Added: Dec 2018 Updated: 13 Apr 2019 9,998 words 6,927 views This story was commissioned via Patreon Story Commission.
Connor’s feet were cold.
It was the first sensation to register with him as consciousness dawned in his mind. Everything else about him was warm and snuggly and supremely comfortable, so his bare feet dangling off the edge of the bed stood out as mildly anomalous. His senses seemed to be inquiring of his still-not-quite-awake mind whether he wanted to address the problem, but Connor was so sumptuously content curled up in bed with himself that he was reluctant to think about changing anything in his world.
Still keeping his eyes closed, he nuzzled one pair of soft lips against the nape of his other neck, enjoying the feel of his lips’ brush against his skin from both directions, and tightened the pleasant hold his arms had around himself as he semiconsciously pondered the problem of chilly, exposed feet. They were bare, he sensed—not even socks (nice)—and seemingly dangling off the end of his bed, as if the mattress had contracted a little in the night (weird). The rest of him was, he was distantly aware, still in his clothes (cool, must’ve gotten really baked last night)… but his dogs were blessedly free. Cold, but free. An interesting trade-off.
He thought idly that he might have to do something about the cold part, in a bit. But in this drifty, cozy, prelusive moment he was too relaxed and disengaged to do more than focus his some physical attention on them.
Instinctively he began working through them, creating a routine for himself. He flexed them each in turn, stretching and spreading the toes and then swiveling each foot in a slow circle from the ankle and enjoying the pleasant tension in the calf muscles above as he did so. Left, stretch, swivel, flex. Right, stretch, swivel, flex. Left, stretch, swivel, flex. Right, stretch, swivel, flex. Left, stretch, swivel…
Mmm, he thought. Lots of nice feet. The thought brushed against some of his favorite arousal triggers buried deep in the folded recesses of his mind, and instantly he felt the familiar rising tide of warm arousal. He smiled softly and snuggled himself closer as he continued methodically working through his feet, hearts thumping loud enough to hear in the quiet room, and he used them like a metronome, regulating his swivels and stretches against the steady, clockwork reverberations: thump-thump (turn), thump-thump (flex). His hips and legs and torsos were pressing hard together now as he squeezed himself tight, and his long, thick dicks were thickening and straightening in his soft, snug boxer-briefs and newish jeans, slowly responding with a grateful, greedy lust to everything he was feeling, body and soul.
Wait, he thought. Wait. His slowly-wakening rational mind had caught up with his senses. Cautiously it pressed the all-hands-on-deck button, and Connor’s eyes snapped open.
He was looking at the back of his head. Thick, dark gold curls tickled his cheek and wanted to mix with his own messy mop. He was also looking at the print of Picasso’s L’acrobate he had hanging on the far wall by the door… and feeling his own gaze boring into the back of his head. There was light in the room, the soft, natural light of morning sifting through the thick but gauzy white curtains over the single large window behind him. The night that was so eventful had fallen away, and morning was upon him.
His pulse quickened further and his body—his bodies—tensed with uncertainty. At the same time, his exultant cocks continued going about their business of getting super thick and hard in his jeans.
He listened to his breaths, unconsciously aligning them as he continued flexing and twisting his last pair of feet.
Left, stretch, swivel, flex.
Right, stretch, swivel, flex.
He lay still, holding himself, eyes staring, listening. His regular breathing was working to calm him, as it often did. Gentler, still moments passed. His pulse slowed, just a little bit, but his heartbeats still seemed like the pounding of heavy drums. He was aware of his own distinctive scent, most of all from behind where his nose brushed the nape of his neck: his skin had the most subtle scent, barely discernable on its own but rich and slightly bitter once he knew it was there. There was pot there, too, and not just ordinary pot but that strange and potent strain he’d shared the night before. It seeped minutely from his pores and nestled in his long, heavy curls.
