Description Shortly after acquiring a mysterious leather bracelet, Pete and his kid brother Quentin have a conversation that leads rapidly toward just how hung Pete is, and how horny that makes his brother.
|Updated||30 Mar 2018|
Pete was pretty sure the twisted brown-leather wrist bracelet hadn’t been there when he’d slapped the box of Cheerios on the table next to his bowl and turned for the fridge. In fact he was pretty certain the round kitchen table had been completely empty except for bowl, spoon, and box. But when he came back with the milk, his hips swaying a little to the old Queen anthem playing on the radio, and dropped into his chair, well, there it was: a sexy-looking twisted-leather bracelet, sitting there in the exact center of the table and rocking ever so slightly, as if a micro-wormhole that opened and closed in the space between seconds had spit it out randomly, like impromptu jetsam from a shipwreck on the astral plane.
Pete frowned at it, and he scratched the small patch of dark hair that adorned a chest that, while tight and not unnicely shaped, seemed annoyingly resistant to the effort he put into trying to make it grow. The bracelet was not something that had been laying around. He’d never seen it before. It wasn’t his, and it sure wasn’t his brother’s or his dad’s, but there was—something about it. It was quite beautiful, and—Pete didn’t wear any jewelry or accessories; in fact he’d always said that rings and neckchains and earrings were only for girls and fags, even though people constantly said a gold stud in one ear would perfectly set off his shoulder-length walnut-brown hair even better than his kid brother Quentin’s earrings complemented his blonder mane. But this—well, this would be okay, maybe, he thought as he picked it up and considered it shrewdly. It looked like it would feel good on his wrist if he tried it on.
He was pondering sliding it on, curious but hesitant, when he heard shuffling feet behind him. He stole a glance over his shoulder. With their diplomat dad away as usual, as he tended to be for weeks or moths at a time, it could only be his horny younger brother Quentin. Sure enough, the scrawny 16-year-old was padding into the kitchen, preceded by his usual morning erection tenting out his jammie bottoms.
Pete quickly slipped the bracelet onto his right wrist, not examining his sudden possessiveness, though it occurred to him that Quentin might be exactly the type to want to wear something like this. He already wore those earrings in his right ear, and he’d probably take to this sexy little bracelet in a second if it were just lying around and Pete didn’t seem to want it. So, just to completely secure uncontested ownership, and for no other reason he was aware of, Pete dropped his hands into his lap, idly fingering the twisted leather with his other hand, pleased that it had slipped on easily and fit perfectly, before giving his brother another quick, dismissive glance over his shoulder to see if—yup, there “it” was, just like every day. Pete shook his head and started filling his bowl. “Put that thing away,” he chided his brother as he reached for the milk.
Pete thinking of Quentin as his “horny little brother” had some justification in reality. He seemed to jerk off even more than Pete did, closeting himself away in his room at every opportunity and not, whatever he told their dad in his emails and Skypes, to do his homework. Pete had checked Quentin’s browser history a few months earlier and had been amused to find more links to freaky gay web porn than he’d ever guessed could possibly have existed. And even with all that jacking off he was still completely boned every morning, wandering into the kitchen every day with his big boner tenting his pajama bottoms straight out in front of him like a proud battering ram. Pete had to almost admire the intensity with which the kid’s hormones were percolating in his balls and throughout his fit, tight young bod—not to mention a boner that looked, from all the evidence with which he was unavoidably confronted, like it might actually be a shade bigger than his own.
“You love it,” Quentin jeered, smirking down at his morning tent pole and stifling a yawn.
“Absolutely,” Pete said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Seeing your stiffy every morning is the highlight of my day. Makes me all warm and fuzzy inside.”
“Fuck you,” Quentin said calmly as he retrieved his own bowl and spoon from the strainer and dropped down into the chair beside him. “You’re just jealous of my big hard eight-inch cock.” He reached for the cereal box and went to pour his own bowl.
“Hardly,” Pete scoffed around a mouthful of Cheerios.
“I bet I’m even bigger than you,” Quentin said confidently.
Pete snorted, not looking up from his own bowl. “Not even close,” he said casually, shoving a heaping spoonful of cereal into his mouth. He pulled out the spoon and added derisively, “Half as big, maybe.”
Quentin’s hand jerked as he was pouring the cereal, causing a small spray of little O’s to scatter onto the table. He quickly righted the box and set it down where either of them could reach it. Pete pulled it toward him so he could read the back as he ate. The Queen song on the radio faded into a Cream tune of similar vintage.
Quentin swallowed, but when he spoke, he tried to sound dismissive. “Uh huh,” he snorted. “You’re full of shit.”
“Nope,” Pete said serenely. He didn’t say anything else, and he didn’t feel much of a need to prove anything either. He knew how big his dick was and there was no need to prove it to Boner Boy here. It was a little too big to show around anyway.
“C’mon,” Quentin said. “You’re totally lying. All I’ve ever seen is your big bulge in your boxer-briefs. And I’ll bet that’s just a—a wadded up sock,” he added in a rush. Piling on the bravado, he blurted, “I bet if you pulled down those boxer-briefs you’re wearing right now a pair of socks will fall out.”
“More like a pair of cocks,” Pete said casually, swallowing another mouthful of cereal as he went on perusing the back of the cereal box. “And both of ‘em will always be twice as big as yours, little buddy,” he added, sparing Quentin a mock-pitying glance.
“L-liar,” Quentin said. He was sitting there staring at Pete, his unmilked cereal forgotten. “They–they can’t be that big.”
“Bigger.” Pete said nonchalantly, spooning more Cheerios into his mouth. “Shit, forgot the O.J.” He scooted his chair back and stood up, exposing gray boxer-briefs so packed with massively thick, soft cock that the elastic was palled away from his flat waist a good couple inches, exposing the roots of two huge pink hoses amid the dark patch of pubic hair. He padded over to the fridge and pulled out the gallon jug of orange juice, pausing to hold the bottle up for Quentin. “Want some? Puts hair on your chest,” he promised, waggling the jug in one hand.
Quentin, his eyes fixed on Pete’s obscene bulge, just nodded mutely.
Pete set the O.J. on the counter and grinned wolfishly at his brother. From where he stood he could clearly see Quentin’s thick eight-inch boner and the wet spot it made where he was tenting his pjs. “You do want some, don’t you? You totally can’t take your eyes off them.”
Quentin’s eyes flicked up to Pete’s face. His big brother was clearly enjoying the attention. “How do you—? I mean,” he gulped, letting his eyes drop to the enormous bulge again, “they’re huge. So huge. How do you deal with it? I mean,” he added quickly, “them?”
Pete shrugged his bare shoulders. “I’m used to ‘em,” he said bluffly. He turned to pour two glasses of orange juice, letting Quentin enjoy the oversized bulge in profile, seeming to relax a bit as he did so. “Anyway, I can control mine—something you obviously can’t,” he went on, nodding derisively over at Quentin’s boner as he picked up the glasses and brought them to the table. As he sat down again and placed the glasses in front of himself and his brother he caught sight of Quentin’s bowl, which was still full of dry cereal, and frowned. “Aren’t you going to eat?” he asked.
“Wh-what?” Quentin blurted.
Pete just nodded at Quentin’s bowl. “Oh,” Quentin said. “Uh. Right.” He took a gulp of juice, almost making it go down the wrong way, and then asked, a little plaintively, “What do you mean, ‘control’ them?”
Pete took a swig of his own juice and leaned back in the wooden chair. “You know,” he said. “Hard or soft whenever I want. Stuff like that.” He glanced over at Quentin with a raised eyebrow. “Not like you,” he went on. “You’re basically hard all the fucking time. Right?”
Quentin was going to argue, but, well, it was true and they both knew it. “Yeah,” he said. “Sorry.”
Pete shrugged. “Eh,” he said dismissively. “Nobody cares if you’re a freak.” He took a mouthful of juice and leaned back in his chair, totally at ease. “Certainly not me.”
Quentin’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t care that I’m constantly sporting wood?” he asked suspiciously.
Pete shook his head. “Nope.” He shrugged and aimed an indulgent smirk at his brother. “Hell, you can walk around boned and butt-naked for all I care.”
Quentin gaped at him, all the more shocked when his big bro followed up his remark with a nod and a smile that actually seemed sincere. “Really?” He looked down at where his pajama bottoms were straining and wet across the little phone pole of his big hard cock. “D-don’t lie to me,” he warned. “‘Cause I’ve kinda dreamed of—I mean, these pjs are really—”
“Shuck ‘em,” Pete said bluntly, taking the last swig of his juice. He snatched up his bowl, spoon, and glass and brought them over to the sink to start rinsing them. Quentin stared at him and then, moving quickly before his big bro could change his mind, yanking down his thin pajama bottoms and kicking them away so that he was, apart from his socks, completely naked. He took a second to marvel a little at his own dick, which seemed almost perfectly hard, the ideal eight-inch boner (which was good, since that was its normal, permanent state these days). As he watched, a pearldrop of pre emerged from the wide, spongy head and began a slow roll down the hard shaft.
Pete finished rinsing and turned back to face his brother. “There, see?” he said, looking down at Quentin’s proud boner. “Don’t care. You know why?”
“We’ll save money on laundry detergent?” Quentin guessed with a grin.
“That’s right,” said Pete, rubbing the proud thatch of dark hair dividing his chest. “And since you don’t wear clothes at home they last longer too!”
“Is that why you don’t care?” Quentin said, smiling crookedly because he knew what the real reason was.
Pete put on a mock-sober expression. “Mainly it’s because your big, hard eight—wait, how big are you?”
“Nine inches,” Quentin lied immediately.
“Really?” Pete said with a skeptical look at the boner in question, then shrugged. “Your big hard nine inches or whatever just tells me one thing.” And then he just smiled, pointing at his own enormous, stretched-out bulge.
Quentin rolled his eyes. “Yours are twice as big, I know, I know,” he said, trying desperately to sound as if he were tired of this bit of information. His eyes fixed on the unnatural bulge in Pete’s gray cotton undies made by his huge soft cocks. Quentin tried to keep his nonchalant tone, but he couldn’t hide his awe as he said, “Ironic I’m always naked at home and you wear those.”
