The franchise

by BRK

 It turns out there’s a secret direct-sales network of individually owned franchises for the sale of extra arms, legs, and the like. And the franchise in Branigan County, SD is for sale, to the right kind of buyer.

Added: Sep 2012 3,858 words 9,995 views 4.8 stars (5 votes)


Branigan County, South Dakota, is one of those typical American expanses where accelerated development thanks to suddenly successful local industry has resulted in a panoply of quaint, self-contained developments festooning all the wide flats and rolling hills where, once upon a time, the farms used to be. These insular complexes, with their own closed circuits of roads, drives, circles, and terraces; their own microcosm of a mall just the other side of the model home up by the trunk highway that strings them all together and links them to the corporate campuses; their successive phases of attractive and yet unnervingly artificial houses, all strategic variations on a single theme—they somehow manage to carefully approximate living in a community, without providing the actual fact of one.

What created the boom in this forgotten corner of the upper midwest? Branigan County, in addition to an old automotive brake pads factory that stubbornly insists not only on not failing but on continuing to comfortably employ a couple thousand unionized locals, is now the habitat of no fewer than three massive call centers owned by the same obscure corporation—call centers so successful, thanks to a low-cost, high-dedication customer service model, that their ongoing expansion has actually outstripped the available local employable population and has drawn significant numbers outsiders to a patch of the Great Plains once better known for bison and wind farms than for successful essays in capitalism.

I, thank God, do not work in the call centers. I’m not up at the factory, either. What am I doing here? Well, funny you should ask. The short version is that, as if in eerie and unknowing emulation of the original covered-wagon settlers of Branigan County, I set up camp here because, in the course of an aimless and dispirited drive in a general westward-ho direction in the months after my anticlimatic graduation from college in Boston, this is where my car broke down.

It was a Wednesday, and it was hot. I stood outside the single bay of Hank’s Garage on Spruce Street, Cooper City’s leafy main drag, and glowered at my crotchety old Honda’s elevated butt. Hank’s partner, Evan, also old and crotchety, stood by me in his grease-stained coveralls, glowering harder than I was.

“Not sure what’s wrong with it,” he said shortly, and spat, relieving his frustration on the uneven concrete. He stared up at the car angrily, as if it were hiding the nature of its disorders out of pure spite. “Just—come back tomorrow.”

I turned and looked at him, waiting for him to elaborate. He did not. I sighed and walked away, adjusting the strap on my not very large but slightly too heavy satchel.

On the way in I’d seen a motel a few blocks down the street, but it was still before noon—too early to check in. I resolved to survey the town for a few hours, sure I’d find some of that quaint midwestern Americana I’d always heard about. Perhaps there’d be antiques stores selling framed watercolors of Harry Truman. And a family-run diner with the world’s best apple pie this side of Topeka. Cooper City—there might even be a cooper, and people who remembered what one was. I, hailing from Boston, was only vaguely aware that it was some kind of craftsman. Or perhaps it was the birthplace of Gary Cooper. Who was that again? Was he in movies with Tom Mix and Gabby Hayes or something?

Maybe it was the birthplace of Anderson Cooper. I smiled. Him, at least, I knew. As I ambled down Spruce Street I pictured him in my mind, and, because he’s one of the wide assortment of strong and handsome celebrities I regularly use as a sort of erotic warm-up when I’m starting to enjoy an evening at home, as it were, I started to have an automatic reaction, all the more potent for my recent lack of self-indulgence. For two weeks, the whole time of my trip, I hadn’t felt like it, but now buff, smiling old Coop was suddenly powering me up.

After a moment I had to pause, turning away from the locals coursing up and down the sidewalks in periodic ones and twos, and facing a wide brick expanse that formed the side of the First Union Bank, surreptitiously adjust myself. Even as I did so I was amazed to realize that I wasn’t just chubbing up—my cock, hefty even soft, was unaccountably and inconveniently inflating as fast as a life raft to its huge and fully boned state, making a considerable and, I was afraid, unmistakable log-shaped lump in my thin and worn old traveling jeans, without even a layer of underwear to smooth the edges. I felt my cheeks warm a little from the embarrassing nature of the situation. What the hell brought that on?