Most potent of all his senses, though, was touch. He’d always been tactile as a man and as a lover, orienting himself according to what he felt as much as what he saw; and now, with so much more skin—so much more of everything—he had wondrously passed from a poverty he’d never known to recognize into incredible, intoxicating wealth. He could feel everything. Arms… legs… hands… feet. The brush of fingers against the fabric of his shirt, of fingers and hands holding the hands he had wrapped around him. The faint gust of breath on his neck. Most of all, he felt his pairs of yearning-to-rut, indomitably erect dicks. Pressing rudely against his ass and pressing rudely onto his ass. Nuzzling wetly from behind into the crevice between firm front legs. Arching impotently against nothing but thin cotton and firm, rough denim. It was like multiple perspectives on being an aroused, eager cock—a funhouse mirror room of churning balls and raging, lust-drunk hard-ons.
Multiple perspectives. Perspectives on multiplicity.
The circle from the night before came back to him.
Some people, he knew, had trouble afterwards remembering what had happened while they were toking, like the smoke from the dope made a milky curtain across time. For Connor, he’d always remembered what he thought was happening with reality sort of layered underneath it, and all of it a little unreal, like it had been a show he’d been streaming about himself or something. This, though—this was different. The circle from the night before came to him with such clarity that it almost felt like he was visiting it, as though it existed in a reality one turn of his consciousness away from this one, always right there and ready for him to see.
In his mind it seemed for a moment as though he were standing there in the garden again, feeling the cool grass under all his feet. He was still holding himself close from behind as he took in the circle before him passing a thick joint around. There was the confident, relaxed leader, shirtless veteran surfer guy, smiling placidly at the men circled around him. Devon, his brain reminded him. Wait—had he known that before? Had Devon introduced himself at all? He didn’t know.
The others were all there. Biracial V-neck guy. Soulful-eyed, sweet-voiced Japanese guy. Cute Instagram model guy. Sexy, messy-haired glasses guy. And there was Connor himself, sitting cross-legged in the circle, with his floppy torrent of dark blond curls and boyish face and a fit body that stood its ground even in this company of unfairly, ridiculously attractive men. In his aroused state Connor wanted all of them, and a little groan escaped the lips that he had pressed against his neck. He almost separated his self-embrace and went to each of them—if he could be two Connors, why not six?—and only the knowledge that this was a memory, however vivid and extraordinary, restrained him.
The Connor in the circle had the joint. He took it and expertly drew in the smoke. He seemed to react to its potence almost immediately, and to the Connor standing beyond the circle, watching the memory, it was like the Connor in the circle blurred and shifted slightly, as though his alignment with reality was shifting as he held the smoke in for long moments. Finally he released, a huge grin spreading across his face. He turned to pass the joint to glasses guy, but glasses guy wasn’t paying attention, completely distracted as he was by Connor’s bare feet.
“You have really nice feet,” he explained with a little smile.
You should see me now, the observing Connor thought. Time seemed to slip a track, much as it had later for him the night before, and the circle was now in an advanced state of cannabis high. The others were all shifting and changing, all except Devon and the Connor in the circle, and he watched a woozy Connor excitedly taking in their altered states vibrating with their more normal forms.
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“Each of us has our own patterns—and our own paths,” Japanese guy said, shifting from six arms in his blue sweater to two, then eight, then two again. He was saying it to the Connor in the circle—or was he saying it to him? He half expected him to lift those dark eyes and stare right at him, they way memories and ghosts always did in movies when you least expected them to. It was such a cliché, but it almost always worked—fuck, they’d even used it it at the beginning of The Queen. Connor had jumped when Hellen Mirren had suddenly looked at the camera, attracting some startled looks—he’d been watching the film in the college library at the time. Japanese guy kept his eyes on the Connor in the circle, and yet something told him he was aware of him standing there, watching these memories, multiplied and aroused by everything he saw and felt…
A phone rang somewhere. Connor blinked. He was back in his room again, cuddled together in his bed. His feet were still cold, hanging bare and heavy off the end of the mattress. Self-consciously, he picked a hand to reach for the phone charging on his night-stand. Then, just for fun, he abruptly changed his mind and picked a different hand, this one from his “big spoon” body. He reached over and grabbed the phone, accepted the call automatically, and held it to his “little spoon” ear. He was smirking slightly to himself as he said, “Hello?”
