mouth that made Pete’s tongue as stimulating to him as Erom’s was for Pete.
In fact kissing like this seemed very likely to get them both off in no time at all. Pete reached down in the midst of their frantic make-out to free his cocks, so that at least he didn’t cum inside his slacks, but before he could reach his own equipment he found Dale’s hands already there, batting his hands away as they fumbled to undo Pete’s fly. So Pete reached for Erom’s pantaloons instead. Fortunately they seemed to be held up only by a wide band of elastic. He blindly shucked them down with both hands and reached in to see whether there were any undergarments or anything else to get in the way of—
His hands found Erom’s junk and he froze. Breaking the kiss in his shock, he stepped back and stared at what Erom was packing in considerable awe.
With what must have been superhuman self-control, Erom had apparently been keeping himself from getting hard while his equipment was still constrained by the loose pants he was wearing. But now that they were around his ankles, Erom’s cocks were swelling out and away from his orange-sized balls with unbelievable rapidity, not only expanding to full hardness but becoming so engorged that they stood straight up, towering over the elongated man’s marbled shoulders. Pete stood and just drank them in—two immensely long, flat erections erupting from each crotch, thrusting up achingly hard and even curving back to press hard against his firm chest and clavicle, to end in a wide, reddened head that twitched in the open air, spattering thick gouts of clear precum in all directions. “Shit,” Pete said. “Help him out with those, will you, babe?” he suggested to Dale, who gave him an arched eyebrow and a wicked grin.
Erom’s lust had only increased in this interlude, and the second Pete moved back toward Erom pulled him against him, mauling Pete’s mouth while he rubbed against Erom’s slick cocks and his own tools punched up and up along Erom’s cobbled abdomen. It felt like only seconds before they were both pushed so close to the edge there was no pulling back. Suddenly, and without taking his extra-large tongue from Pete’s mouth, Erom started thrusting against him, pushing himself to climax, and the feeling of Erom’s incredibly long, wide pricks pushing against his sweaty, precum-lubed up body, his own super-hard dicks frotting against Erom’s hard abdominals, and perhaps most of all the uncanny feeling of the pleasure Erom’s huge tongue was giving him, which he was giving back in spades to Erom with his own—all of that combined to hurl him over the edge, and he begin cumming hard, shooting geysers of seed against Erom’s belly; but Erom, perhaps not surprisingly, beat him on that score too, shooting what seemed like a flood of cum from his four cocks, spasming out orgasm after orgasm and producing so much cum Pete thought they could almost literally bathe in it. Pete even thought he could taste a bit of Erom’s cum, despite their unending kiss, but he didn’t think about how or why that could be.
Pete broke the kiss and sought Dale with his hands and his eyes, pulling him into a kiss of his own. “Your turn,” he gasped against Dale’s lips.
“I’m so close already,” Dale murmured. Erom moved behind him, his still-hard cocks rubbing against Dale’s bare shoulders, and Dale gasped. Pete kissed Dale hard and deep, reaching as he did so for Dale’s own release—only to pull up short once again.
Dale grinned against Pete’s lips. “Multicock boxer-briefs,” he explained. “Durations. I wanted to see what it felt like for you,” he added. Pete chuckled. Then they resumed the kiss, Pete stroking Dale’s twin pre-slicked pricks against each other with both hands. In a few beats of Pete’s hard-pounding heart Dale was cumming hard, shooting spray after spray of hot spend against Pete’s massive, oversized pecs.
As Pete, Erom, and Dale collapsed against each other for a moment, they were surprised to hear applause coming from behind them. With great trepidation, Pete looked over his shoulder, only to see the three tall, dirty-blond Xanders and their well-muscled Hawaiian boyfriend Kai standing just outside the garden and all clapping enthusiastically, as if they’d just performed the showstopper at a Broadway show. “Jeeeesus,” Pete groaned.
“Here,” a voice said to Pete’s left. He looked up to see Master Andras, whom he’d more or less completely forgotten about, smirking down them. In his hands were three soft-looking white towels. “You whelps clean yourselves up.” He glanced over Pete’s shoulder at the new arrivals. “I thought your master said to expect six, not two,” he added, casting a thoughtful eye over the four strapping young men, three of them exactly alike.