Taking a moment to assess whether my surging, now fully hard boner was going to obstinately lock in or, having metaphorically tapped me on the shoulder to let me know I was at least susceptible to horn-dogness again, respectfully deflate, I refrained from turning back toward the traffic on the sidewalk and pretended to study the wall in front of me. I was surprised to realize there was, in fact, something to study: a large, tabloid-sized sheet of white cardboard was affixed to the wall, though I was reasonably confident that the wall had been nothing but dull red brick when I’d turned. It was worn and a little discolored, as if, despite having seemingly just appeared, it had been hanging in the weather for a long time. The advertisement on it was not typeset but carefully written out in thick black marker. It said:

HAVE YOU ALWAYS DREAMT OF HAVING EXTRA LIMBS? Has the idea of four strong legs or six thick arms forever been your most secret erotic fantasy? Now you can actually feel what it’s like to have extra arms, extra legs—extra anything. And the best part is you’ll still live your life as if nothing had changed! How? Stop by Mort’s Travel Agency and mention Bodyplus for your free trial. Don’t wait another moment to live your dream!

Okay, I was seriously—painfully—hard now.

What I forgot to mention about my warming up for my self-pleasuring sessions by thinking about certain buff celebrities was the peculiar and, I had always thought, fairly unique way I’d imagined them. I’d picture Anderson Cooper (say), standing in front of me, both of us shirtless, and as we moved in form the smooch I’d be imagining not just our hard torsos pressed against each other, but the feel of his hands on my bare back, first two—and then four—and sometimes six—his buff arms wrapping around my upper body, my own college-swim-team-strong arms doubling and trebling to match and intertwine with his. And things would proceed from there.

Now, involuntarily, awash in arousal, I was imagining even as I stood there, oblivious townspeople passing by every few seconds, the sensation of six strong, heavy arms hanging from my shoulders, my tee-shirt rebuilt to accommodate them. I flexed my hands, and, for a second, I actually wasn’t quite sure if I’d flexed two real hands or six imagined ones. I stared at the sign, the letters burning on my mind, inflaming my extreme arousal. My cock twitched, seeming to be trying to blow up to full hardness even though I was already as totally and completely boned as I’d ever been. I felt, surreally, as though if I were standing in front of a store window instead of a bare brick wall I’d be able to see those six arms—

Bare brick wall? I let out a little gasp. The sign was gone!

“Are you lost, young man?” said a woman’s voice beside me. I turned and beheld a frumpy woman, past middle age but still bright-eyed, in a no-nonsense dress and blazer outfit that for me seemed to say “realtor.” Her facial expression told me she’d assessed me as an outsider, and therefore an object of compassion.

I stared down at her (less because she was short than because at 6’3” I ended up looking down at most everyone), twitching a little bit, aware not only of my erection but of the six arms that felt almost real enough that she ought to be able to see them. She watched my face, patiently, giving no sign she understood what freakiness I was experiencing.

“Do—do you know where Mort’s Travel is?” I said at last, stammering a bit in my embarrassment.

She cocked her head. “Well, it was just around the corner at 63 Cypress, but—”

“Was?” I breathed. Was? I realized that unconsciously I had come to the conclusion that the only way to get rid of my 25% harder hard-on and these strangely real extra arms I was somehow imagining I was feeling, that I was in fact imagining I was feeling were more and more solid, hard, and real—was to follow up on this advertisement, and—

I didn’t know what came after the “and,” but the first part definitely had to happen. Was?

Realtor lady had politely paused at the interruption, then continued. “—But I heard that he’s closing up the business and moving away. To live with his husband in Europe, I believe. So if he is still there, he won’t be for long—”

Before she even got to the end of the sentence I blurted a “thank you” at her and stepped around her, heading down the sidewalk toward the next cross-street, which was, indeed, Cypress. My walk accelerated to a trot, despite the complaints of my superhard boner as it chafed against the denim insides of my jeans. My mind was in turmoil. What felt real now was six arms, not two: six of my long, carefully toned arms hanging ponderously from thicker shoulders, the multiplied sleeves my black tee shirt snug against the muscle, three big hands on each side jangling together as I jogged toward—toward what?

I rounded the corner and slowed to a stop.

For a few buildings nearest Spruce, Cypress Street was part of the town’s business center, the two-story structures occupied by various professional businesses before the street shifted to a residential area of old-fashioned, small houses. The last building on the left before the houses had a large sign, MORT’S TRAVEL, over the first-floor store-front.

But sighting the store wasn’t what arrested my jog. On the street in front of the building was a beat-up old pick-up, dark blue but scuffed and muddied. A very handsome and fitness-model-built young man, so attractive that I felt like I had to resist moving toward him, was carefully loading a large box into the bed, his crisp white dress shirt and dark slacks serving only to shout out the already obvious fact that he was beautifully blessed with four arms and four legs.