“Where are you, sweetness?” came the voice of his famous photographer boss, Roger Morse. He sounded distracted, and Connor knew he was multitasking, taking care of five different problems while he checked in on his increasingly indispensable assistant. “It’s not like you to be late, and we’ve got a big shoot at eleven to prep.”
Connor cringed. He held out the phone to check the clock. Almost nine. Roger was right—it was definitely unlike him. He always set his alarm before his nightly toke-and-yoga sessions. Last night, however, had been… anomalous. In many ways.
“Sorry, R.M.,” he said, using the version of his name he only allowed with intimates—to most employees he was “Roger” (which is how Connor still thought of him, despite the trust upgrade he’d gotten almost a year ago), and with everyone else he insisted on “Mr. Morse,” A-listers and bigwigs included. Even the spread on him in Vanity Fair had been titled simply “Mr. Morse.”
He racked his brain for the day’s schedule. It was Friday—fuck, today was the All-Seattle champion rugby team calendar shoot. That would be a bear and a half, liable to go all day and then some. An unformed thought about calling out sick had tooled around in the back of his mind as soon as he’d realized who it was; but Roger was right—he’d really need him today. “I’ll… be in as soon as I can.”
“Make it sooner than that, sweetness,” his boss said absently, as the sounds of rifling through papers came through the phone. “There’s a lot to do.” The call disconnected.
Connor slowly replaced the phone on the nightstand, at the same time shifting his “little spoon” body so they were facing each other, still wrapped up in an embrace that seemed stronger and more intimate somehow for using so many arms at once. He mirrored the embrace with the body he’d just turned, his faces close enough he had to draw back slightly to stare into his own eyes. They seemed even more vividly blue than usual—or maybe seeing your eyes in the mirror just wasn’t the same as gazing into them, up close like this.
His front cocks on both bodies were pushing hard against their twin mates, insistent and impatient, and he grin two huge grins as he almost helplessly ground his groins together. With all his clothes on like this it was like that time he’d ended up necking on the couch after school with Victor Trujillo… only Victor hadn’t been packing quite as much as he was.
A welter of conflicting thoughts teemed through his brain all at once like a startled school of fish. I want this. We can’t go to work like this. Not boned like this. Not like this. Can I go to work like this? Can I be like this? I want this. How can I keep this? How can I fix this? How can I fix this so that I can keep this? How can I find more? How do I stop/how do I keep going? There’s no time. No, that’s wrong. There is no “time”. Or many “times”.
I want this. I found this. I need this, want this, love this, am this. I love that I found this. I took the path to this.
No… no! I took the paths to this.
The revelation stilled him for a moment, and he stared into his own eyes in absolute wonder. He hadn’t even realized until now what he had done. The guys in the circle the night before—they’d all been showing him different paths, each one having found and pursued their own special fun emergence from the mundane. Glasses guy with his legs and feet (and blushingly admiring Connor’s own feet). Biracial V-neck guy slipping into a taller version of his handsome form. Sexy Instagram guy blithely twinning himself like that was just something you did. Soulful Japanese guy flickering organically between two arms and more than two arms. He’d sensed all those possibilities, and more—the endlessness of what he was had been ungraspable. His rational mind, seeking order and structure and regimen as a means of making sense of infinite flux, had fixed on the utility of his yoga routine, which he had always thought of as a linear path—a sequence of moves and positions, with a goal of greater strength, flexibility, peace, and wellbeing.
He was slowly grinding against himself again, almost unconsciously, as he stared deep into his own vivid blues, his mind feverishly piecing it all together. He was aware of being hungry, he was aware that his time was short, he was aware of his urgent lust and his need to rise to orgasm and that he must do so like this… but he put all that aside, focusing his thoughts.
He heard/remembered Devon’s voice, as clearly as the night before—maybe more clearly, considering how transcendently baked he’d been, lying there in the grass and staring up at the beautiful night sky, the stars blowing around in the gentle sea breeze.
“Your mind is the universe,” the surfer dude had said, his eyes closed and relaxed, “and your body is the universe. They are two aspects of the same unity. But our mind hides this from us. A million competing sensations, a million stimulations, and in the confusion we just can’t see the paths our mind and body can take.” Abruptly, he’d opened his eyes. “Do you see?”