The Xanders seemed to hear this. As Pete hurried to clean himself up and make himself at least reasonably presentable, one of the Xanders said, “Mick told us we had to come.” Another went on, “Yeah, we were supposed to look for you and Dale in the basement if you weren’t in the store.”
“We figured you’d be fucking and wouldn’t want to be disturbed,” Kai said. “And we were right, though not in the way we expected.” He stuck out a hand to Erom. “I’m Kai, by the way, and these three are my boyfriend Xander.”
Erom looked at the outstretched hand for a second, then grasped it tenderly. “I am Erom,” he said. “I am happy to meet you.”
“We’re happy to meet you,” a Xander said, eyeing Erom’s still-hard cocks erupting considerably past his shoulders on either side of his comely face.
“Oh, and we were supposed to bring down the boxes if you hadn’t,” another Xander said, “so we did.” Pete looked back toward the stairs and noticed the stacks of boxes marked with “A” that had been upstairs by the back door. He tossed the towel onto the nearest bench and pulled up his suspenders, buttoning his fly and zipping up. He felt almost presentable, though his slacks would definitely need a good dry cleaning.
“The exchange,” he said, remembering Andras’s words. He turned to look up at the giant smith, who was watching the three young men recompose themselves with vast amusement. He glanced at Dale, who now looked more or less like a cop again, if a little flushed, then back at Andras. “So does that mean you have boxes for us? New enchanted jewelry, metal accessories, that kind of thing?”
Andras nodded. “Yes,” he said. “But there is something we must do first. He moved into the house, motioning with for them to follow with the same scooping gesture he’d used before.
Inside the little house was a large room that took up most of the ground floor; in the back was an archway leading to a kitchen and back gardens, and to the side were stairs leading up to the second floor. In the big room there was a table with seven regular chairs and one extra large one arranged around it, and Pete saw that it was laden with baskets of various kinds of breads, butter, fruit, and cold meat. His stomach immediately started to rumble.
“I know that you will be having a grand feast later today,” Andras said, his powerful voice seeming to fill the enclosed space, but the custom in both our worlds is to celebrate our bonds, whether they be love or kith or kin, through the sharing of food.”
“Don’t mind if I do,” Kai said, taking a seat near the plate of cold roast beef. The others followed suit, and soon they were having a merry meal, listening to Andras’s tales of clumsy apprentices and the uncanny beauty of a masterwork that had seemed to be destined for failure at every stage until the very last hammerstroke.
Before long the baskets and platters were all but empty, and the boys’ plates were clean. “All right,” Andras said. “It’s time for me to be rid of ye all. Return to your homes, and remember what we shared today.” He made as if to rise, but Erom stopped him.
“Master Andras,” he said cautiously, “you have mentioned that, in the past, there were exchanges between our worlds not only of goods, but also… apprentices.” Erom paused, looking hopefully first up at the giant smith, then over at Pete and Dale, who sat near the end of the table, holding hands. They grinned at him, and Erom looked back at Andras.
The smith leaned back in his sturdy, oversized chair. “It’s true,” he said. “But the key word in your request is ‘exchange’.” His eyes shifted to Pete and Dale, and then to the Xanders and Kai.
“One of us could go!” one of the Xanders said. “I wonder if—we’d stay the way we are, right? Sharing our three bods?” Singular and plural often got confused with Xander, who, Pete knew, was really one guy with three bodies.
But Andras shook his head. “The link would not persist across the barriers,” he said with certainty. “If one of you went, he would be severed. He would become his own person, with experiences and feelings apart from yours. When he returned to you, he would be separate.”
“Like a brother?” Pete asked, fascinated by the prospect. Andras nodded.
The Xanders were grinning, obviously deeply intrigued by the idea. “Even better!” He turned to his partner with three smiling faces. “What do you think, Kai? Can you put up with two of me instead of three?” one of them asked with a wink.
Kai smiled indulgently. “I love Xander,” he said simply. “You could have a thousand bodies or one, I don’t care.”
“Ooo, a thousand Xanders,” one of them said. “I like that.”
