Plom-colored glasses

by Tym Greene

Patrick is frustrated that he couldn’t go on a trip with Shaun, but it seems his friend has sent him a little souvenir from Galaxy’s Edge. I’m sure it’s perfectly harmless…

Patrick had been pissed, but by now it had burned down into a smolder of disappointment. He’d had to cancel the trip to Florida he’d been planning with his friend because of an “important” work project that had itself been canceled. So now he was just working his usual nine-to-five and coming home to unpacked suitcases.

He hadn’t heard from Shaun either—apart from being told that he’d landed and arrived at the hotel okay—probably because his friend knew how upset he’d been at having to miss out on their plans, and didn’t want to rub salt in the wound by sharing pics of how good a time he was having by himself. Shaun was a good friend that way, but Patrick still missed talking with him.

The days had gone fast, in the blur of sameness that was his day-today, and he returned home one day after work to find a package sitting on his doormat. He lifted it and carried it inside, surprised by the lightness of it—but it was a curiously heavy lightness, like a Fabergé egg, weighty with importance beyond the mass of the item. Despite the lack of “Fragile” stickers, he very carefully set it on the table before dropping his briefcase and kicking off his shoes.

The coming-home routine, as much as the brown of the package matching the brown of his table, helped him to forget the delivery until he’d prepared his dinner and was about to sit down to eat.

Then he saw the box anew, right where his plate should go. He debated just shoving it to one side, but curiosity finally got the better of his inertia: he set his plate and cup back in the kitchen and grabbed a craft knife from his desk.

There was nothing on the outside beyond his address and a generic street address in Florida. I don’t know anyone in Florida, he thought as he spread the flaps. Within was a tangled nest of shredded brown paper swaddling a smaller box. This one had more clues: the battered metal texture printed on its surface, the sci-fi-style lettering, and of course the “Black Spire Outpost” logo.

So Shaun didn’t forget me, he thought with a smile, grateful for his friend’s considerateness. He must have got this and had it shipped on his first day there. Indeed—though he tried not to think of it—Patrick knew that this would have been the last day of their trip, with a morning to get breakfast and maybe ride one or two more rides, and then the long flight home. The knowledge that he now didn’t have to sit on a cramped plane for six hours or more was cold comfort, but he shunted that thought aside as he lifted the merchandise from its cradle.

They really go all out, he thought, admiring the artistry and the level of detail that had gone into what amounted to just a box for a theme park souvenir. The weathered brown and orange “painted metal crate” design surrounded a photo of the product within, and he tried to make sense of the overlaid circles. The text didn’t give him much of a clue either: “Droidsmith Headset” was all it said, as though that were all the explanation needed.

Gingerly he opened the packaging and pulled out the item, holding it up like a tiara. Now that he could rotate it in three dimensions, it made more sense. It’s like those steampunk watchmaker goggles, he reasoned, recalling the hand-built costume props he’d seen at nerd conventions. Does it even fit?

Dinner forgotten, he placed it on his head, feeling the oversized arms slip onto his ears as the bridge settled uncomfortably on his nose. “Gee, thanks Shaun,” he grumbled, moving to take off the ill-fitting trinket. As he did so, his fingers brushed one of the several swing-arm lenses mounted at the temple. There was a flash of golden rim and crimson glass, and a wave of disorientation.

Patrick was now confronted with a double-view: in the right lens, which was still just clear glass, he saw his hand, his apartment, everything as normal as ever; but in the left eyepiece, which now had the red lens swung down in front of it, his hand looked weird, too big but also missing a digit, and covered in leathery skin that seemed to be blueish. He waggled his fingers. When he focused on the view of his right eye, he could feel all five rubbing against one another, just like always—but when he focused on the left eye’s altered view, it felt like he’d never had a pinky, as though three thick fingers and a thumb were all he should have had on his hand.

Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes and lifted the contraption from his head. The un-filtered view was just as it ought to have been: four totally normal fingers and a totally normal thumb on each totally normal hand. He looked at the box again, but there was nothing else on it apart from a sticky spot where the price tag had been peeled off.