Pete reached down and hefted his oversized package speculatively. “I gotta admit,” he said speculatively, “it is a pain wearing clothes when you’re hung as huge as I am.” His eyes flicked up to meet Quentin’s. “I bet you wouldn’t mind, either. Right? Yeah, you’d love it if I shucked ‘em like you.”
There was no point in denying it, both aware at how Quentin never took his eyes off Pete’s bulge. Quentin just gulped and nodded.
Pete smiled a big fake grin. “Anything to make you happy, bro,” Pete said with a cruel, faux-sappiness. He even winked. And even though Quentin couldn’t help but hear the sarcasm in Pete’s voice, Quentin forgave him because he knew his big brother was essentially telling the truth.
After all, wasn’t Pete always naked all the time at home, and constantly fully boned like now by his own choice, just because Pete knew Quentin loved staring at Pete’s twin 18-inch cocktowers?
Pete, coming back to the table, turned his chair so that it was facing Quentin and then came around and dropped it, his knees only a few inches away from Quentin’s. “The way you stare at them,” he teased his brother warmly, “it just makes me horny as hell.”
The whole time Pete was sitting back down Quentin watched the enormous boners, transfixed, loving the way that once he was sitting down the copiously drooling, quivering heads topped out an inch or so under Pete’s chin. “God,” Quentin gasped. “I’d be horny as hell too. They just look so … amazing.” He wanted to touch his own permaboner, but he consoled himself that he’d touch it plenty later.
His brother was watching him with a certain intensity now, his bright hazel eyes seeming to glint as he leaned toward him just a bit. “They taste amazing too,” Pete said cockily, arching an eyebrow. Just to rile Quentin up he inclined his head slightly, just enough to take the head of his left cock gently into his cock and suck on it for a few heartbeats, finally letting it go with a wet pop.
“Fuuck,” Quentin said, barely noticing his cock was spitting out a steady stream of pre thanks to the show Pete was giving him. “I wish I could do that.”
“You probably haven’t even tried,” Pete scoffed. “C’mon, at your age I could fold yourself into a pretzel if I wanted, and I’m sure you can too.”
“You think?” Quentin said. He frowned slightly, considering this. His phys. ed. teacher had said something about Quentin looking like he’d be really limber, but he spent so much time thinking about Pete’s cocks—
“Course, if you’re satisfied with just your hand—” Pete went on philosophically, before wrapping his mouth suggestively around his right cock and giving it a loud slurp.
“Fuck that,” Quentin said, mostly to himself. He did feel remarkably—flexible. On an impulse he lifted his left leg and, grabbing the heel, pulled his thigh behind his shoulders and the ankle behind his head. The he did the same thing with his right leg. He considered his folded up state. It didn’t feel all that great, to be honest, but it was awesome that he could do it so easily. His fat boner was right there, waiting to be sucked. He glanced up to check Pete’s reaction and saw to his surprise that Pete was watching him with interest, and probably would have been gaping if not for the fact that his mouth was still wrapped around his right phallocolossus.
Quentin had been about to unfold himself, but seeing how impressed Pete was he held off. “You like?”
Pete released his cock to say, “See? We can both suck ourselves.” Pete cocked his head. “Fuck, look at you. That’s kinda impressive, bro. And totally sexy, too. You fucking look like an Olympic gymnast.” He considered his beaming brother, taking in the thick, compact muscles of his legs and upper body and how Quentin’s pose showed them off startlingly well. “You’re all buff like one, too. When did that happen?”
Quentin shrugged. He wasn’t sure himself. He was just used to being buff like a gymnast.
Pete let himself stare in amazement at how hot Quentin looked this way, almost forgetting the cocks in easy reach of his cock-hungry mouth (something he almost never did). “Fuck, look at you. It’s totally comfortable too, right?”
Quentin shrugged and then, mulling it over a second, nodded. It was unexpectedly comfortable being folded up like this, maybe even more comfortable than sitting the usual way. He wiggled the toes of his right foot at Pete from behind his head and smiled.
“Fuck,” Pete said again, laughingly shaking his head as if Quentin had just given further evidence of what an endearingly freaky kid brother he was. “It’s totally amazingly comfortable, I can tell. Geez, now you’re going to just sit like that all the time, am I right?” Quentin shrugged and then nodded again. Pete clicked his tongue and cocked his head, watching Quentin for a moment. “Well?” he said finally, with mock exasperation. “Aren’t you going to taste it?”
Quentin’s eyes widened, but he shook his head. He couldn’t, not in front of Pete. Even though it was right in front of him—all he had to do was take a hand and lift it up and into his mouth—and Pete, well, he certainly made no bones about sucking his own cocks. So to speak.
Pete realized he’d been giving his little brother too much praise, and that had to stop. He wanted to watch Quentin suck his own cock, but, shit, he couldn’t actually ask for it! “C’mon,” Pete said coyly in his more usual teasing voice. “You gotta know by now that drinking your own loads—eh, you probably haven’t even figured it out yet. And you’re such a smart kid,” he goaded.
Quentin stared at Pete, his breathing shallow, his eyes bright. His hard nine-inch cock dripped a large, clear drop of precum onto his chest. He was really, really aroused, in fact he wasn’t far from being close. “Tell me,” he said, quietly but firmly.
Pete leaned forward, as if communicating a deep, dark secret, a half-smile warning that more taunting was coming. He knew what would convince Quentin to give his bro a show. “How do you think,” he said huskily, “my cocks got so big?”
Quentin’s mouth dropped open. “No way,” he breathed.
“Way,” Pete said. He was watching Quentin intently, their faces only a few inches apart. “When we suck down our cum,” he explained, “it does stuff to our bods, bro.”
“Just us?” Quentin whispered. “You and me?”
Pete considered and nodded. “Just us.”
“Wh-what ‘stuff’ does it do?” Quentin stammered, his eyes locked on Pete’s.
Pete shifted a bit closer still. “Whatever—you—want,” Pete said.
Quentin gasped as felt a sudden surge of erotic ecstasy shudder through him. He closed his eyes, wanting just to feel the orgasm wash through him, but even as he realized he was about to cum he felt Pete reach up and grab Quentin’s cock and shove it right into Quentin’s mouth. Quentin barely had time to register how great it felt having his own thick, hard cock in his mouth before he started cumming, surge after surge of hot, potent jizz, and, thinking hard about what Pete said he swallowed every single blast wrapped in glorious hope.
After a few minutes his head fell back against his crossed ankles. He felt sweaty all over suddenly, damp on the outside and saturated with deep, wonderful pleasure on the inside. He let go of his still-hard cock and was delighted to feel it slap back in place against his other rock-hard boners. He realized he wasn’t just wet because he was sweaty—his chest and abs were covered in cum from his other cocks, so much cum that it was rolling off his torso onto the chair and dripping steadily on the floor.
He opened his eyes and stared at his crotch in pure elation. A cluster of hard, fat cum-covered cocks stared back at him. Quentin looked up at Pete with a huge grin.
Pete was staring at it—at them—too, his face a picture of slack-jawed awe. His hand was still wrapped around the thick hard shaft he’d shoved into Quentin’s mouth, now one of many heavy, fat, iron-hard boners. He met Quentin’s eyes. “They—they just—oh god, I gotta—!” Quickly, Pete pulled back and, moving urgently, somehow managed to shove both of his precum-slick cockheads into his mouth, hands groping his billiard-ball-sized nuts and frantically groping the shafts.
“Muscle,” Quentin said suddenly. Pete stared at him, eyes wide as saucers as he moaned and whimpered, his cocktowers shuddering and shaking as Pete prepared to ride a massive pair of orgasms. “Grow muscle,” Quentin urged, knowing Pete’s attention was fixed on him, on his hot human pretzel gymnast-buff kid bother with the pile of at least a half-dozen hard cocks shoving out of his groin. “Hard, thick, strong muscle,” Quentin went on, his voice rising as Pete started trying to desperately chug down a massive, unstoppable double-barreled torrent of his own hot jizz. “Muscle shoulders, muscle pecs, muscle legs! Tight hard eight-pack abs! And muscle arms, bro! Grow me hot strong muscle arms!!” Quentin shouted even as Pete struggled to keep up with the insane amount of spunk he was pumping down his own throat.
Quentin watched in awe as muscle bloomed all over his brother’s increasingly amazing bod. Generous slabs of muscle pushed up out of Pete’s hunched shoulders. Massive muscle shoved out from Pete’s chest, giving him thick, heavy, perfectly shaped pecs that made Quentin’s cum-slick cluster of close-pressed steel-hard cocks writhe against each other, bringing Quentin rapidly to the edge of a new surge of ecstatic explosions even as Pete, stroking and sucking himself madly, brought himself to the climax of his climaxes. And then Quentin’s eyes widened and he started cumming uncontrollably as Pete’s two swelling muscle-thick arms became four—and then six! Quentin thrust forward and wrapped his mouth around three of his cockheads as cum spurted all over his face and down his throat as he watched Pete gratefully bring all his hands up to stroke his twin double-wide two-foot cocks, mega versions of the dozen or more extra-fat footlong boners Quentin now had; but Pete’s eyes were now fixed appreciatively on the four lithe jock-muscled arms Quentin was sporting, four big hands reaching up to wrap around random members of his crowd of oversized, tightly packed permaboners.
Pete swallowed one last volley and pulled his mouth off his cocks, though they continued to shoot cum straight up into the air in a series of aftershocks. He stared panting at Quentin, and Quentin stared back, and then suddenly they were both laughing.
“Dude, I didn’t mean—!” Quentin started to say, but Pete cut him off.
“I was thinking about it anyway,” Pete said, nodding down at his unreal quantities of cockflesh. His six hands were still wrapped around them, the shafts so wide his fingers not even able to touch. “And somehow I knew you’d like it,” he added with a saucy wink.
Quentin drank in the beautiful sight of his hunky, impossibly hung brother, who’d grown himself thick with muscle from neck to ankle and popped out gorgeous extra arms just for him. “What about school and stuff?” he said, concern starting to creep into his delight.
“Hell,” said Pete dismissively. “If nobody cares you’re a freak, they won’t care if I am either.”