“Don’t even think it,” Pete said, and the Xanders laughed.
“Okay, Master Andras,” another Xander said. “It’s a deal.” Pete’s eyes drifted to Erom, and found the red-brown eyes were already fixed on him. His cocks had finally gone down and been demurely stowed away before dinner, but Pete knew that Erom had a craving for Pete that would need to be regularly assuaged—just like every other hot guy in his life. He turned to look at Dale, who was smiling at him, his certainty of their special connection written all over his face. Pete squeezed their interlaced hands and leaned in for a sweet, passionate kiss that confirmed for them both that the two of them did indeed hold each other’s hearts in their keeping, never to be returned.
So it was that only two Xanders tromped up the basement stairs that disappeared into the sky with Kai alongside, all laden with small but heavy wooden boxes containing Andras’s contributions to the exchange, each marked with a mysterious “R” on the side. Behind them were Dale and Pete, and with them Erom, each burdened with one of the remaining boxes. Before disappearing through the hidden passage, Pete turned and looked back across the grassy depression. On the opposite side of the smithy he could see a lone Xander standing at that dislocated door. Though his hands were occupied, Pete lifted his chin in one more farewell, and the lone Xander waved back at them. Pete looked up to see the two Xanders and Kai had also turned for one last glimpse of the third Xander.
“He’ll be okay, right?” one of the two remaining Xanders said.
“Of course,” Kai said confidently. “It just means Mick won’t be able to call you ‘Trip’ anymore. C’mon, let’s get these upstairs. I know you gave me the heaviest one!”
The Xanders and Kai started moving up the stairs again. As they vanished into the blue, Xander was saying, “Oh, so those muscles are all decorative, are they?”
Upstairs, they gratefully set the wooden boxes down against the side wall of the short, wide corridor between the store and the back exit. Pete poked his head through the inner door to make sure the shop was okay. Everything looked normal. Not only that, but whatever dark, oppressive storm had rolled in just before Dale had shown up had vanished without a trace, and a glance out the glass front of the shop showed a bright SoCal afternoon. He pulled out his phone and checked it, surprised to see it was nearly three o’clock already. “Shit, guys, we should close up here and get back the house—it’s almost turkey time!” He looked up at the others, and while the Xanders and Kai looked excited, Erom was nonplussed, and Dale seemed a little green just at the thought.
“How could you eat?” Dale protested. “You just stuffed yourself at Master Andras’s house.”
Pete blinked at him. “But… turkey!” His eyes drifted over to Erom, who looked a little exotic in this prosaic space behind the store—not so much for his extra limbs a for his outfit of loose pantaloons, strapped-up sandals, and nothing else. Erom moved closer to Pete, and he already felt himself developing a sense of responsibility for this tenderfoot in a strange world. He resolved to be strong enough not only to stand beside Dale, but to be a big brother for Erom, too. He smiled, and Erom nervously smiled back.
“Hey guys, did you see this?” Kai said. He was looking down at the box he’d been carrying with his arms folded across his thick chest. The lid of that box had been blank, like the others—the only markings had been that “R” on the side—but now Kai’s box had a handwritten notice that read OPEN NOW.
“Huh,” one of the Xanders said. “I guess we should open it.”
Kai knelt in front of the box. The lid lifted up and off, so he removed it and set it aside. Inside, nestled in straw, were various items wrapped in soft cloth. Several of the ones on top had tags on them, each with either a D, a P, an X, a K, or an E. “Not too difficult a code to decipher,” Kai said easily. He grabbed the D and tossed it to Dale, then did the same with the P.
Dale and Pete unwrapped theirs at the same time. Inside the cloth were small, simple boxes of polished oak, and within them, on a wafer of wool padding, was a single square stud made of iron, steel, and a small inset diamond. There was one for each of them.
Dale looked up, his eyes shining. “A stud,” he said.
