by Martin Boyar

Beautiful Tom adds new meaning to the word handsome.

Added: 1 Aug 2004 2,961 words 5,560 views No votes yet

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Everyone was away at home for the weekend, and the dorm halls were dark and quiet as I walked along quietly, listening for signs of life. I'd gone for a walk by myself after dinner, and for the heck of it I decided to walk the empty hallways of all the floors of the dorm. The place was dead save for the occasional rattle of a small dorm-room refrigerator starting up, muted behind a closed door. On the second floor, I saw a light under the door of Ed's room as I approached, but there was no answer when I knocked. I didn't know Ed well enough to try the door, and it didn't matter anyway, since we were only schoolmates. He was a nice enough guy, but nondescript, and we weren't in any of the same classes.

On the fourth floor, I could hear Tom giggling, from his room at the end of the hall. I was immediately glad—I'd always had a thing for him because he was built and beautiful and didn't know it, and he liked me. So we always took walks together or did our library work or our laundry or our trips into town together. He was one of those guys with the really smooth but mobile features that you couldn't take your eyes off, always alive with the beauty of a star. He had a voice to match, fluidly musical and both feminine and masculine, but honest and innocent, with a laugh that ranged from raucous to that boyishly masculine giggle. And when he giggled his big smooth hands seemed to grow heavy and helpless. They were beautiful hands, so fluid and agile yet virile, astonishing to see from either their smooth wrists as they hung helplessly when he laughed, or as they danced over the keyboard has he wrote his papers, or as they flew separately or together to punctuate Tom's musical speech. Their palms were heaven to touch, as were the beautifully gentle fingers, but the hands had an athlete's size, strength and maleness. I fell in love with his hands on our first handshake; I've never felt my own hands come alive like they did when they first touched Tom's.

“Hey, what are you doing?” I asked as I knocked on Tom's door, interrupting his giggling.

“We're playing flopsy,” Tom said. “Ed and I. Come on in.”

I opened the door. Ed was sitting on a chair and Tom was crosslegged barefoot on his bed, doubled over in laughter, his beautiful hands helplessly limp, flopping his big pretty hands like a couple of landed fish. He sat up and tried to stop laughing, tossing his head back to get his hair out of his eyes.

“Actually, Tom's playing flopsy,” Ed explained gamely, looking bored. He looked ready to leave. “I'm just going out to see a movie or something, and I don't think Tom wants to see one right now.” He stood up to leave, appearing glad I was there to give him opportunity to excuse himself.

I looked again at Tom. I was not seeing what I was seeing, or it wasn't registering or whatever—Tom's luscious hands were a little larger than before. He was looking at them, and flopped them back and forth a couple times on the bedspread.

“See you guys later,” Ed said. He moved toward the door, between me and Tom's bed, when Tom scrambled to his knees and gave Ed a handclasp.

“Enjoy the show, and don't give anyone any handouts,” Tom joked.

“Yeah, right,” Ed said, seeming startled by the clasp of Tom's hands and pulling away. He left.

I asked what was that all about, and Tom explained that they had been talking about dreams, which made Tom remember a recurrent dream he'd had all his life. In the dream, he would play a simple game with his hands, flopping them back and forth and saying, “flopsy, flopsy, flopsy,” and the more he did it, the more hands he would have. When he became a teenager, when the dream recurred it became his first wet dream (although there was nothing overtly sexual in the dream, it sounded to me.)

“I don't think Ed liked my dream,” Tom said, looking at his big hands, his beautiful features in a slight but poignant pout, with just a touch of humor in it.

“I do,” I said, meaning it. Leave it to Tom to have the most off-the-wall, impossible dream, and to be totally unselfconscious about it.

Tom's features lit up, and he held up his beautiful hands to show me, turning them over and having them feel each other.

“I think I could do it,” he said. “My hands get really big whenever I have that dream. I know, because buttoning my shirt the next morning feels different, like the buttons are smaller, but I can actually button them easier even though my fingers are bigger.”

He buttoned and unbuttoned the sleeves of his long-sleeve shirt to illustrate. The big fingers were nimble. In my mind, I kept thinking to myself, they are so beautiful, so beautiful.

“It's strange,” Tom said, his beautiful eyes locking with mine, then looking back at his big smooth hands. “I can also type faster, and I've noticed it's easier to tie my tie with them when they're big like this.”

“Wow,” I managed to say, not able to manage much more, but I tried: “Your hands really are pretty big right now. Did you have that dream or something?”

“Omigosh, no!” Tom's said, his eyes wide wide in astonishment.