Quentin smiled, figuring his bro was probably right. As they both leaned back, sweaty and covered in cum, Quentin’s eyes lit on a twisted leather bracelet that each of Pete’s right wrists was sporting. “Cool bracelet, bro,” he said.
Pete’s brows jumped in surprise—he’d clean forgotten about the bracelet. He glanced down. “Thanks,” he said, lifting his middle arm and extending a fist toward Quentin. “Here, want one?”
Quentin slipped the jizz-damp bracelet off the proffered wrist and pulled it onto his own right wrist—the one in front. He smiled at Pete. “Thanks, man,” he said.
“Anything for you, Q,” Pete said with a loving smile.
Quentin nodded back and repeated, “Anything for you.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Pete?” Quentin asked again nervously. He was pacing a short route back and forth in front of the great room’s deep and insanely comfortable looking chocolate leather sofa. He was absently fingering the twisted, brown-leather bracelet he wore on the wrist of front right hand. It was the mate of the ones his older brother Pete still wore on two of his three right wrists, but hung a little more loosely on Quentin’s lither frame than on Pete’s newly muscle-exploded bod.
“Of course,” Pete said in a bored voice from where he sat in the equally deep and cozy arm chair opposite the sofa, not even glancing up from whatever text conversation he was immersed in. Like Quentin he’d put on a tee shirt and jeans, and again like his kid brother he hadn’t bothered to try to stow his abnormally large bonerflesh away, because neither pants nor shirt were up to the job. The soft, old jeans Pete had pulled from morning laundry only served to take care of his grapefruit-sized balls and a few inches of shaft, and pulling his sleeveless tee over his twin two-foot rock-hard cocktowers would only stretch out the fabric even more than his honeydew melon-sized pecs were doing already.
As it was, Pete’s dual superthick fencepost boners were just short enough that they didn’t get in the way of reading and texting on his smartphone, as long as he was sitting up reasonably straight, but with the two drooling heads right on front of Pete’s sensual mouth they both got a fair amount of casual oral attention. Quentin stopped pacing for a moment to watch as Pete, rapidly typing out a long response to whoever he was chatting with, idly slid his tongue out to lick all the way around the leftmost of his precum-slick cockheads. Quentin wondered almost unconsciously about one cock feeling jealous when the other cock was getting that attention, momentarily forgetting he had the same problem in spades when he attended to his own needs.
Quentin couldn’t tear his eyes away. He felt like he could feel gallons of hot hormones coursing through him like it was his new blood. He wasn’t even sure Pete realized how impossibly horny Quentin was now, all the time. His whole body didn’t just feel like a cock—it felt like a cock being constantly caressed in long, gentle strokes by a huge, strong, slightly calloused hand that was deliberately keeping him boiling, right on the edge. The only time he wasn’t yearning to cum, a second away from exploding with jizz, was when he was actually cumming fountains of hot cum.
He stared at Pete’s enormous, totally hard cocks and wondered how Pete could stand it, much less manage to concentrate on anything but those sex pistons thrusting ceilingward from his lap. How the fuck did Pete not have all six of his hands wrapped hard and tight around those things? It was all Quentin could do not to touch himself, and he was only managing because he’d blow a ton of cum all over Pete the very second Jake showed up, and not dying of embarrassment won out slightly over soul-rocking super-orgasms. Just. It was the main reason he was standing and pacing was because if he sat down like he wanted to, he’d have a cock or three in his mouth the second his ankles were tucked comfortably behind his head. Looking at Pete’s cocks as he did so. The whole afternoon, just Pete and Quentin getting off on how hot they were, their arousal saturating them like an ocean of horniness compressed to the shape of their skin. Fuck, if he fell into that, it wouldn’t just be the afternoon, he and Pete would never leave the house ever.
Sensing Quentin’s eyes on him he finally looked up, dropping his front hands with the phone held between them into his muscular lap. Quentin was looking at the hands now, with their dusting of Pete’s walnut-brown hair on the backs, the ends of the sparse but sexy trails of hair decorating the outsides of Pete’s corded forearms. Pete had always had the perfect amount of body hair to accentuate his physique, but now that his physique was swole to cock-hardening fantasy size, the dustings of hair between his massive pecs or trailing down his abs or ringing the base of his cock or just darkening his calves were exquisite. And as for the soft brown stubble along Pete’s firm jaw—
Quentin was about to let his eyes slide up from Pete’s big hands in his lap to his handsome face when a thumb from Pete’s right hand strayed from the phone and brushed its pad against the nearest cocktower, and as Quentin watched it flexed slightly at the touch, squeezed itself hard against its twin monster-brother. “What are you so worried about?” Pete asked, more indulgent than exasperated.
Quentin gaped at him. Drawing his brows together, he made a “duh” face at his brother and then, just in case he didn’t get it, looked down at his crotch, spreading his four arms wide to exhibit his insane forest of cocks. He hadn’t bothered trying to cover his cocks up with his tee shirt either—his favorite Captain America tee, which, on belatedly realizing he’d need a shirt for what he was now sure was his upcoming ill-fated outing, he’d spent fifteen minutes carefully ripping the sleeves off of to accommodate his new four-armed physique.
His cocks weren’t staying outside the shirt for the same reason as Pete’s—Pete’s cocks were so huge they not only overreached his waistband but his collarband, too—but because it was patently obvious that Quentin’s tightly packed, throbbing crowd of twelve huge, fat, foot-long, permanently iron-hard, precum-drooling cocks really, seriously, just couldn’t be hidden behind a half a millimeter of cotton fabric. Especially cotton fabric that was, as it would almost immediately have been, soaked with a constant supply of pre that slowed down when Quentin wasn’t actively thinking about sex but never quite stopped. At the moment, he was so riled up, especially with the casual-tongue show his beautifully extra-muscled, superhung brother Pete seemed intent on giving him, his cocks were practically spitting a steady supply of precum.
He stared down at his cocks. They were wonderful, they felt amazing, and he felt like he was saturated in horniness up to his eyebrows. He loved having them, really. It was just that they simply wouldn’t go down. After their strange and revelatory breakfast Quentin had foregone his usual Saturday routine to retreat to his room to try simply wearing his cocks out, but after three solid hours his cocks hadn’t softened even the slightest bit, leaving him four sore wrists, an aching mouth, and a dozen boners just as steel-hard as if they were supplied with the endless energy of the hot core of the sun itself. Quentin had no choice but to proudly display his enormous cluster hard-on for all to see, at least for the next few billion years, he’d thought sourly. He looked up at his brother, his eyes pleading for understanding of his plight.
Pete, however, just rolled his eyes. “Relax, little bro,” he said, already returning to his text, mouthing absently at the rim of his right cockhead. Quentin noticed that Pete’s middle hands had crept into Pete’s lap and were now cupping his huge balls through the worn fabric of the jeans, the fingers tracing languidly over the firm spheres like sleepy sea anemones.
Quentin took a step toward Pete, the mixing, intoxicating scents of their sex-charged bodies intensifying as they came within a few feet of each other. “Can we focus here?” Quentin demanded, nerves getting the better of him. His friend Jake would be here any minute, and when that happened—when he opened the door—
Pete lowered his phone again, resting his front hands with the phone on his lap-dwelling middle hands. He sighed. “I already told you,” he began.
“I know,” Quentin interrupted, folding his front arms over firm, thick gymnast’s chest. He repeated what Pete had told him at least twice today: “Nobody will care that we’re freaky like this.”
“Right,” Pete said. He cocked an eyebrow, seeming bemused by Quentin’s nerves. “So what, don’t you believe me? Would I let you do this if—?”
“I believe you,” Quentin broke in. “Intellectually. But my lizard-brain is telling me to run away. Nobody’s seen me like this! There’s a whole school of five hundred teenagers ready to laugh at me on Monday, or scream, or—”
“They won’t. That’s why we’re dong this, remember?” Pete said patiently. “An afternoon hanging out with your best friend and you’ll realize you have nothing to worry about. Except maybe for Jake coming onto you,” Pete added teasingly.
“Yeah, right,” Quentin said. What a weird thought, he told himself. And yet—? No. He pushed the thought away. “Jake’s straight.”
“Not after he sees you,” Pete taunted playfully, aiming a crooked smile at his brother. “He’s gonna be so into you, his big fat cock is going to blow a huge load in his pants just from seeing you.”
“Stop it,” groused Quentin. “You can’t just fix everything with sarcastic remarks.” Nonetheless he was, actually, a little cheered by Pete’s jokes, not that he’d admit it right now. Pete was cocky enough.
Pete finally stood up, tossing his phone on to the couch, and somewhat to Quentin’s surprise he surged toward him and enveloped his horny brother in a massive six-armed hug. Quentin, who was actually only a couple inches shorter than his big bro, found himself swallowed up in what was now, thanks to the urgings he’d blurted out within moments of finding out he and Pete shared body-transforming jizz, a body much wider and thicker and sexier in the shape and distribution of his hard, delicious, oversized muscles than either of them had ever imagined anyone real could be. Quentin automatically followed suit, wrapping his thinner but still strongly muscled arms around Pete’s broad frame, squeezing him hard in return as he felt his hand roam the broad expanse of Pete’s back.
The strength of the hug pushed his face between Pete’s enormous, girder-hard cocks, so that they pushed and flexed against his cheeks, leaving trails of warm goo along his cheeks and, he realized, spurting up into Quentin’s long, loose mane of dirty-blond hair. Pete’s cheeks were a bit flushed, too, and it came to Quentin that Pete might be as aroused as Quentin was. Or more, since he was starting to have trouble hiding it. Their faces were not very far apart now, maybe a little closer than they were even a few seconds ago when Pete had wrapped him up in his warm, strong arms. Their eyes met and locked.
“Do I make you want to cum, Pete?” Quentin whispered.
A shiver seemed to run through Pete’s entire body, and Quentin felt a delighted thrill at the experience of Pete’s visceral response through his body, his muscle, his cocks, all pressed hard against him. As Quentin stared into his eyes expectantly, Pete took a shuddering breath. Somehow Quentin knew they were both millimeters from the edge, that if they both took another breath, with their bodies and cocks jammed together, melding their hypersexualized flesh for one more moment, they would both orgasm so cataclysmically, so soul-wrenchingly, and so endlessly that it would make all the orgasms they had ever experienced seem like mere spurtings of jizz by comparison.