His rational mind had accepted that word, “path”, as the key, but it had equated it with “choice”. You walk a path through the fragrant woods. You come to a divide, and you have a choice: this path, or that. You deliberate, you choose, and you continue walking. The other path is forsaken and forgotten. So it must be, striding through the deep forests of the physical world. But the mind… my mind… is the universe.
His deeper understanding had grasped what his surface reason had missed. His mind was the universe. It was infinite points and infinite paths in all directions and all dimensions. He didn’t have to take a single path. He could take as many paths as he wanted.
And he had. He hadn’t followed one of the paths he’d been coyly shown by his playful group of new friends. Unconsciously, instinctively, he’d strode down them all, pelting down them with a fervor not to reach the path’s end but to occupy the path itself, tracing its lines into himself, every path a part of him.
He’d barely grinned with the understanding of this epiphany before he’d dived into an intense and amazingly sweet kiss, hands carding through his thick curls in raw glee that he could do this. He broke apart only long enough to yank off the lengthened, multi-armed versions of his red “Bud/Wiser” tee off both bodies, then resumed his hungry oral embrace. Hands everywhere, he pushed deeper into the kiss, letting his tongues dance excitedly with each other, the stimulation of kisses and gropes and caresses and grinding cocks driving him incredibly close in seconds.
Coming up for air he moved purposefully, ripping open the buttons and zippers of his flies and exposing two long, thick, beautiful dicks each, red-tipped and smeared around the heads with precum and throbbing with keen desire. Not willing to wait long enough to service each body in turn he swiveled the form that was more on top, the other one scooting down, and then—fuck, two big dicks thrusting deep into a hot mouth with forceful, dancing tongues… two mouths eagerly lathing and sucking awesome, thick, hard, delicious cock… two more cocks, thrusting against faintly bristled jaws, smearing pre along his cheeks as he sucked himself with gusto. And two more cocks each beyond that, rising hard and huge between his back legs… they were pushing and jostling between the strong, toned muscles of precum-lubed front legs, rocking with the piston thrusts of cocks made to fuck even when there was no one but himself.
He glanced down himself, seeing long, thick cock thrusting into his slightly stubble-ringed mouth from two perspectives, its twin erection thrusting feverishly along precum-painted cheeks. He watched, mingling the sight and sensations, twice over sucking, twice over being sucked, like a carnal kaleidoscope. Then his eyes rolled back and he gave himself wholly over to the overlapping, accelerating feelings, though the images remained with him, burned on his mind as if on the insides of his eyelids.
He was close in seconds. He could cum however he wanted to, he knew, but this time he drew all his orgasms together and bound and coiled them into a single, crazy explosion… Oh, oh fuck yeah… Oh, fuck yeah!
He swallowed the cum, shot the cum all over himself, dove deep into oceans of cum. He came again, and again, swallowing his own sweet cocks, feeling his cocks shoot and pulse against his heated cheeks, clamping his thighs around his beautiful, ecstatic cocks, feeling himself as if he were made of cock.
He pulled off of his dicks, glancing up to meet his own eyes, and grinned at himself as he floated in the euphoria of multiple afterglows. This is the moment, he thought, drifting slightly in his own vision. I can do it now. He was reluctant and conflicted. But he found peace in order and regimen, and his days and hours—commute, work, meals, yoga—was part of that. He let the memory of the effects of Devon’s special stash steal through him, and to his delight the feeling/memory of being high mingled beautifully with his sustained afterglows. He closed his eyes and fell back in the bed, head by feet, and mentally began moving through his yoga moves. Only now he realized he could do multiple moves at once, creating a new regimen in two directions, then three. He was doing his routine in infinite directions, in infinite variations, twisting and expanding through his own personal cosmos.
He felt his own universe, and he also felt how it intersected with the world of other people. On that plane the lands around him were spread out before him. He felt the island he’d taken the ferry out to, the secret garden, and, nearby, just as he’d said, he touched on Devon. Devon even seemed to respond, sending warmth and love his way. He felt the millions of others, some capable of what he was doing now. Focal points impressed on him—his other friends from the circle. One was not far, and was reaching out as he was.