“We were only talking about the dream. It felt so real when I started playing flopsy with my hands to show Ed. I almost could have done it, but Ed was so disgusted. It kind of killed it for me.”

“So that's why they're so big,” I said, as Tom smoothed his hands over each other. It boned me to see Tom looking at his hands that way, like he wanted more of them. That would be hot, I couldn't help think. Tom with four of his beautiful hands.

I thought I would suggest he try it, but my throat went dry. What would he think of me, taking literally a stupid dream. But then, he might laugh about it, making his big hands go limp and helpless, I tried to tell myself.

“Why don't you try it,” I myself say, my voice shaking just a little.

His beautiful eyes locked with mine, stopping my heart, and just as quickly they looked away into middle space, then they looked at his big hands.

“I should,” he said. “I've always wanted to. And you don't mind. So why not.”

“Go for it,” I said, feeling that, um, tingle that I got from the thought of Tom with four hands.

“Flopsy, flopsy, flopsy,” he said, flopping his big hands back and forth. It became kind of a chant, a wish, a command; I don't know, in his sweet musical voice it sounded nice, and he sort of got into a groove with it, letting himself bounce along with the rhythm, his hair in and out of his eyes as the bed rocked a little to the ritual of his hands. They were beautiful to watch as they flipped and flopped, so lithe and smooth and heavy. You could tell it actually felt good to flop them. They seemed to color slightly and they definitely grew a little.

“This is work,” Tom laughed. “My arms and shoulders are getting sore doing this. But my hands feel so good! Flopsy, flopsy flopsy …”

And then the hands made slapping sounds as he flopped them back and forth, and were too big to flop easily when all of a sudden Tom said, “Omigosh!” and held up his right hand. There were two of them hanging from the wrist, perfectly matched beautiful right-hand twins. He flopped his left hand a few more times, hard, saying, “Flopsyflopsyflopsyflopsy,” and the left started making the slapping sounds and suddently there they were, two of them, Tom's big strong handsome left hands, two of them, heavy on his wrist.

“I don't believe it!” he laughed, looking up to the ceiling and rolling back and forth in his crosslegged position on the bed, his four big new hands helplessly limp as he laughed and laughed. I couldn't tell if his laughter was nervous laughter, but it didn't seem so much nervous laughter as amazement that he could actually multiply his hands like in his lifelong dream. “I did it, I did it! Here, check them out!”

I knelt on the bed next to him, my own hands nervous because I was excited and aroused. I couldn't believe what I was seeing and now feeling. I was greedily holding both of Tom's wrists, feeling the swell of two big heavy male hands growing out of each of his strong wrists.

His pairs of hands were on top of each other, the palm of the one on top resting on the back of the hand of its brother hand beneath. He could bend his lower hands up against his upper hands and interlace all their fingers.

“Let me see,” I said, feeling flushed and aroused by the sight of Tom with four hands. He showed them to me and gave them to me to hold. I took them in my own hands, amazed at their perfect beauty, the doubling of Tom's already-awesome hands. Perfectly sculptured fingertips touched my hands as I lost my hands among the four of Tom's, his four hands so warm and masculine and beautiful. I felt obsessed and crazed by his having four of them, so beautiful on him, so expressive and gentle and strong and absolutely fitting for a gifted youth of his beauty. I was kissing all four of them, holding them in my hands, running my fingers among the twenty of his, loving the weight and flexibility, the perfectly smooth skin, the muscularity and beautiful pads of his fingers and palms, and I ran the four of his hands along my cheeks, through my hair, pressing them to me, kissing them …

I was suddenly embarrassed and I wanted to apologize, mortified at being so forward with his four beautiful hands, but his beautiful eyes countered my embarrassment with understanding, and I realized he loved me holding his four beautiful hands and kissing them. I couldn't get over how wonderfully masculine, muscular, smooth, heavy, strong, gentle and beautiful they were; I was holding them to my face, his large lower hands gently resting on the napes of my neck and his large upper hands cradling the sides of my face and chin.

“Look,” he said, his four hands gently guiding my hands into both of his left hands, which held my hands comfortably, assuringly. Then Tom held up his right wrist to show me his two right hands. My hands were in heaven as they held his two big strong gentle left hands.

He jerked his right wrist thee times, flopping the two beautiful right hands while saying, “Paper-scissors-rock!” He froze the two right hands into different position. The upper hand was flat, like paper, the lower hand a fist, like a rock.

“Paper covers rock,” he said, wrapping the flattened upper hand around the fisted lower hand. “Upper hand wins Let's try it again: Paper-scissors-rock!”