I stood there, twenty feet away, and watched dumbfounded as he returned through the shop’s open door, returning a moment later with another brown box. He carried it with all four arms—two around the bottom edges, two hands clasping the front edges. My mouth was hanging open as my eyes followed him, my various hands interacting randomly with each other as they hung on both sides: fingers twining and untwining, thumbs rubbing the backs of the hands in front of them. My overboned cock throbbed and squirmed against my jeans.

As he positioned the box next to the others in the bed and closed up the back end he seemed to notice me; anyway he glanced up suddenly, his eyebrows disappearing into the loose, glossy bangs falling over his forehead. He quickly got over his surprise and smiled, beckoning me over.

He seemed to wait for me to speak. “Are—are you the person to see about, um, the Bodyplus ad?” If I hadn’t somehow managed to imagine six arms so intensely that they seemed real, and if I weren’t looking at a real-life four-armed, four-legged hunk, I would never have been able to say it. But things were kind of past that now.

He smiled gently and glanced down at himself quickly. “What do you think?” he said pleasantly. He looked me over appraisingly and whistled. “Looks like you already acquired the free trial,” he added appreciatively. “Looks great on you. You should make them permanent, definitely.” He turned a bit and leaned against the back end of the truck, folding both sets of arms over his chest, looking relaxed and natural. Despite the lifting he’d been doing the heat of the bright sun directly overhead, the still warm air of a July noontide, seemed not to affect him in the slightest—not a drop of sweat was in evidence anywhere about him.

“You mean,” I said, startled, “you can see these?” My six hands twitched. I was suddenly overcome with a desire to lift them up, to wrap my arms around this apparition’s thick chest and wide back, letting his muscle arms embrace me. He looked perfect with four arms, like it would be unnatural for him to have only two. I kept my arms at my sides. My hard-on pumped and tried to demand my attention.

He shrugged, a delight to watch. “You can see these, right?” he replied reasonably, with a nod to his beautiful extra limbs.

I suddenly seemed to catch on. “And—no one else can?”

He nodded. “Only guys like us. Guys who want them. Who need them, in a way. Who should have been—” he gestured with one of his right hands.

“—Born with them,” I whispered.

He nodded again. “No one else can even see the ads, or the merchandise containers, or anything with Bodyplus written on it. But the ones who can are drawn to it and—” He dropped his eyes to my crotch and his eyes widened. “Wow,” he said softly. He seemed to recover himself with a start and, in so doing, remember his manners. “I’m Mort, by the way,” he said, offering both of his right hands.

I grinned and managed to maneuver two of my right hands into his. “Dave,” I said. We shook, and I didn’t want to let go. His hands were warm and his grip was strong. It was too easy to imagine that grip around the hard thick leaking cock I was sporting only a few inches away from the handshake.

I reddened and disengaged. “So, um, I’m obviously, you know, interested in your product,” I started to say. But my new friend suddenly looked pained.

“Unfortunately, I can’t help you,” he said. “I have a flight to catch, and I’m already going to be cutting it close after I drop off all this travel stuff at my brother’s.”

“But what about after you come back?” I said, already afraid I knew the answer.

He shook his head. “I’m not coming back. I’m moving to Norway, and I can’t take the franchise with me, so I’m closing out the whole thing. I can give you the card for the nearest franchisee in Des Moines, but—” He trailed off, obviously unhappy that he couldn’t take care of me. His eyes drifted over my nice new arms again and he sighed.

I was still stuck on the beginning of what he’d said. “Norway—why can’t you operate there? They would look so awesome with extra arms and stuff,” I added, half to myself.

“They do,” Mort agreed. “So much so that they don’t allow imports. All their extras are high-quality home-grown parts, and the most beautiful extras I have ever seen.”

“I dunno,” I said shyly, and allowed my eyes to range over his impossibly well proportioned body.

Mort smiled at the compliment. “You should see my husband,” he said, and his eyes became a little wistful. “He had to go back when his visa expired. We ran the business here together, and he always joked about how American legs were second-rate.”

“And now you’re going back to him,” I said, understanding.

He looked away. “I need him.” Then he looked back at me, remembering my problem. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, but maybe they can send someone to take over the franch—” As he said this his words slowed, and something seemed to dawn on him. He leaned forward a bit, excited. “Unless you—!” His eyes seemed to light up.

“What?” I said, not sure I knew what he was saying.