Their thoughts brushed together. It was the Japanese guy… Kento. His name was Kento.
He sent warmth and love to Kento, just as Devon did to him, and felt it returned. He set the city aside, lending his focus more resolutely now to what he needed to do.
“See what you need to be within your mind-universe,” Devon’s surfer-inflected voice/memory said, his voice as cool and calm and firm as the foundations of the earth.
He pictured himself remolded in a way that, while perhaps disappointingly mundane (for now), could allow him to move through the world of normals with his new understanding of the mind-universe intact. It was easy to chart out for himself, and yet…
He found he was resisting reclaiming the usual, humdrum, pre-expansion version of his body at almost every turn. He reduced the height he’d given himself, but not quite all the way. Just two arms… fine, but maybe they were a little thicker than before, and… fuck, no one would notice a single extra finger on each hand. Same for the legs, and as for the cocks… well, they just flat out refused. You’re not changing us, buddy, they seemed to say defiantly, and Connor felt himself grin.
“Have you become what you need to be?”
Connor opened his eyes.
He was standing in the middle of the room, exactly where he’d arrived the night before. He was wearing his “Bud/Wiser” shirt again—he realized he’d been imagining himself wearing it, even though he’d pulled the shirts off for that too-quick sixty-nine session. His pants were buttoned and zipped up too, trapping two strident and uncowed erections. He was two-armed and two-legged again… and two-bodied.
Huh, he thought, with matching crooked smiled. Guess I forgot to “fix” that. Well, fuck, he’d just have to tell Roger that his twin brother was in town for a while and wanted to make himself useful. His boss would barely bat an eye, he figured… but it would be interesting to see if any of the rugby stars they were shooting were intrigued by there being two of him flitting about the studio.
Only… “two of him” didn’t seem quite right, and he realized with a gasp that he was also still in bed, and the two of him that were in bed were still like before, still head to foot, stretched out extra-tall with arms and legs and cocks galore, his faces and tanned skin and tight body and four-legged jeans all covered in slick cum.
“Fuuuuuck,” he breathed from four mouths.
Rigid cocks stiffened on every body, and each pair drew close. Desperately he contemplated more sex to relieve his newly expanded lust and relentless libido. Maybe it would be enough for the two of him that were in bed to get off, though he’d still have to cum with his other bodies—and suddenly the thought itself was so exciting that he barely had time to rip open his jeans before he was cumming hard from all four bodies. Barely managing to aim his dicks toward his bodies in the bed he unloaded such a massive release he wondered if his orgasms had quadrupled for each and every cock he had. Gasping and panting, he collapsed against himself, the two standing bodies holding each other up and then shifting into a loose, neck-nuzzling embrace.
“Fuck,” he murmured again. This time the word itself got him thinking, imagining the fucking he was now capable of, and he let out a surprised quadruple laugh. I have to get out of here, or I’ll never leave, he thought giddily.
Dazed from his compound orgasms and still a bit high from his immersion in last night’s memories, he gathered up his phone, keys, and wallet, feeling confused and annoyed he only had one of each, and headed out the door with his “mundane” bodies while his earlier, wilder forms climbed slowly out of bed and headed to the shower. He’d have to keep from having sex with those bodies, at least until he could take a bathroom break at the studio. Yoga would help. Lots of… hot… multilimbed… yoga. Fuck.
In the lobby of the building he was pleasantly surprised to see his sexy, shy, across-the-hall neighbor and secret crush coming in with his bike. He was kitted out in form-hugging bike gear, his helmet under the arm not guiding the bike, and with his trim goatee and buzzed hair damp from exertion he looked altogether yummy. He passed by shyly, eyes wide at the sight of two him instead of the usual one (especially as he was, he now realized, holding hands). The guy’s lips were full and kinked in a faint smile. Connor thought about kissing them, not for the first time… and, as if prompted, the two of him that were in the shower started languidly kissing each other.
He tried to ignore what he was doing in the shower. Maybe he could learn to focus his attention, or even divide it—yes. Yes, that was possible. Multiple paths. He did not have to choose—he’d already discovered this. His mind-universe was infinite. He could pursue any paths he wanted.