Pete caught his meaning and grinned. “Shit,” he said. Quickly, they both moved to put the pieces on. He didn’t know whether Dale was pierced or not, but it surely didn’t matter—the way things worked here, you should be able to put on anything in the store, and that went for the jewelry as much as the clothes. As he snapped the stud into place, Pete suddenly felt himself coursing with endless sexual energy, like the power of a small sun burning ceaselessly in his nuts and cascading ceaselessly through every particle of his body. His eyes met Dale’s just as he looked up with an expression of delight. “Fuck yeah!” they said together, and immediately fell into each other’s arms, wrapping each other in a tight hug as their cocks contemplated the ability to be hard or soft, rampaging or relaxed, at the whim their masters.
As he clinched his lover he caught sight of Erom, standing close at hand but apart, with an awkward expression of aroused admiration of his face. Dale saw it too, and they opened their embrace for him. “C’mon,” Dale said, catching Pete’s eye with a mischievous wink. “We got plenty to spare.”
Even as they took a grateful Eron into their hug, however, Kai said, “Hey, Erom! There’s one here for you, too!” Erom reluctantly stepped out of the embrace and deftly caught the package Kai threw sat him. Unwrapped, it turned out to be a small silver pendant on a fine silver chain. It looked at first like an M in a circle, but Pete realized it was shaped to evoke Erom’s three legs.
“Put it on,” Pete urged, wondering what the effect would be. Erom donned the pendant, then looked down. He frowned, seeming about to say that there was no effect, and then suddenly the pantaloons and sandals vanished, revealing Erom’s slightly chubbed cocks hanging fat and heavy most of the way down his thighs. Erom seemed to concentrate, and just as suddenly the pants and sandals were back. He looked up at the others, smiling.
“Instant naked,” Kai said approvingly. “Very handy when your dicks are taller than a stepladder!”
Erom’s pants vanished again, and Erom grinned. “I like this a lot,” he said. His cocks were already taking advantage of their freedom, stiffening rapidly toward their towering, shoulder-high state.
“You are going to be a handful,” Dale said. But he drew the now rampantly erect, pointy-eared newcomer back into his and Pete’s embrace, and the three of them began kissing softly.
“Aren’t you going to watch us open our gifts?” One of the Xanders asked with mock petulance.
“Of course,” Pete said, a little muffled as Erom was trying to kiss him and Dale at the same time. “We’re watching, we’re watching.”
There were only two packages marked with an X, so either Andras had known how things were going to turn out, or the gifts had magically adjusted themselves. They turned out to be three simple bracelets, striped silver and black, all identical. When the two Xanders and Kai put them on, it wasn’t clear at first what had happened. Then one of the Xanders suddenly became a Kai instead!
“Fuck,” he said. “Each of us can be either a Xander or a Kai!” He changed back into a Xander. “Holy fuck!”
Pete, Dale, and Erom gaped at them. “Wait, your body changes into Xander? Or you mind?” Pete asked, confused and very aroused.
“Both! I think!” the Xander said. “I can be Xander in Xander’s body, or—” Then suddenly his expression changed. “Fuck! I’m Kai, in Xander’s body!” He switched to Kai’s body. “Now my body… ” Then the body changed to Xander again. “… Now Xander’s body! Holy fuck! I love it!” Then the three of them were all Xanders, then they were all Kais. They seemed to like that, and moved into a three-way embrace and started making out like made.
“Wait!” said Pete, still confused. “Are you all Kai in Kai’s body? What happened to Xander?”
One of the handsome Hawaiian muscle hunks broke the kiss and grinned at him. “I’m Xander,” he said. “I think at least one of us has to be Xander and at least one of us has to be Kai. Now if you’ll excuse us,” he said, and started making out again.
Pete turned back to his own three-way embrace, which suddenly seemed a little tepid by comparison. “Just wait until they’re all Xander with the inhibitor cuffs off,” he said. At Pete and Erom’s expressions, he explained in a whisper, “That’s not what Xander really looks like.”
Dale looked intrigued, but Erom was done talking about Xander and Kai. He moved in for more kisses with Pete and Dale, his impossibly tall cocks already wetting his own and Pete’s bare shoulders and the shoulder of Dale’s uniform with pre, in Pete’s case trickling down from his traps and delts onto the upper surface of his extra-stacked pecs. Pete hummed contentedly and settled in for a kiss that might last a while, loving how his stud libido was enough to satiate a soulmate and have enough to spare to make Erom happy, too. Today was about sharing, after all.