The doorbell rang.
They stared at each other, flushed and panting, still a hair’s breadth from cumming. They seemed frozen in the moment, their eyes fixed on each other’s, their bodies locked in a fierce, mutual embrace. Then the doorbell rang again, and suddenly Quentin laughed. The spell broken, Pete smiled down at him.
“You better get that while I clean up,” Quentin said, stepping out of the hug. “I’m pretty sure I need to go clean up if I want to look presentable.”
“C’mon, you look really cute with pre all over your cheeks,” Pete teased. Then, unexpectedly, he leaned in and used his broad tongue to lick the precum off both sides of Quentin’s face, adding a quick lick along Quentin’s lips for good measure. “There,” he said, standing back and regarding Quentin appraisingly. “All set.”
Quentin just rolled his eyes and headed for the small bathroom just off the side hall, wondering if he had time to blow a quick load while he was in there because Jesus, Pete licking his pre off Quentin’s cheeks was hot as fuck. And that little brush of his tongue along his lips—!
As he turned into the little bathroom he heard Pete opening the door, followed by Jake’s voice, sounding surprised and distracted: “Oh! Uh, hi, Pete. Is—?”
“Quentin will be right out,” Pete said, and Quentin knew that he only had a few seconds. No time to do anything about his pre-fountaining cocks then or the raging horniness that was threatening to wash away his entire rational mind in a flood of urgent sexual desire. Desperately he splashed some cold water on his face, wetting his hair a bit, and rubbed both with a towel. As he tossed the towel down and grabbed the hairbrush out of the medicine cabinet he heard Pete say, “You look really great, by the way.”
“I do?” Jake replied tentatively. “Uh, thanks.” Quentin sighed. Wasn’t having a kid brother to pick on enough? Did he have to tease his friends, too?
Quentin looked himself over in the mirror and, not seeing any more of Pete’s pre, started brushing his damp hair back. He looked like a drowned rat.
“Have you been working out?” Pete persisted, and Quentin could hear the smile in his voice. “Cause it totally looks great on you, you’ve definitely gained a few pounds since I saw you last.”
“Uh…” Jake said. Quentin sighed—Jake had never been sure how to deal with Pete’s friendly mockery.
“All right, that’s enough,” Quentin called out from the bathroom, hoping to cut short Pete’s teasing of Quentin’s tall, skinny friend before Pete moved on to teasing him for the unruly mop of curly black hair or the dusting of dark stubble tracing along his jawline that never quite became a beard. Quentin came out of the bathroom and rounded the corner into the great room to see his buddy Jake standing not very far into the room, hands shoved in his pockets and staring saucer-eyed at Pete.
Pete himself was standing a little too close to Jake (looming, actually, was the word, given his splendid overmuscled size) and was regarding the newcomer with a genial smile. Quentin had a moment to take stock of his friend—actually, he did look a little buffer today, he thought with surprise—when Jake caught sight of Quentin and suddenly seemed to spasm.
“Oh—oh—oh god!!” Jake said, grasping at his chest. At first Quentin panicked, thinking Jake was having a heart attack, but even as her moved toward him he realized Jake was groping his flat chest with one hand and his impressively large cock through his jeans with the other. He was cumming, hard, at the very sight of Quentin.
He’d already been moving toward Jake, and now he took his friend up in his four strong arms, feeling Jake’s shuddering body as he caressed Jake’s back. Their heights matched exactly, and at first Jake pressed his hot cheek against Quentin’s. But then he drew his face back along Quentin’s, until they were looking at each other, too close to really focus. “Sorry,” Jake said in a whisper, softly panting. “I totally couldn’t help it.”
“It’s okay,” Quentin said. “I’m flattered.”
Jake swallowed. They stared at each other for a few loud heartbeats, and then Jake suddenly broke the silence. “I kinda need to kiss you,” he said in a low voice, his lips barely moving. His cheeks had colored, and Quentin suddenly wondered if they were as warm as they looked. He could find out, his own cheek was just a couple inches away, he could brush their faces together—“Can I kiss you?” Jake said.
Quentin blinked at him and smiled. “Any time,” he said. Jake smiled too, and then their lips met. Tentatively at first, then more aggressively, Jake kissed Quentin with more brio than expertise for a full, hot minute before he pulled back.
His green eyes showed his hesitation. “Was that okay?” Jake asked, sounding a little unnerved. “I’ve never kissed a guy before. Or, actually, anyone.” He seemed about to pull away from him, but Quentin held him firmly in his embrace.
Quentin’s heart went out to his friend. “It was great,” he told him reassuringly. Then to sell it he added, “You’re an amazing kisser.” Jake beamed at the compliment, but Quentin figured it was really only the honest truth. The fact was, that had been such an awesome kiss he felt like he’d actually gotten hornier, and that was as impossible as anything he could imagine. “Your tongue is pretty damn talented,” Quentin went on, looking into Jake’s shining eyes. “You’re kinda driving me wild.” His raging cocks flexed against Jake’s hard belly, and Jake gasped and then grinned widely, thrilled at how turned on Quentin was because of him. Jake moved in and started another gut-stirring, exquisite kiss.
The kiss was so sweet and sensual, and the embrace so hot (Jake’s hands had found Quentin’s tight, round gymnast’s ass, and Quentin eagerly returned the favor with one pair of hands as the other kept massaging Jake’s back), that Quentin had actually almost forgotten his brother was standing barely a foot away watching them until Pete’s growly voice intruded on them—razzing them, as usual. “Stop it, you guys,” came the voice, Pete’s habitual crooked smile unmistakably audible, and near enough that it almost felt like he was right there in the embrace. “You’re making me close.”
Quentin broke the kiss and smiled slightly against Jake’s lips, not turning to look at his brother, not even opening his eyes yet. In the past Pete probably would have said, “Stop, you’re turning me on,” but with two giant erections in his face it had already been pretty clear Pete was well past that. So Quentin just tilted his head away from Jake and, keeping his eyes closed, replied to Pete, “You’re always close,” even as Jake took advantage of Quentin’s tilted head to dive in for an attack on Quentin’s neck.
Quentin gasped, and Pete actually moaned. “Fuck,” Quentin heard Pete say, his voice thick with extreme arousal, “you guys are so hot—so fucking—fuck, I’m going to—!” Pete suddenly reached out with all six of his mighty hands and pulled himself against them.
The stimulation from Pete’s hands gripping him, shoulder, side and waist, of Jake’s strong, roaming hands, of Jake’s hot, tight body pressed against his, his big, fat, hard tool pushing against Quentin’s arousal-anguished cockforest, and especially that amazing tongue lathing and massaging the most sensitive places on Quentin’s neck combined with the deep awareness of Pete’s volcanic orgasm only inches away to bring Quentin, panting as if he were running a marathon, unbearably close to exploding himself, but the thought of blowing twelve massive loads of jizz all over his best friend seemed like too much.
“I can hold it back,” Quentin coached himself in a low voice. “I don’t have to cum. I can keep it in. I can—uhhhhh,” he groaned, as Jake moved on to Quentin’s lightly scruffed jawline and he felt the detonation of Pete’s massive orgasm, Pete’s grunts sounding muffled but thrumming through them as he held the three of them tightly together.
He opened his eyes at last to see his brother going down on his cock, swallowing the huge amounts of spunk that were visibly surging up the mighty shafts—wait, no, he was going down on his cocks, both of them, and an expression of pure bliss was on both of Pete’s sweaty, flushed, beautiful faces.
“Fuuuuck,” Quentin said, gaping. His cockforest surged, and Quentin felt like he would tear apart from the sensual arousal of what Jake was doing with his mouth and hands and long hard body against his meshed with the vision of Pete being twice as handsome, the completeness of him being able to suck both his colossal cocks somehow thrilling him to the core. He realized with a flash of deeply felt insight that Pete must have been wanting this for ages, to be able to take care of both of these massive monster dicks instead of dealing with them, tantalizingly, only one at a time, leaving the other to throb and flex and thrust in the open air. One luscious mouth for two insatiable cocks must have seemed unfair somehow.
Jake, sensing Quentin’s distraction, looked up and sucked in his breath at the spectacle. Pete was still cumming, but his eyes were open and he was looking down at them, his eyes dark with sex, his arms holding them close to him and to each other. “Wow,” Jake breathed, clearly in awe at the sight of Pete’s two handsome faces in the throes of intense, soul-satiating orgasm. “That’s fucking hot.”
Quentin was surprised by the twinge in his guts from Jake’s praise of Pete. He tore his own eyes away from Pete and turned his face against Jake’s. He wanted Jake’s attention, Jake’s arousal, Jake’s amazement all to himself. He moved his mouth near Jake’s ear, letting their hot cheeks brush together as he did so, and said, impulsively, “Do you … want me like that?”
He felt his heart pounding against Jake’s chest as Jake moved his head back just enough to meet Quentin’s eyes. Beside them, around them, Pete’s orgasm was slowing down, his heated body still heaving against theirs, his sweat and overflow cum wetting Quentin’s bare right arms.
“Naw,” Jake smiled, eyes intense and as deep as the endless cosmos. “You’re already too gorgeous for me to resist.” And with that he moved in for another deep, amazing kiss that Quentin felt in his chest, his ass, his toes, permeating and stirring up every inch of him. He felt Jake grasping him more strongly and Quentin responded, holding him passionately in his arms as they made out hungrily, still wrapped in Pete’s trembling embrace, his brother’s strong hands still gently groping them both as they held each other hard from an increasingly aching need. Pete’s lingering orgasm hung in the air, grinding against them as much as Pete’s body and arm-sized cocks. Quentin felt his arousal ramping up, and Jake’s seemed to be intensifying too.
Suddenly Jake broke the kiss. “I gotta cum again,” he said breathlessly.
“Yeah,” Quentin rasped. “Do it.”
“I want you to cum too,” Jake said.
Quentin met Jake’s eyes. “But—there’s—” he whispered.