“Well, it doesn’t say it’s laced with hallucinogens,” he grumbled; and, to be fair, he didn’t feel any different. The only disorientation was from the memory of the altered view, like those trick glasses with mirrors that inverted everything you saw though them.

No longer afraid he was losing his mind, Patrick decided to try again. He held up the headset and noticed that there was a matching red lens on a swing arm for the right eye. The color and texture of them was familiar, the rims and arms were shifting silverygold, and the glass they held was a bright transparent crimson. He had a sudden mental image of a casino filled with inhuman patrons in white and black formalwear, with a single spot of color. “It looks like the Master Codebreaker’s red plom bloom boutonnière. What an oddly-specific reference.” Still, he’d read that the Imagineers had put a lot of effort into making Galaxy’s Edge feel like part of the Star Wars galaxy, and a lot of that involved layering bits of in-universe lore and history.

Patrick sighed, and almost set down the glasses: the wave of disappointment crashed had over him again. If my boss hadn’t been such an idiot I’d have been able to actually be there, instead of just reading about it. Of course, he knew there would be other opportunities, especially since he still had the unused vacation time and unspent travel expenses. Trying to turn his thoughts around, he pictured wearing the gift when Shaun showed up to share the details of his trip and tried envisioning the look on his friend’s bearded face when he saw how much pleasure his present had given.

“Guess I should get comfortable wearing it, then,” Patrick said, lifting the headset back into place. It wasn’t an easy fit: the left temple reached straight back to his ear, but the right one curved around, as though intended to grip a much bigger head than his. Still, it stayed where he put it, and he again looked through the different lenses. Squinting his right eye, he looked down—past a seemingly-double image of pinkieless hands—at his feet, and saw broad stumpy limbs, like an elephant with longer toes and pointed nails. They had the same wrinkled leathery skin too, and responded, albeit stiffly, when he lifted one, then the other, and waggled their toes. And just as before, if he looked through the right lens he only saw his own bare human feet.

“I wonder…” he said aloud as he lifted his hand to pivot the swing arm on the right side. Suddenly his vision was bathed in red. The room around him was a blur, so he focused instead on his arm: again he saw the alien hand, but now the rest of the limb was changed too, thicker overall, with muscle and dark hide to match, and his plain t-shirt seemed to have grown to fit…and gotten a bit grungier, a dingy grey that showed even through the red of the lenses.

What he’d thought was a double-image now revealed itself to be a second arm, identical to the first, even down to the sweat-stained shirt sleeve. Hardly believing what he was seeing, he sent contradicting commands to each hand, and obediently one gave a thumbs up, while the other pointed its thumb downward. A quick glance in the other direction revealed the same situation: one hand rested on his now ample belly, while the other was curled against his wider hip.

Tentatively, Patrick used all four hands to lift the hem of his shirt, revealing skin that was just as leathery as what covered his arms, but paler, and with a deep belly button. A sheen of sweat had begun soaking into his shirt’s fabric, and he realized just how hot he was. I hope the AC isn’t dead again, he thought grumpily as he shuffled to the control box. Seen through the glasses it was no longer the battered black plastic rectangle with the faux wood front it had always been, but instead seemed to be made of metal, with unlabeled buttons and a glowing LCD that showed symbols he didn’t immediately understand.

Oh, right, Aurebesh, he thought as his eyes focused through the red lenses, making sense of the unusual device. “twenty-one degrees, no wonder I’m sweating.” He tried to think of what that would be in…a different measure, but the conversion to seventy degrees Fahrenheit eluded him. He prodded the buttons with a thick fingertip until it read a much more comfortable ten degrees, and he sighed as he felt the colder air (which he would have recognized as fifty degrees Fahrenheit, had he only taken off the glasses) blowing across his sweat-dampened body.

It was still warm, however, and he had the sudden idea to kill two porgs with one stone: if he took off his clothes he’d feel cooler, and he’d be able to examine his new body. Proud of his deduction, he struggled with the clingy fabric of his shirt—as well as the fact that he now had two extra arms and sleeves to negotiate.