This time, the upper hand was fisted, the lower hand making two fingers imitate scissors. “Rock breaks scissors,” he smiled, gently bringing the upper fist down on the lower hand that was the scissors, the beautiful lower hand going all broken-looking. “Upper hand wins again.”

“That's no fair,” I said in mock protest. “You know what both hands are going to do.”

“It is too fair,” he countered. “See, I can make the lower hand win. Paper-scissors-rock. See, now the lower hand is the fist and the upper hand is the scissors.” He made the lower fist bend up to hit the scissors-hand, which obligingly went all broken-looking.

“You know what I mean!” I growled, and I rolled into him, knocking him over on the bed and tickling him. I had him there. I knew even with four hands he couldn't tickle me back because once I got him laughing they would all four go limp. And they did. I had him howling and begging for mercy. He tried getting me back but his four big hands were useless, helplessly limp with his panicked laughter as I tickled him.

“Stop, stop!” he begged when he could catch his breath. “Please stop tickling me. Stop!” He was strangling with laughter, unable to get away from my merciless tickling, his four beautiful hands stupidly gorgeous as they hung and flailed heavily, unable even to wipe the tears of laughter from his eyes.

I stopped tickling Tom and went for his four hands again. So many hands, so many of his beautiful fingers, his four well-developed thumbs gently squeezing as his four magnificent hands gently clasped my hands. I pulled and he yielded them to me; I kissed all four of them, turning them over and over, and creamed right there in my jeans, creaming over and over as I held his four beautiful hands to my flushed cheeks and lips, kissing them, pressing them to me, and kissing him, really kissing him. I kissed him till I felt his four beautiful hands holding me, finding my face, cooling it with the touch of their four beautiful palms. I kissed him til he creamed, which I could feel him doing through his jeans as his big penis pumped and pumped, no doubt making a hot soaking mess inside his pants like I had inside mine.

We were both exhausted and out of breath, hot and tangled together on the rumpled quilt of his bed, still laughing as we caught our breath, and still kissing each other. I couldn't get over how sweet it felt to have him holding and caressing me with those four big amazing Tom-hands of his.

“I'm making you a couple of hand sandwiches,” he smiled gently, his breath sweet, his flushed, beautiful face lit with a boy's joy as his four beautiful hands—their touch was magic—placed my hands between themselves. I was holding the backs of his lower hands, my fingers wrapped around their sides to feel their gentle, welcoming palms underneath, as his upper hands gently rested on the tops of my hands.

I turned on my side and faced him as he lay on his back, looking at his four hands. I rested my chin in the cleft at the top of his shoulder. As I snuggled, I felt the cleft in his shoulder deepen.

“What's with your shoulder?” I asked.

“What?” he asked, his two left hands feeling the shoulder, finding the growing cleft in the deltoid muscle. His right hands felt the other shoulder and found the same thing happening.

“We better get this long sleeved shirt off of you,” I said. “I think your arms are splitting into four.”

We both sat up and checked his wrists. Sure enough, where Tom had unbuttoned the sleeve-ends you could see a cleft running along the sides of the wrist, starting from where the two hands hung from it, and no doubt continuing along the arm all the way up to the cleft in Tom's shoulders.

“No wonder my arms and shoulders felt sore while I was playing flopsy,” Tom said, getting up and rummaging his four hands though a desk drawer and pulling out scissors. “These sleeves are getting too tight to take off, because I don't think I can fit my four hands back through them.”

“I don't either,” I agreed. “Here, let me help.”

And even though Tom was four-handed, I was glad to do the honors of cutting his arms out of the suddenly-constricting long sleeves. As the scissors cut the sleeves, they freed what were now two complete arms which had been trapped inside each sleeve. All four arms were perfect copies of Tom's beautifully muscled long arms, with two perfectly muscled sets of deltoid muscles and shoulders along side each other, Tom's shoulders broadened and doubled. Each of his four hands now had its own long-muscled arm, and his four newly naked arms wrapped themselves around me as I struggled to remember to put the scissors down safely on the desk.

We got the rest of the shirt off him, and it was deja vu all over again as we kissed. I couldn't stop squeezing his four arms, loving the double shoulders, loving the feeling of squeezing an arm and feeling another arm behind it. I was aware of Tom's four beautiful hands squeezing me back, amazed at the feel of four of his hands all over me

One of his hands brushed the hair out of my eyes, while the rest of them held my shoulders. His beautiful eyes locked with mine, smiling.

“I want to play flopsie some more,” he said.

“Please do!” I begged.

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