“Let go,” Jake commanded. “Blow your loads on me. I want you to cum and cum and cum all over both of us, Q, right now.” And then he resumed their kiss, his tongue reaching into Quentin’s mouth so expertly he shivered just from that, and then Quentin knew he had to let go, to blow up the dam before it burst. He let himself explode with an orgasm that rocked him to his foundations, as they kissed and wrestled tongues and thrust cocks and held each other and let Pete hold them both as they came and came and came.
Eventually they subsided, their shirts thoroughly drenched, soaked and then some with Quentin’s cum—even their faces were covered with it around their still melded mouths. They collapsed together against Pete’s welcoming, hard monolith of a body, and still Pete held them, caressing them fondly, and it seemed perfectly natural, as if Pete had always held them while they had sex. “That was amazing,” Pete growled happily in both their ears. “You two are officially the sexiest couple at Rockport High. Every guy in school is going to want both of you.”
Quentin was looking into Jake’s bright, beautiful eyes. They were kissing gently now, their mouths just delighting in the feel of each other’s lips and tongues. Pete was right: Jake was pretty damn sexy, and he was an idiot not to have seen what a hottie his best friend was all these years—not to mention not to have found out what a fantastic kisser he was. “Yep,” Quentin said. “I got me the hottest hunk in the school.”
Jake rolled his eyes bashfully. Quentin held him, feeling Jake’s thick, perfectly proportioned muscles against his own. “He’s the hottest—” (kiss) “—and the hunkiest—” (kiss) “—and the handsomest—” (kiss) “—and the sweetest—” (kiss) “—and totally the best kisser.” He felt Jake’s still-hard tool against his own writhing, cum-drenched cocks. “And he’s got the biggest, most beautiful dick,” he added playfully—”out of the guys with only one dick,” he added hastily when Pete growled with faux menace and squeezed them both.
Jake smiled crookedly, shifting his hips so that Jake’s sternum-high, palm-wide boner rubbed between them, the tip teasing the bottoms of their thick, well-built chests through their cum-soaked shirts. “I always kinda thought it was too big,” Jake admitted, his gorgeous face looked even cuter all abashed. “But now I see what your brother’s packing…”
“Yeah, he has that effect on people,” Quentin said wryly. He kissed Jake languidly, then abruptly pulled them free of the three-way embrace. “C’mon, let’s go shower and get changed,” he said, grabbing Jake’s right hand in both of his lefts and starting to pull him out of the room toward the stairs.
Jake raised a cum-covered eyebrow but let himself be pulled along. “You still want to go out?” he asked.
Quentin turned and gave Jake a deep kiss. “Absolutely,” he said, eyes dancing as he met Jake’s. “I want to show off my amazing boyfriend.” He glanced over his shoulder to toss Pete a brief smile that he hoped conveyed all his thanks, for pushing him to call Jake and set all this in motion.
Pete beamed back at him, but he resumed normal brother-snark mode as Quentin turned and pulled Jake running up the stairs. “Oh sure, and what am I supposed to do with myself while you’re gone?” he called after them, both voices in perfect unison.
“You’ll think of something,” Quentin called back as they took the stairs two at a time, holding onto his hot and happy boyfriend with two hands and promising himself never to let go.
An hour later, freshly showered and dressed (Quentin in a tank-top this time, since he hadn’t torn the sleeves off any of his other tees), Quentin and Jake were walking aimlessly through the vast, sprawling park by the river, enjoying the cool, sunny afternoon under the whispering, majestic oaks and maples. But it was each other’s company they were mainly basking in. They were holding hands again as they walked, and Jake couldn’t shake how deeply comforting it felt to have Quentin’s back right hand laced with his left hand with Quentin’s front hand wrapped around both.
As they followed the leaf-strewn footpath through the trees, their arms moving gently in time with their steps, he felt the warmth of Quentin’s strong, smooth hands, his wrist brushed occasionally by that cool twisted-leather bracelet Quentin was wearing now on his front right wrist, and Jake felt unexpectedly gifted. He was with the sexiest guy he could imagine, holding hands in a way that, god, no one else could.
—Except, he admitted grudgingly, whoever Quentin’s big brother Pete might be dating. But then again, he mused, reassuring himself, Pete didn’t strike Jake as the old-fashioned, hold-hands-and-stroll-through-the-park kind of guy. Jake felt his heart beat a little faster. Quentin was lucky to have such a confident, protective brother who’d do anything for his bro. But Jake was lucky, too—lucky to have the boyish, sweet, exuberant, and irrepressible Quentin for his own.
And then there was the bonus of what came with having Quentin for himself—so to speak, he added in his head, catching himself in the lame, if unavoidable, pun. Jake glanced over at Quentin’s tall, exposed forest of rigid, vertical cocks and licked his lips without even being quite aware he had done so. It was probably a good thing his left hand was trapped in Quentin’s cozy, firm double-handed embrace, he thought ruefully, because if it were free it would be twitching to wrap around any or all of his lover’s full dozen of luscious, leaky, hard and fat 12-inch boners.
For that matter, his right hand was just as unruly—it kept starting to move up toward his own hard and stunningly, magnificently massive cock. It was huge enough to be just brushing damply up against the underside of his hefty pecs. It had always seemed too big, too embarrassing but today? After that kiss, that sexual bonding back at the house? It felt like a gift, because it was something that could make Quentin happy.
Everything that had happened made his uncannily aware of his supersized erection. Especially since he had had to borrow a tee-shirt from his slightly-less-built lover, after getting his own shirt sopping wet with their combined cumblasts within moment of their beautiful soul-curling first kiss. That meant that his own huge tool, tucked away though it was under the think dark-red cotton of his borrowed Flash tee, was nonetheless almost as obvious as the open-air throbbing mass of achingly hard cockflesh erupting straight up from Quentin’s pants.
But as much as he wanted to grab it and stroke it hard and blow a big load down his own throat (or Quentin’s, preferably), Jake couldn’t exactly start palming his monstercock out here, even if he had no choice but to let everyone see just how horny his uberendowed lover made him.
He chided himself for being so obsessed with sex. It wasn’t just sex, though, it was the raw, captivating sensuality of his lover that was distracting him so thoroughly. He could just be enjoying the crisp, sweet afternoon air and the bucolic diversion of a sun-dappled walk through the wooded park; before today he would’ve been all about the way the sun was dappling through the bright green leaves of the oaks and maples, and the cheery shouts of families playing and enjoying the park together. It was crazy, he tried to remonstrate himself, that all he could think about was kissing, and cum. And Quentin.
Quentin was smiling lazily, he saw—he was enjoying the day, at any rate, and the simple pleasure of Jake’s company. Sure, Jake knew the steady flow of precum running down Quentin’s jammed-together cocks and slowly soaking his jeans was a sign that Quentin, like Jake, was also pretty damn aroused. The sharp, intoxicating smell of it was twisting into the redolence of earth and leaves and a nearby cookout that saturated the steady, swirling breeze, and the smell of Quentin alone, this close, after what they’d just done back at Quentin’s house, was enough to make his too-big cock flex and pulse, like it was trying to get even bigger and harder. God, he felt like he was saturating with horniness, with yearning and need to make love to his boy.
But no, Jake told himself firmly as they walked deeper into the park, if Quentin could put raw sex aside and just enjoy the day, so could he. He took a deep breath, and glancing around at the scattering of towering trees wafting slightly in the breezes around them, he felt himself smiling widely just at how lucky he was, because he knew Quentin, and because he was pretty damn fortunate in general.
He felt Quentin squeeze his hand with both of his and looked back over at him. Quentin was looking at him with his dark eyebrows raised and a gentle smile on his face. “What are you grinning about?” he asked.
Jake smiled a little wider. “Three guesses,” he said playfully.
Quentin put on a faux-thoughtful expression. “Let’s see,” he said, his voice dripping with facetiousness. He made a show of rubbing his chin with one of his left hands. “You’re grinning because you’re … proud you have the hottest, longest, most talented tongue for a thousand miles?”
Jake shook his head, squeezing Quentin’s hand as he let his long tongue loll out from between list full lips just because he knew it turned Quentin on. He was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath and, as he noted out of the corner of his eye, more than a few vertical, inch-high spurts of precum from Quentin’s towering cluster of cocks.
Quentin surveyed him critically as they kept walking through the thickening trees. He was pretending to realize he needed to try harder up his game to guess the riddle. “Okay, well, if that’s not it,” Quentin said, sounding perplexed, “you’re grinning because you’re … secretly fucking your enormous pecs with that monster tool of yours even as we speak?”
Jake rolled his eyes, still grinning around the exposed tip of his wide, thick tongue, then said, a little chagrined, “C’mon, like I’m not always doing that.” He felt his cheeks color slightly. It was a little embarrassing, but true. He’d gotten used to it, and really, could he help it if the top few inches of his cock just naturally positioned to shove right into the hand-deep crevasse between his thick, huge pecs? It was like his cock belonged there. Sometimes he “jacked off” by touching himself only with his pecs—no hands, no mouth, nothing but thick chest muscles flexing and rubbing his monster erection. He’d gotten quite good at controlling his oversized pecs, manipulating his cock into orgasm while his hands twitched at his side or (if he was alone) felt up his abs and balls.
He glanced down at his borrowed shirt, which was stretched taut as a drum over his basketball-sized pecs, the round Flash lightning logo stretched way out into a wide oval. On the top side of his pec-shelf there was a slowly spreading dark spot as constant, gentle pec-fucking slowly shoved his precum up out of his muscle cleavage as they walked, the shifting of his weight enough to jack himself between his chest muscles. That was par for the course, too, he thought, as he turned his bright grin back on Quentin.
“Geez,” Quentin said, eyeing him with one eyebrow raised now. “You’re a tough nut to crack today.”
“Last chance,” Jake taunted.
“Okay, fine,” Quentin said, pretending to be testy even as his thumbs caressed Jake’s hand from both sides. He stopped walking and turned Jake round to face him, taking Jake’s other hand in both of Quentin’s remaining ones. Jake moved closer, gently pressing their chests together so that their lips were an inch apart.
Quentin fixed his eyes on Jake’s. Something in his eyes looked both nervous and reckless. “Then it must be the knowledge,” he said, in a low sultry voice, “that only my ass can take that giant cock of yours.”