Somehow he managed, and dropped the pile of slightly damp clothes in the hallway. His bedroom had a full-length mirror on one wall, and he wanted to get a good look at himself. His eyes had already grown accustomed to the red lenses, as though the crimson glass had turned to clear and the misshapen stems now fit his head perfectly.

He was startled by the muddy-blue figure in the mirror. It was a few inches shorter than his six-foot-three height, and a good deal thicker, with four arms that seemed unsure of what to do with themselves. Patrick lifted one leg, gingerly stepping on the edge of his bed with the heavy foot, and turned back to the mirror. He had a much better view of his changed groin now, and marveled at the size of his dangling nuts and shaft. His scrotum had the same pale leathery skin as his wide belly and thick inner thighs, but his cock darkened to a reddish lavender at the frilled head, like someone had used it as a paint stirrer.

His nipples, too, were pale violet…all four of them. Each of his moobs—they were too soft and flabby and full to be pecs—had a main nipple in the normal spot, but then, like an asterisk, a smaller secondary one hovered just above and to the side of each one. His rough fingertip brushed the sensitive areolas and he couldn’t help but moan. His voice was deeper now, with a burbly quality that might have had something to do with the wattle that inflated below his chin. “Gods, I’m sexy,” he rumbled using all four hands to feel himself up.

A bony crest of dark-orange plates ran from his low forehead to the back of his skull, three hard ridges that held the headset’s right arm perfectly, and a fringe of bristly dark hair swept back beneath them. He could feel the tug of a ponytail and the swish of the braid down the back of his neck, and grinned. I’d always wanted to be able to rock longer hair, and now I am really rocking it! He swayed his hips and turned around as much as his Captain Morgan pose would allow. His ass was still a bit flatter than he’d have wanted, though now the cheeks were wide and firm, and the little vestigial tail nub was satisfying to rub.

He noticed too that his legs were shorter, thick with powerful muscles to heft his body, and wrinkly like a fambaa’s—he had tried to think of elephant as a comparison, but the Earth creature simply wouldn’t appear in his mind. The stumpy legs also explained why he was so much shorter, despite a long torso built with two stacked pairs of shoulders. It was really the perfect height for him, he thought as he waggled his rear, spotting the little flash of lavender pucker between the pale cheeks.

Ass cheeks, he realized, that were dripping with sweat. “You think I’d be used to Galactic Standard temperature after all these years,” he grumbled, wishing that more main-line worlds were as icy as his beloved Ojom. His apartment’s thermal controls were already as low as they could go—effectively a warm summer’s day on his homeworld—and the system struggled to even attain that degree of coldness. “I should really get a new job, move somewhere colder, like Coruscant’s polar ice mines.” He turned back to look at his front in the mirror, imagining how he’d look in a green or orange jumpsuit, driving an excavator; it was a manly image and he liked it.

Rubbing his shaft with one hand, he headed to the refresher: perhaps a cold shower would help him cool down. The industrialstyle metal surfaces were a fry cry from the wood laminate and white paint he would have seen without the glasses, but he didn’t notice the difference. Instead, he turned on the shower, checking to see that it drained properly. Patrick had a vague notion that he needed to make sure there wasn’t any hair clog, though he couldn’t think why—his hair was too thick and bristly to go down the drain. After removing a small bundle of grey strands, he could see that there was neither hair nor fur blocking the water flow, so he dialed it all the way cold and stepped under the soothing spray.

He rested his crest against the metal as the water poured down his body, spreading his legs as far as possible in the little cubicle to allow the flow to curl under his pointed tail nub and drip between his cheeks and down his thighs. Then he felt something cold on his face. “Dank farrik,” he cursed, fumbling with the metal of his glasses and trying to keep the lenses from getting wet. He placed the headset on a shelf beside the shower stall, like he usually did before getting into the shower.

Wondering why he was so distracted, he tried to focus on the water, to let it wash away his confusion and the stress of a long day in twenty-five degree weather. A bottle of fruit-scented body wash would help, he knew. The gel was orange with swirls of purple, and filled the refresher with the scents of meiloorun and jogan as he poured a healthy dollop into his right hands.