Mort was completely taken with the idea now. “It’s perfect! You take over the franchise, you can have all the freebies you want for yourself and handle Bodyplus for the entire region, and the travel agency too, it’s a great cover and makes a fair amount of money on its own. God, what a load off my mind! I was so worried, without a hand-off all the merchandise will turn to dust anyway once I’m out of range, and—”

“Wait, hold on!” I said, panicking a little. He was already talking as if this were a done deal. Sure, the implication of “freebies for myself” hadn’t at all been lost on me, but this was too much too quickly. “I don’t even live here. And I don’t have any money to buy a business.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Where do you live?”

I paused, taken aback. It occurred to me that I’d let my lease expire in Boston, figuring I’d find someplace new after this open-ended summer road trip. “Well, actually, I don’t have a place at the moment,” I muttered.

He nodded. “You do now. My house over in the Shady Grove development off Route 13 is standing empty, and it’s easier throwing it in with the franchise than selling it from half a world away.” He pulled out his keys, starting to twist a few off the keyring, and then stopped and looked up at me. “You have a car?”

“Um, I think it just died.” I stared at him nervously. What the hell is happening here?

He nodded again. “Then I might as well throw in the truck,” he said, and he actually held out the whole keyring for me to take. “That is, assuming you’ll give me a ride to the airport?”

I started to reach out my front right hand automatically to take the keys, then arrested myself. “But you don’t understand,” I said, distressed. “I don’t have any money to buy a business!”

Mort smiled. “You don’t need any. It’s actually against the rules to sell the franchise—you either transfer it to a new owner, or abandon it and all the stuff turns to dust. And I will be so much happier knowing that there’s a cute, six-armed hunk taking over for me here when I’m back in Erik’s arms again.”

I frowned. “You have to give it away?” I said doubtfully. He nodded seriously. I narrowed my eyes a bit. “What about the house?”

“I was going to take a bath on it anyway,” he said philosophically. “There’s a glut of two-bedrooms around here right now. All the new arrivals want three or more because they have so damned many kids.”

I realized I was trembling. My cock had stopped throbbing and was now standing straight up, rigid and aching, waiting. Something hard and cool was in my hand—somehow he’d pressed the thick bunch of keys into my palm after all.

I swallowed. “S-so, how do we—?” I said, stammering.

He smiled gently and, reaching up with two warm hands, clasped both sides of my face and brought our lips together.

Now I could wrap my arms around his muscular body even as I pushed deeply into the kiss, allowing a startlingly long, thick, warm tongue into my mouth. I moaned a little and pressed my entire body hard against him, my cock pushing against something monstrous and iron-hard. My big hands roamed his broad back through the crisp white shirt, our thickly muscled upper arms rubbing against each other as we embraced, and our kiss if anything seemed to become more passionate, more intense. Two of his hands found my ass and his tongue seemed to grow a bit longer in my mouth. My heart was pounding and suddenly my cock swelled and, without warning, exploded with gout after gout of cum, followed only seconds behind by his monster expanding and palpably surging with a vast amount of cum, our bodies rocking together with a brain-fryingly potent shared orgasm right there on the sidewalk.

After a moment our faces moved apart an inch. I was still seeing stars. “Congratulations,” he whispered. “You’re now the Bodyplus rep for the upper midwest.”

“Thanks,” I breathed, still not quite taking it all in. We stepped back from each other. Even though he’d cum a gallon at least, his shirt was somehow still dry and spotless, unlike mine, which was plastered against my eight-pack abs. I’d have to ask him how he did that.

He looked me over and whistled one more time.

“Nicely done,” he said, with a crooked grin. “And no more trial anything. You’re in control of the whole game now. All that’s yours for good—until you try something else,” he added.

I furrowed my brows, unsure what he meant. I looked down and gasped. I was now considerably more muscular than before, at least as big as my new friend, and maybe bigger in the pecs. My arms were thicker too, which was especially noticeable as I now had eight of them. Past them I could see I was now standing squarely on four soccer-perfect legs, my semen-soaked jeans and worn out tennies casually multiplied to accommodate my new form. Best of all, two still-hard cocks, half again as long and thick as before, were standing tall and proud out of my jeans. I could feel two more just like them erupting from my back crotch and tickling my balls in front inside my jeans.

Still a little self-conscious, I pulled my cum-drenched tee shirt ineffectively over my double phone poles, the thick wet cloth completely failing to hide them in the slightest. I shook my head in bewilderment and looked back up at the guy I had apparently just replaced as the man who made dreams like mine come true. “So, Mort,” I said, taking a deep breath: “you still need a ride to the airport?”


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