Jake sucked in his breath. He had to swallow, twice, before he could speak, but he kept his eyes locked on Quentin’s the whole time. “I—wasn’t certain,” he admitted shakily. “I didn’t know if it was—possible. But—” Jake licked his lips with his long tongue. “—I was hoping.”
Quentin seemed just as unsteady. “I just sort of threw that out there,” he said. “I—are you—do you really want to try it?”
Jake nodded. “Yeah. But it’s okay if you don’t.” He looked down. He added bashfully, aware that it was a major understatement, “I’m really huge.”
“I can take it,” Quentin reaffirmed, his gaze strong and sincere, as if he could make his own ass accommodate that magnificent, palm-wide, foot-and-a-half long cock through sheer force of will. Maybe he can, Jake thought, his eyes dancing as he looked over Quentin’s determined face. He smiled, evoking from his lover in return a fierce, carnal smile of his own, and then they were kissing, hard and sloppy, right there in the middle of the woods.
Pete was prowling the house in restless agitation, trying not to freak the hell out. Now that Q had gone out somewhere with his adorable boyfriend Jake, Pete was alone with himself—an expression that seemed particularly apt, considering.
It hadn’t been all that long since he’d found out that swallowing his cum let him do things to his body—was it a year already? He wasn’t sure. He’d found out entirely accidentally. He’d somehow gotten into a discussion with his jock buddies Márcio and Alex about the average size of their payloads and whether Pete’s loads were always more copious than everyone else’s thanks to Pete’s (generally agreed to be awesome) gift of having two cocks. Pete had actually been feeling a little competitive about his dicks, having realized that they were a bit shorter than Márcio’s 11-inch whopper, which just seemed a bit unfair on a long-haired charmer gorgeous and buff enough even, at just barely 17 years old, to be just about ready to cash in as the ultimate, cum-in-your-pants, world-class Brazilian model his 35-year-old dad still was. Pete was just as muscular as Márcio and Alex, though Alex had proven himself stronger in the weight room and Márcio seemed put together better than either of them.
That was why Pete, curious about the jizz question himself, and wanting to establish some dominance on Márcio and the conventionally sexy baseball hunk Alex, had agreed to a cum-off. He joined them in agreeing to go a whole two weeks without jacking his fat, ten-inch cocks, just to see how big a load he and his teen bros could produce.
So, two slightly frustrating weeks later, late on a quiet, beer-fueled Saturday afternoon right before summer vacation, they got together at Márcio’s palatial house to jack off on Márcio’s sprawling king-size bed and compare their resulting lakes of jizz. Pete was so horny from thinking about his accumulated buildup of cum and just the general lack of jerking off that laying down and getting comfortable between his two hot, naked jock buddies pretty much took him over the edge almost before he’d had a chance to grab himself with both hands. Márcio and Alex weren’t too far behind. A few pumps on their hard tools and they were spraying, and Pete came to much for so long his two bros were gasping and laughing at the display. He spat long, thick arcs of cum not only his chest but his face as well, and ended up swallowing a fair amount of his own sweet, hot jizz as it shot directly in his mouth or trickled in from all over his face.
He was still dazedly licking it off his lips as they began drifting for a while as the room slid into twilight. After a while Pete opened his eyes to see that Alex, the tight, curly-haired blond who stood a real chance of playing baseball with the pros, was staring at his cocks in the gathering gloom. “What?” he said languidly. He realized, self-consciously, that his cocks were still rock hard, as they had been for at least the last week.
“Dude, are your johnsons—bigger?” Alex said, sounding a little awed.
“What?” Pete was surprised. “Don’t be stupid.” But as he glanced down his steel-hard cocks did seem to be a bit bigger. Actually more than a bit—maybe a couple inches bigger.
Márcio, who’d been dozing lightly on his side to Pete’s left, arm draped casually across Pete’s sticky torso, had lifted his head onto Pete’s chest to get a closer look at Pete’s big tools. “Pete, man, your equipment definitely looks bigger to me as well.”
Pete was feeling uncomfortable at all this attention. They’d jerked off together before plenty of times, and Márcio had kissed him once as the three of them fell asleep together, but they’d never gotten quite this gay before. “It’s just the light,” he muttered, feeling a strange flutter in his stomach.
“I don’t think so,” Alex said excitedly. Suddenly Pete shivered as Alex wrapped a strong but not-too-meaty hand around Pete’s rightmost cock. Márcio quickly followed suit, and Pete hissed in pleasure. “It feels huge,” Alex said.
“It feels like it needs to cum again,” Márcio added, hefting the cock he was holding judiciously. He sounded interested in making that happen. Sure enough, before a heartbeat had passed Márcio had slowly started moving his fist. Alex copied him.
“Guys—” Pete protested feebly, but they ignored him, giving him a slow, sensual jack on both his cum-lubricated cocks.
“It’s like—it’s like he has so much potential cock in him, it didn’t even stop when he ended up with two big cocks,” Alex theorized excitedly.
“Is that what happened?” Márcio said softly, sounding amused. “His body can’t keep from making cock?”
“If—if that were true,” Pete said, stammering from the exquisite pleasure of the casual double hand-job, “I’d have grown miles of cock by now.” He hissed again as the two jocks, watching each other closely, buffed the heads of his two cocks in tandem.
“Yeah, you needed a trigger,” Alex said, definitely enjoying the elaboration of his theory.
“Cumming after two weeks?” suggested Márcio, still sounding like he was playing along.
“Busting the dam,” agreed Alex. And then, pausing only for a quick shift of their position so they were both kneeling over him from each side, they went down on him.
Extreme pleasure washed over Pete as if he were lying in the surf with an aggressively in-coming tide wanting to wash him up the beach, and he expected to cum again quickly as his orgasm built rapidly from balled that surged with cum, as if they had already refilled to capacity in the drifting time since they’d all cum together. But Alex, it turned out, was a natural at sensual cocksucking, taking his time to build up and bank Pete’s toe-curling enjoyment, and Márcio deftly modeled his attentions on his friends’ ecstasy-prologing ministrations. The effect of this, apart from driving Pete absolutely wild before he exploded in a torrent of bliss in his first non-self-induced orgasm, was to fill all the long, almost unendurably pleasurable moments up until that point with a deep appreciation for being possessed of two fat cocks of prodigious size, and all the too-sensitive skin that that entailed. Not to mention having two friends who were willing to push him to the edge of raw, animal passion, and then beyond.
During the summer, Pete and Quentin’s dad, whose constant traveling made him want to ensure there was some amount of time during which his boys felt taken care of, was in the habit of dropping them off at his brother’s sprawling ranch in Wyoming. That summer was the one Pete remembered as the summer of experiments. He’d spent two successive two-week periods trying to replicate the conditions of his jump from ten-inchers to twelve-inchers, with no effect other than to reduce him to a condition of being as permanently boned as his hyperactive horndog of a kid brother.
It was only on his third attempt, a three-week stint this time that came to be almost agony as he consciously had to prevent himself from cumming by the end, that he produced results—finally getting the desired cock-amplification (by three or four inches this time) almost immediately after his quick but frenzied fit of frantic double-stroking had resulted in a spray of cum that had doused his face and filled his mouth with hot spunk. He swallowed the warm, bittersweet goo and within seconds of feeling it coursing thickly down his throat he was feeling his still-hard cocks pushing open his fists, and the penny dropped even as he wafted through a euphoric haze of orgasm and relief.
After that Pete spent a few weeks loving the feeling of hauling two 10-inch-soft, fifteen-inch hard cocks around but at the same time becoming increasingly aware of the downside as well (trying to deal with underwear, or a high water level when sitting down on a toilet, etc.). The hands had been staring at him too, though Uncle Simon was oblivious and Quentin seemed no more attentive to Pete’s package than he always was. He tried repeating the experiment, immensely grateful that he didn’t have to wait three whole excruciating weeks to create a need to “burst the dam”, and as he was swallowing imagined his cocks back at ten inches—or, well, twelve inches was fine. Sure enough, as he lay there in his uncle’s guest bed he felt his cocks casually resume their previous huge, rather than immense, dimensions. Pete smiled, not because he was thrilled to have smaller cocks, but because he now knew he had control. He wondered if Quentin would be able to do it too. He hoped so, imagining revealing what he could do to his brother one day and then teasing him about it to get confirmation that they both had this ability. He was looking forward to that conversation.
In the month remaining Pete tried exploring his cum-swallow ability. But he was already leery and self-conscious after the experience with the fifteen-inchers, when he had a little mishap: he lost concentration and grew unexpectedly to nine feet tall—forcing a hurried, desperate effort to undo the giant transformation by cumming again, this time by taking advantage of his lingering flexibility to suck himself off full on for the first time in years. After that he committed himself to transformations that were as subtle as he could make them. But after returning to his regular height of 5’10” Pete spent his next few jack-off/self-suck outings bringing himself back up to 6 feet even, growing his balls a little, then a little more, and then experimented with making himself buffer and tighter without being noticeably muscular, and stronger, too, without looking it.
Then he gave himself the ability to get hard whenever he wanted, and cum as much as he wanted too—mostly to facilitate his experimenting. He increased his body hair, then decreased it until he was practically hairless except between his pecs and down his abs to his crotch, then the next night he added hair back onto his legs because he thought it looked hotter to be hairier below and less hairy up top. He gave himself a bit of a rounder, harder ass, and that was the one Quentin seemed to notice—which meant he couldn’t really reverse the change. Being stuck with it made it kind of thrilling. One night when he was feeling really reckless he was so turned on by how flexible he still was that even made himself stretchy like Mr. Fantastic, just to try to push the envelope—but he got scared he’d get caught wrapping his arm around himself ten times or hauling his cocks out to multiple feet in length, so he reluctantly undid it, mostly.
By the time he and Quentin were back home, Pete had figured out how he wanted to deal with Alex and Márcio. He felt weird about telling them the truth—that swallowing his own cum was what had changed him. It seemed too much like something that didn’t involve them, and he didn’t want to make them feel funny. They were into the “too much cock to hold it all in” theory, so why not let them keep thinking that? Another reason he was glad he’d kept the changes to himself minor, he thought on the ride back, as he brushed his newly sensitive nips through his tee shirt—his last change of the summer. Quentin was trying not to stare at him, and was obviously hard as a rock in his jeans, but he’d been like that before.