Rubbing the increasingly-foamy gloop across his body helped him focus on the present, with the way his moobs weighed against his cupping hands, and the wobble of his wattle and belly. He had a vague sense that he should have been thinner and taller, but that too was washed away by the sensations of slick palms on leathery hide. He even rubbed some of it across his crests, knowing that the scent would linger in his hair and would entice…someone. He let the grey amorphous thought of who that might be fade away too: he was showering and that’s all he was thinking about.

Still, his dick plumped up as though he had special feelings for whoever that might have been, and he gave it a bit of extra attention. With four hands, it was easy to toy with the nipples on one moob, tug on his balls, and still have two sets of fingers to caress his shaft and tickle the frilled head. Patrick’s pulse quickened and his breath became ragged gasps, until he grunted and pulled his hands away. He couldn’t get off yet, not by himself. Besides, the whole point was to cool down, not heat myself back up! He turned back to face the water, letting it chill his blood through the thinner skin of his genitals.

Once his heartbeat had slowed and he’d rinsed off the body wash he shut off the water and began toweling off. The refresher had an auto-dry function of course, but since it was little more than a heating element and a fan, he never used it. He held the fluffy white towel around his waist with two hands and used a third to wipe the steam from the mirror. He ran the fourth hand across his face, playing with his fleshy wattle and wide thick lips. Grinning, he examined the multitude of conical teeth, and picked out a bit of revwien lettuce left from the besh-leth-trill sandwich he’d had at lunch.

Once he was dry, he put his glasses back on. He didn’t notice that his irises were red now, nor that the lenses on the swing arms were quite clear. Back in the bedroom, he grabbed an old bathrobe from the closet. He might have recognized it as the same faded brown plaid as the one he’d had as a human, might have noticed that the soft and fluffy fabric was now a more exotic wool than the old cotton fibers, and certainly would have remarked on the extra sleeves; but he did not. Nor did he notice the four-armed nerf leather duster coat hanging behind it, a relic of the Besalisk’s more adventurous youth.

Patrick—or, rather, Parwab Jelstex as his identichip now said—left his battered old bathrobe hanging open, allowing the cold breeze from his apartment’s thermal system to billow it out and curl around his still-damp body.

There was something missing, he knew, and he tried to think of what it might be. “I’m not hungry…yet,” he rumbled with one hand on his belly as he thought of the Balarian pie sitting in the kitchen, just waiting for an empty belly and a glass or two of blue milk. He was still puzzling over things when he heard the apartment’s main door woosh open.

Parwab trudged out of the bedroom to investigate, bathrobe flapping around his nude body. In another reality, he might have seen his friend Shaun, come for a visit and some coffee after his flight, with tales of the fun he’d had at the park. Instead, the tall figure standing before the Besalisk was covered in long and silky grey fur, with a black stripe running from his forehead back to his rump. “Spench!” Parwab exclaimed when he saw the Wookiee, and he threw all four arms around the muscular beast.

Spench growled something in Shyriiwook, and the vocoder he wore around his neck translated it into Basic: “Hello Par-wobbles, I missed you too.”

The Besalisk chuckled at the nickname, which only made his wattle wobble all the more. He buried his face in the fur, breathing in the scents of wood oil and Algoraspice cologne, as well as Spench’s own subtle musk. “I’ve told you before, sweetheart, you don’t need that ‘coder with me.” It was true, the Besalisk had channeled plenty of time into learning how to understand Shyriiwook—even if he couldn’t speak it himself—just as the Wookiee could understand but not speak Basic. Plus Parwab loved Spench’s rumbles and roars.

Running his hands down the silver-furred sides, Parwab groaned and sank to his knees, his broad mouth easily finding the sheath hidden beneath the Wookiee’s crotchfur. The glossy brown shaft—the same color and texture as his handsome nose—had already begun emerging, and Parwab could feel the heat radiating from the concealed balls. He put his tongue to good use, slathering the tapered length and running over the sensitive medial ring, before slurping down the entire cock and curling his tongue out to cup Spench’s nuts.