Speaking of pursuing paths he wanted… his neighbor had passed him now and was hoisting the bike onto his shoulders, prefatory to the jog upstairs to their floor. “Hey,” he called out impulsively.
The guy turned, surprised. They’d exchanged glances and smiles (and appreciative looks) before, but they’d never actually spoken. He stared at them each in turn, dark eyebrows slightly lifted, and Connor realized he’d spoken with both voices. All four voices, actually—he’d broken his shower kiss long enough to say “Hey” all the way upstairs. The thought made him smile, and, maybe in instinctive reaction, his neighbor smiled too. Connor’s smiles did tend to be contagious, he knew.
He tried concentrating on speaking with just one voice as he took a step forward with both bodies. “I, uh, I’ve noticed you’ve seemed interested in my yoga routine,” he said. The neighbor blushed, and so did Connor. It was weird talking about this aloud—it was like letting a secret out into the world. “If you want,” he went on, “maybe you could stop by some time and I could, uh, show you some moves?” He winced as soon as he heard it, but the cute neighbor, to his surprise, barked out as laugh.
“I would like that,” he said, revealing, intriguingly, a rich baritone voice with the trace of a Russian accent. “I am free tonight, if you are around.”
“Perfect. I’m Connor, by the way,” he said, putting out the free hand on his right-hand body.
The neighbor took it. “Alex,” he said, flicking his eyes for a second to the unintroduced twin before adding, “Short for Aleksey.”
“Nice to meet you.” He chucked his thumb behind him, having once again guiltily remembered his overburdened boss. “I gotta go. Catch you around seven, maybe? We can order Thai or something.”
“Sounds perfect,” Aleksey said. He lingered a moment, then, with a shy smile, he turned and trotted up the stairs.
With a sigh he watched Aleksey’s tight bike-shorts-clad butt head up the stairs and disappear around the landing. Trying to keep his attention off the slow, mindless lovemaking now going on in his shower and his own massive erections, he headed into the bright morning outside.
It was visibly later than he was used to, and it occurred to him that the light rail might be a problem at this hour. He pulled out his phone and checked the app. Yep—delays.
“What you need to be where you need to be.”
Could he be that cavalier with all this? Using what he thought he could do now, his mental, mind-universe flux, for something as mundande as commuting to the office?
“Why not?” he said quietly, with just two voices this time. He gripped his hands tightly and closed his eyes. Every time it was a little easier. He stepped through his routine again, and he expanded infinitely, feeling where he was and where he needed to be.
Connor opened his eyes and found himself, still holding hands, standing just inside the doors of Morse Studios. He had just enough time to remember that he hadn’t shaved before his boss, who was crossing the floor at a fair clip while looking down at his tablet, almost blundered into him. “Oh, hey, sweetness,” Roger said, stepping back with a start. “I didn’t see you there.”
“Uh, hey,” Connor said, a little wrong-footed by his sudden arrival. He still had a lingering edge of his memory-induced high, but he was a lot more lucid than he’d been when he’d arrived home the night before. He was aware of his other selves back at the apartment, but he was getting better at this local focus thing that let him mostly tune out his other bodies. “Sorry again, R.M.,” he said contritely. “I totally didn’t set my alarm.”
Roger, however, was staring at what appeared to be another, nonspeaking Connor. He hastily disengaged his hands, hoping Roger hadn’t noticed that part of it. “This is, my brother, obviously,” he said, nodding toward the Connor his boss was staring at. “He wanted to help out today, since it’s partly his fault I’m late.” Connor thought that last was a nice touch—a sibling-directed barb lent a little verisimilitude to his doubled body going over as being just as unremarkably ordinary as everything else.
He put forward the just-released right hand on that body. “Nice to meet you, sir,” he said.
Roger shook the other Connor’s hand briefly, looking down at him with what was obviously a mix of curiosity and impatience. He was taller than Connor and a lot hairier (he had one of those beards that climbed up the cheeks and threatened to make for the eyeballs), and when his bushy brows lifted up over the dark rims of his glasses they seemed to merge with the unkempt bangs above. “Do you have a name, dove?” Roger said at last.