The only problem was, Alex and Márcio had obsessed over Pete’s growing cocks over the summer and insisted on having regular “burst the dam” parties. Pete begged off on this at first, but after a few weeks he caved. They compromised on monthly jack-off sessions at Márcio’s, all three of them promising to go without cumming for at least two weeks. Of course, as he was able to control his erections and the size of his orgasms Pete didn’t have to refrain, thank god: he could just get really, really hard and blast two immense loads on cue when his buddies did, making sure he hit his mouth, and collect the awed gasp from his beautiful friends’ admiring faces as they beheld a brace of cocks that were now 13 inches, then 14, then 15, then 16 … even keeping the growth down to an inch per session his cocks were getting to be way too big, even given the fact that he’d made himself much more of a grower than he had been.
He was going to tail off he growth, letting the guys think there was only so much expansion left in him. And yet … the fact was that he loved the feeling of it when he grew. (And not just in the cock—he hadn’t been able to stop himself making himself a bit taller each time, too.) And he loved Alex and Márcio and their starry-eyed admiration and the way they sucked him together, and that was happening more and more often. First it was at the dam-bursting sessions, then they started coming over on weekends, then they would double-team him at school and blow him in the bathroom. Soon they were coming over every night after hitting him twice at school during the day, unable to get enough of sucking Pete’s now 18-inch monsters. In fact they were due to arrive any minute—Márcio had just texted.
He’d gotten used to having monumental, towering cocks, to be honest—he’d stopped trying to hide them, or even let them get soft, if only because he loved the idea of teasing his perpetually hormone-addled, super-horny younger brother with them. It felt so great that these days he was in a constant state of near-orgasm. But today—somehow Quentin had goaded him into going way past what he though Alex and Márcio could handle. Sure, they’d love that he’d gotten a lot more muscular. Fuck, they would love that a lot, especially Alex, who’d become more and more of a gymrat the last year or so. And the six arms—if Jake and his apparently sincere appreciation for Quentin’s extra arms was any indication, they’d love that too, and anyway they were already feeling like they were a part of him. But—but—
Pete thunked his heads together in frustration. Should he undo it? He always felt such a sense of loss after an undo, like he’d made himself the way he was supposed to be and rescinding what he’d done was almost like being unfaithful to himself. He was already starting to feel that way about his two heads—he still had one consciousness, but he could actually sense in a strange and entirely new way how his mind had more room to move with two brains at its disposal. It was liberating—exhilarating, even. This was unreservedly a good thing, a step up.
So why was he sweating?
He realized he was pacing the long, wide upstairs hallway, his big hands batting each other as they hung, neglected, from his extra-broad shoulders. His big bare feet loved the soft, thick maroon carpet up here, and at the moment he was finding it calming as he tread deliberately up and down between his dad’s master bedroom at one end and the bathroom he and Quentin shared at the other. He paused in front of the bathroom, digging his toes into the carpet a little, and decided he needed a piss.
He stepped in, his head just brushing the doorjamb, and flipped on the light, letting his monster cocks get soft for a moment as he took his position in front of the toilet (though, weirdly, he still felt close to cumming). His fat, footlong softies jostled each other as he unleashed two riptorrents of piss with enough force to cause the water in the bowl to leap up in frantic waves around the impact zone. After rather a while he finished up. He ruthlessly squeezed the last few drops from each cock and then flushed and washed his hands.
He found himself staring into the mirror over the sink, which was as wide as the two-sink countertop and reached from behind the faucets all the way to a foot shy of the ceiling. He hadn’t really had a chance to look at himself since his most recent transformations, and the whole impact of what he was seeing was amazing and a little overwhelming. With some difficulty he pulled off the tight sleeveless tee he was wearing to get a better look, and then he stilled, regarding himself in wonder. The muscles he’d given himself were exquisite—pecs, traps, delts, lats, abs, arms, all as huge as a bodybuilder morph and yet beautiful, perfectly sculpted as if for some alternate universe version of Abercrombie where high school jocks were model-gorgeous and sported 400 pounds of dense, beautiful muscle.
His shoulders were as almost wide as the doorway he’d just stepped through, his pecs were as big as his heads, and his lats were peeking out from behind his arms and torso like thick nascent wings, and yet his waist was barely any larger than the 32 inches it had been this morning. Looking down, he could see that even with the waist unbuttoned and the fly open to let out his already rehardening cocks he was packed solidly into these old, soft jeans—the old Wranglers that had always been way too loose. He reached behind him and took a moment felt his thick, round, rock-hard muscle ass with two of his hands, then with four of them, smiled suddenly into the mirror—two bright, dazzling smiles that made him gasp a little with their intensity.
He watched as his cocks reinflated, his heart pounding as his arousal from looking at his own godly body ramped higher and higher. His cocks thumped wetly against his pecs, and he ogled in them in the mirror, entranced at how they flexed and writhed and nudged each other like—well, like brothers, he thought, his grin widening a little. The heads were already coated with pre, and the upper reaches of his pecs were smeared with pre as well. He kind of needed to take them into his mouths.
But he made himself stare into his faces. He had been starting to suspect he’d been making himself more attractive without really realizing it over the course of his sessions with Alex and Márcio. The increase in his cocks’ size hadn’t really explained his buddies’ increasing obsession with him, and now, looking into his own bright blue eyes—fuck, didn’t they used to be hazel, like Quentin’s?—he felt himself almost enthralled by his own uncanny beauty. He was so close to orgasm he was actually leaking real cum, but he wasn’t cumming, not yet. He stared, panting, and realized his beauty changed things.
“No one’s going to freak out that you’ve got two faces, not when you’re this hot,” he told himself, in two low, quiet, perfectly synchronized voices. “They’re just going to think you’re twice as hot.” His reflection seemed to agree. He went on psyching himself up. “No one’s going to freak that you’ve got six arms, or two enormous cocks you can’t hide, or more muscle than any two guys on the football team, or any of it. They’re just going to think it’s fucking awesome.”
He swallowed, keeping his gaze fixed on his two sets of sky-blue eyes in the mirror. He knew all this was true, anyway. Other people’s reactions wasn’t what worried him.
“Alex and Márcio will love it too,” he told himself firmly, and as he said it he seemed to convince himself. They will love it, he thought. But he pressed on, imagining his buddies standing on front of him, gazing up adoringly into his twin, astonishingly sexy faces. “They’ll love each having a face for themselves, their own mouth to kiss.” Lately they’d been kissing a lot, even in the halls at school, on the bus, at the mall—all the time really, usually with some hand action on his cocks. But three-way kisses, as hot as they were, were a little awkward for long periods of time, and he had sensed the guys were a little competitive about trading off. “They’ve been dreaming of it,” he told himself, getting riled up by his fantasy. “They’ve been longing to be able to kiss me together the same way they suck me and jack me together.”
His whole attention on his eyes and the scenes he was imagining he barely noticed as all six of his hands drifted up to wrap around his rigid, slick, extra-sensitive cock-towers, though he couldn’t keep a moan from escaping as he struggled to prolong his near-orgasm. “They jack off thinking about kissing me together, sucking me together, muscle worshiping me together,” he told himself, breathing heavily. “They dream of getting fucked by me together, too, because they know they’re the only ones that can take me.” His hand stopped stroking and squeezed his monsters a little, then resumed stroking, a little more urgently. “They’re hard all the time just from being the guys that get to kiss me and get me off. Their cocks get so hard and huge, all long and thick from how amazing it feels to touch me and kiss me and stroke me.”
He stopped again, panting, forcing down a threatened eruption. When he started his hands moving again it was slow, edging himself toward the coming eruption. He tried thinking about them one at a time for a minute, before bringing them together again in his head for the climax. He pictured Mario with an even bigger dick than the eleven-incher he already had. “Fucking Márcio pretends he doesn’t know how hot he is. But he loves how his dicks shove way up out of his pants like that, fuck.” He closed his eyes, imagining Márcio walking nonchalantly down the hallway, books under his arms, the shape of his two 14-inchers obvious under his tight tee shirt. He was keen to imagine a Márcio that was even hotter than the real thing, though, so the shirt went away and the protruding boners became three iron-hard, always hard cocks, one wedged between the other two and a little in front of them. “He jacks those cocks five, ten times a day,” he muttered, loving how he was driving himself insane with his story. “He jacks off thinking of me, hands wrapped around them, jacking all three of those huge rock-hard boners knowing he’s going to be meeting up with me and Alex and having the best orgasm of our lives every time.”
He felt himself about to blow, and kept talking, hurtling toward the edge he’d dive off of into oblivion. He imagined Alex’s beautiful cock, which was 9 inches long and really wide and flat. “Alex does it too—works out staring at his fat cocks—he loves having muscle—having more muscle than Márcio—more than Márcio—arms—fuck—more arms than Márcio—more arms than anyone—more legs than anyone—more fucking hard-as-fuck cocks than anyone—wide flat cocks that cum just from being hard all the time and pressed together—but cumming like that is nothing compared to us together—oh—oh god—oh FUUUCKK!!” Just in time he dropped his mouths over his frantically cumming cocks, feeling the sweet, intense sensation of his lips and tongue around the heads even as he pounded what felt like quarts of cum down his throat. He forced himself to keep cumming, loving the feel of sucking himself, of swallowing both geysers of hot cum, and it was a while—he wasn’t sure how long—before he let himself subside.
He slumped forward on the faux-marble countertop, resting heavily on four hands as he came down, letting the remaining two keep a loose grip on his cum-coated erections as he popped them reluctantly out of his mouths. Even as he stood there, he heard the doorbell, his initial frisson of nervousness converting to joy and anticipation as it rang again and again, over and over, betraying his visitors’ enthusiasm. Running a quick towel over his cum-covered faces he turned and ducked under the doorframe, having to turn sideways just a bit as well to fit through, and headed for the stairs with a thumping, eager heart and two broad, eager grins that he knew now would make his amazing lovers very, very happy.