A chorus of snorts and grunts and whimpering moans rewarded his efforts, and the leathery fingers of a heavy hand gripped his crest with a firmness that that made him redouble his attentions. After a few minutes of this, Spench finally pulled him off, slowly, reluctantly. “If you keep that up,” he growled after setting aside the translator device, “you’ll get a mouthful.”

They both knew what the Besalisk wanted most after a long absence—or even a short one—and it wasn’t a belly full of Wookiee seed…at least not right away. There would be time for that later; right now Parwab and Spench were of one mind.

Standing on creaking knees and letting his robe slide to the floor behind him, the now-nude Besailsk dragged the still-erect Wookiee to the bedroom. “I just showered,” he said as he went, “so I’m all ready for you.” He stopped before a blank wall in the bedroom—the other walls of which were decorated with paintings and holopics of the two in various locations and states of undress—and leaned forward. He used his upper two hands to brace his body against the flat metal, and with his lower two hands pulled his cheeks apart, presenting.

Now it was Spench’s turn to kneel. The snuffle of warm breath and the press of a cold nose made Parwab moan. How he had missed this! It felt like it had been forever since the two had been together…as though he was sensing the remnants of another reality where they had just been friends, without any side benefits beyond companionship. But that wasn’t the reality Parwab was now faced with…or assed with, not with a Wookiee’s tongue probing his lavender ring.

The hot mouth and furry head finally withdrew, and a chill ran up Parwab’s spine from the cold air on his wet skin. One of these years he would have to take Spench to Ojom, and they could frolic in the snowfields. He was distracted from such idyllic imaginings by the lewd squelch of bacta-laced lubricant squirting into the Wookiee’s palm.

A slick finger soon slid between the Besalisk’s cheeks, and was replaced soon after by the narrower tip of Spench’s shaft. Once he was sure he was on target, he began sliding forward, pressing his furry chest into the shorter man’s back. This was one of the few instances where Parwab welcomed warmth, and the Wookiee breathing down on his neck felt warm enough to melt him.

Some men liked to talk when bedding another, to whisper fantasies, or shout vulgarities, or beg reassurance that they were in fact doing it right. Spench did none of these. Instead, he was silent, apart from a quiet rumble that meant: “By the Trees,” repeated with increasing frequency as his thrusts became more powerfully erratic.

Parwab was grateful for his own sturdy build, able to take anything his husband could dish out even in the heights of passion. Now that his lower hands weren’t needed to give Spench a wider landing field, they could be put to better use. One thumb danced between the nipples on his right pec while his left squeezed and pumped his cock like he was trying to milk a bantha.

He felt the pressure that had risen in the shower rise anew as Spench’s arm slipped between his, thick fingers brushing his left nipples, soft fur on his skin, hot breath on his cheek as the head turned to kiss him. “Oh kark,“ Spench cursed, his body trembling against Parwab’s, leathery fingers gripping leathery moob as his hips bucked hard.

The Besalisk’s hand flogged faster, squeezing just so; he’d been pacing himself, edging as long as he could, and now that he was cleared for launch he didn’t hold anything back. The first hot spurt of Wookiee cum was the last grain of sand on the eopie’s back, and Parwab felt his wattle inflate as he honked out a grunt and shot his own load onto the wall, staining it just a little more. As the Wookiee’s shaft slipped from his hole, he could feel a trickle of creamy warmth running down the inside of his thigh. He knew he should mop up right away, but he simply couldn’t be bothered. One of these days I’ll learn to put a towel there or something. Or just replace the plating,

His musing was interrupted by the pair of strong and furry arms that tightened around his chest, picking him up bodily and carrying him across the room. In a twinkling, silver fur and blue hide were reclining together on the black sheets, both men taking time to regain their composure and calm their breathing.

Parwab pulled off his glasses and set them on the bedside table, the clear lenses and swing arms seeming to watch as the Besalisk and Wookiee cuddled. “So, now that I’ve properly welcomed you home, tell me all about your trip” he said, running his fingers through Spench’s fur. As they talked in low and tender tones, the droidsmith’s headset sat ignored on its table; Parwab could see what he wanted just fine without it.

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