“Oh, just call me Connor,” he had the other body say glibly. “No one can tell us apart anyway.” He thought Roger might object to that, so he hurried on. “I work at a studio like this in Portland, so I can take care of anything you need just like Connor can.”
Roger’s lips tightened, and Connor remembered a moment too late that Roger had several rivals in Portland he either scorned or despised. Before he could ask who his “twin”‘s employer was, Connor jumped in with the body that was supposed to be the real Connor, shifting his boss’s attention. “So, hey, R.M., what’s the breakdown for today?”
Effectively distracted, Roger simply handed Connor the tablet. “Twelve setups in ten hours,” he said. “There’s going to be no room for delays, so I want everything prepped and ready for every shoot.”
“Yes, sir,” both “twins” responded with a grin. Roger shook his head and hurried back to the main studio space, and Connor headed for the storeroom, smiling as it occurred to him that setting up lighting scrims and backdrops would be a whole lot easier with two of him working together.
Connor opened his eyes and found himself, still holding hands, standing exactly where he’d been, just outside his apartment building. Pedestrians trickled past, peeling off the main avenue to his left or heading past him to join its murmuring bustle. An Uber slid by on the narrow street, pulling slowly to a halt a little ways down.
With a start Connor realized that he had tried to shift himself from one place to the other, as he’d done last night, but instead, like he had upstairs, he had transitioned new bodies where he’d been headed… but then he’d also simultaneously left the originals right where they were!
He could feel his other bodies over at the studio, Roger almost literally running into them as they arrived, and winced. He tried narrowing his focus to the two bodies he’d left behind here on the sidewalk, and found he was getting the hang of this multiple paths thing. He was still one Connor, and was aware of all his selves, but he had learned he could walk several paths at once.
Which was a good thing. Because he was definitely fucking now with the bodies that were upstairs in the shower, and though he couldn’t completely shield himself from all the intense megalust that was flooding through his altered bodies he could at least mask most of it and, if he was lucky, keep his raging hard-ons from blowing a spectacular multi-load right there on the street.
Maybe he didn’t know quite what he was doing… though he had a sneaking suspicion he knew exactly what he was doing, and that at some level he’d meant to split himself off again. He already knew his deeper desires had a lot better handle on all this than his conscious reasoning, and he felt a little frisson of uneasy arousal at the possibilities inherent just from his own internal dissonance.
Connor exchanged glances with himself. He really hadn’t intended to do this, not consciously—no, what he had to say was that he didn’t have a conscious plan for this thing he’d secretly wanted, and now he wasn’t sure exactly what to do with himself. Should he go upstairs and join the shower-fuckers? Connor thought it behooved him to be more productive than that, and besides, he was hungry to stretch his experience even further. He was also hungry, period. He’d forgotten about breakfast again.
As he was thinking all this, he noticed the Uber pulling away, having left its passenger: a cute, shaggy-haired Japanese guy with soulful eyes. He was wearing a midnight blue sweater today, Connor noticed, as the newcomer walked toward him with a sly smile. It looked nice on him, complementing what was clearly a nicely buff physique without drawing too much attention to it.
“I see you are finding your way,” Kento said. He offered a hand, which, for just a moment, was one of several on each side. Connor took it. It was warm and firm, and the touch and squeeze along was enough to make Connor’s cocks flex and thrum in his jeans, twice over.
Connor kept hold of Kento’s grip, liking the idea of the three of them linked hand to hand to hand. “There’s still so much to discover,” he said, unable to keep the excitement and desire out of his voice. He felt a strange and welcome link with Kento. Was it just because they had shared the circle the night before… or was there something more, some affinity or perspective they shared, that intrigued them each about the other? Maybe Kento felts the same kind of lust for exploration and transformation that Connor did. There was definitely something in his eyes, something potent and profound that made Connor want to know a lot more about how they might connect with each other.
Kento’s smile twitched a little wider. “Come meet some friends of mine?” he asked.
“Lead the way,” he said, with both voices. Kento’s eyes shone, and Connor released both the hands he was holding to flank Kento as his friend turned and led him into the city.