Márcio strode confidently up to Pete’s door, his constantly boned dicks tapping eagerly at the bottom of his sternum under the loose, heavy tee shirt he wore. It was always such a rush just to know he and Alex was going to see Pete, he stayed practically on edge from the moment he got into his car all the way until they were actually together. And, fuck, just seeing him was enough to make him want to blow another triple-geyser of hot cum rocketing straight up out of his massive fifteen inchers right onto his face and hair and beyond, just like every goddamn orgasm he had since he met the double-dicked stud way back when. The only thing more amazing than cumming when he was thinking about Pete (which he did all the time, over and over again, a lot of times without even touching himself) was blowing his monster wads while he and Pete and Alex were actually together, touching Pete’s wildly hot body, kissing him, sucking him, letting him inside them…
Oh, shit, he was so close. His hands drifted up toward his torso almost automatically, wanting to touch his impatient, weeping erections through his shirt, but he knew a single brush with his fingers through the fabric would set him off. So he pushed his hands up more to his luscious, drool-worthy pecs instead, each hand caressing the opposite pec idly through his shirt and trying not to make contact with his heat-radiating boners as turned on the little stoop and looked back toward his blue Tesla Model S for where his partner in crime, Alex, had gotten to. He frowned as he saw the passenger door was open but his buddy hadn’t climbed out yet.
“Yo, XE! Get up here, unless you want us to start without you!” he called playfully down to his best friend, fellow muscle-jock, and Pete co-body-worshipper. They’d been nearly inseparable ever since their first practice together on their middle school soccer team and Alex had come right up to him and just stared at his face wide-eyed, pupils blown with instant lust before stammering out a plaintive request that Márcio let Alex kiss him. They’d been together ever since, and Márcio still wasn’t sure if they were boyfriends who shared the godly hotness of Pete, or two constant companions who shared the role of Pete’s boyfriend, or what. He didn’t care at all.
Thanks to one thing or another it had been nearly a week since he and Alex had last spent private time with Pete, and it was driving them both crazy. Sure, they’d been with each other, but nothing… nothing!… was like what it felt like for the three of them to be together, naked, hard, and each of them randier than twenty guys put together. Just anticipating this moment, being able to finally be here about to see Pete, had had the two of them riled up and spurting almost uncontrollably all day.
Sure enough… “Hang on, M, I blew another load,” came Alex’s rough, gravely voice up from the car. He sounded only a little chagrined.
Márcio grinned. “Well, wipe yourself off and get your ass up here!” he shot back. He guessed anyone else with such a high-end car would bitch about the risk of getting jazz all over the leather seats, but the truth was he and Alex both blew massive loads of cum all the time wherever they were—his home, Alex’s home, Pete’s place, the car, school toilets, ducking into men’s rooms in stores and fast food places and good knew where—that it was just a fact that copious quantities of hot spunk was just a part of their lives.
A moment later Alex climbed out of the car, rising to his full 6-foot-6 height, and Márcio drew in a ragged breath. Alex had always been more than ordinary. Even when he was younger, his two sets of defined pecs, one row stacked right on top of the other, and his two sets of doubled shoulders, four arms each for a total of eight, over a toned and delineated six-pack had been an instant turn-on for himself and half the guys in school. His three long legs drew almost as many stares as the cluster of seven flat, wide, dripping cocks shoving straight up out of both of his groins, pretty much always rock-hard from puberty onwards just from how good it felt to have that many slick cocks constantly rubbing together, and always on display because even back then he never wore shirts, never ever ever, the only concession to weather being the heavy overcoat he’d toss over his shoulders if he absolutely had to. No one gave him trouble about it because no one wanted him to hide that uniquely awesome upper body. From that first happy kiss Márcio had started calling him XE. At first Alex had given him funny looks, like it was so kooky that Brazilians didn’t know how to pronounce “Alex” but it was also kind of cute, but at last he’d looked up from where they were holding each other close in Alex’s ben on one of their nightly alternating sleepovers (because eventually their parents had understood that they were always happier together) and asked him.
“Why do you call me XE?” Alex had asked.
“Because you have extra everything,” Márcio said with a wink. “Extra legs, extra arms, extra dicks… you even have an extra belly button,” he added. Which was true: his six-pack, rapidly hardening into a vacuum-sealed eight pack, looked very normal except for the way the bottom tiers spread apart from each other just slightly, like a zipper that was about to unzip; and Márcio had noticed there were two belly buttons there, about an inch apart.
Alex though about this. “I don’t have an extra tongue,” he said, as if he was objecting seriously to Márcio’s characterization of him—though his lips were quirking as he said it.
“You sure?” Márcio said cocking a brow. “I think we’d better check to make sure.”
Alex had been so hot from the beginning. Now, though, after a few years of seriously competing with each other in the gym—sometimes under the tutelage by Márcio’s gorgeously buff dad Adriano, a pro fitness model who knew his way around weights—well, Márcio knew he had gotten pretty built, but Alex—! His muscles were both massive an exquisitely perfect, as if he had been sculpted by a Michelangelo who’d been commissioned by Men’s Unachievable Level of Fitness to create something beyond anything any guy could hope to achieve—even if he, too, had the extras, the genetic gifts and the natural athleticism that Alex oozed from every pore.
Márcio drank him in, from his three size-15 feet (in sandals, because he liked shoes almost as much as he did shirts), up those long legs with the thick calves and perfectly developed footballer’s thighs barely hidden in his knee-length olive-green cargo shorts, to the flat, trim waist still slick with Alex’s near-constant supply of precum and spurting jizz from two separate clusters of the randiest cocks Márcio could imagine. They were so ready, so eager to explode with orgasm that Márcio had actually had dreams where Alex was just literally cumming every single moment of the day, constantly jizzing, his every moment a blissed-out ten-on-the-Richter-scale orgasm from fourteen desperate, hungry, constantly needy ten-inch cocks. Márcio himself had cum two or three times during that dream and countless times since thinking about it, all the more so because he had the feeling that the constant stimulation Alex got from so many self-lubricating erections meant it probably wasn’t far from the truth.
Márcio ran a hand distractedly through his long, dark hair and kept sliding his eyes appreciatively up Alex’s shirtless, tanned frame. He let himself enjoy Alex’s hard, slightly-unzipped-at-the-bottom eight-pack… and then, damn, those two sets of absolutely mesmerizing melon pecs and two sets of bulging shoulders, long loose, muscle-thick arms all jostling each other as he moved in a way that told Márcio it felt almost as good brushing his muscular arms together as it felt to have so many raging, slippery boners constantly trying to get him off. And then, to cap it off, rising between traps that seemed to require the caress of anyone who saw them, was a cocky-jock face, as good-looking as a fantasy Viking with eyes full of every emotion he was feeling. No one had to guess what Alex was thinking, or wonder what he wanted—or who.
There was only one man more beautiful, more arousing, more satisfying to blow his loads over than Alex, and it took the both of them to truly handle. And he was right on the other side of that door.
Alex was impossibly sexy, but Pete held both of them almost in thrall with how hot he was. Márcio and Alex turned each other on, but it was the fucking idea of Pete that kept Márcio hard almost all the time. He wanted to kiss him, to touch him, to blow him all the time, because making Pete cum—seeing that face twist with orgasmic euphoria—feeling Pete’s white-hot jazz in his throat or on his skin—was far and away the biggest thrill he could even imagine.
Fuuuuuck, his own precum-drenched cocks were flexing against each other under his shirt. He had a lot more control than Alex, but thinking about Pete always sent him rocketing toward spraying more cum on himself than seemed humanly possible. “C’mon, XE, get the lead out!” he called. “If you don’t hurry up we won’t get a court for horse after!”
Alex was jogging up the walk, his handsome face split in a grin. His close cropped-hair was a little damp, though from sweat or cum Márcio didn’t know. “Oh, we’ll get a court,” Alex said as he came up. It was true. Even if the public courts in the big, sprawling park a couple blocks over were all in use, the regulars there always made way for Pete, Alex, and Márcio whenever they showed up to play. Usually they went after a few rounds of afternoon sex, and somehow the guys down at the courts had figured that out—anyway they were constantly teasing them for looking flushed and sweaty even before they started playing ball. Márcio and Alex both loved the attention, and it hadn’t been long before Pete had started lapping up it right along with them, playing for the crowd and grabbing his double, extra-large helping of junk through his sweats to whistles and catcalls like there being more than one “horse” on the court and shit like that. Márcio loved hanging out with Pete as much as their giddy three-way make-out sessions and those golden moments of ecstasy when Pete exploded in orgasm, always taking him and Alex with him. Just being with Pete was pure, unalloyed sexual stimulation, and Márcio and Alex just couldn’t get enough of it.
And none of that even took into account how Pete could actually change himself and make himself even hotter just by wanting it really badly when he came. He’d made his cocks bigger that way, though he hadn’t even known what he was doing at first. Márcio had often wondered if that was how he’d gotten two cocks in the first place, but Pete had insisted that he’d always had double dicks since the day he was born. And Márcio had no reason to doubt him—after all, Márcio himself had had three cocks from birth, apparently thanks to a recessive trait that ran in his family, though he apparently had everyone beat when it came to size—even his cousin Rômulo, who never had fewer than three girlfriends at once and crassly posted their testimonials about his size and accomplishments on Facebook (Márcio’s constantly updated and very high-ranked Instagram never showed more than a hint of the monster hard-ons he sported under his shirts). And Alex… well, he’d very famously come into the world with more extras than anyone ever, like God had been sprinkling genetic goodness onto his zygote and had actually upended the whole box.
Márcio looked over at Alex as he came to stand next to him on the stoop and saw his buddy was just as excited was he was. “You ready?” he asked teasingly. For an answer Alex reached up and rang the doorbell—and then, grinning like a nutcase, started its ringing it again and again, like he was the most impatient, eager lover on the planet—which, maybe, he was.
They stood close to each other, arms twining around each other’s waists, and waited, and something told Márcio that today… today things would be different. Today, seeing their Pete was going to be so far beyond anything they’d experienced before.
“I can’t wait,” Alex said. “This is going to be fan-fucking-tastic.”