by Jefftaur

If this is The Boy from Ipanema, then no wonder.

Added: 1 Jul 2009 2,236 words 8,144 views 5.0 stars (6 votes)

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I’ll never forget the first day Lucas came to practice. None of us ever will.

It was still about a month before classes—the soccer team always started practice in the summer—and it was looking like a pretty good team this year. Plus, Coach kept telling us about this amazing kid coming from Brazil on scholarship, who’d be getting in any day now. Actually, the speech was getting kinda old; he kept reminding us to be open-minded and really try to help this new kid feel like part of the team, which was totally unnecessary; lots of guys on the team were from Central or South America. But then Lucas finally arrived.

We were kicking the ball around lazily, waiting for Coach to show up, when suddenly Jaime gasped and just about tripped over the ball I’d sent him.

“Hey, guys,” I heard Coach’s voice from behind me, “I’d like you all to meet Lucas.”

I saw the rest of the guys staring dumbly past me. Puzzled, I turned around. And that was when I first saw him.

Lucas was a knockout by any measure. Deep, rich tan, broad shoulders, muscular arms, pecs straining his T-shirt. Handsome face, jet black hair slightly disheveled, and dark brown eyes, smiling and friendly, but also guardedly shy. Despite being half-obscured by his shorts, his quads were obviously rippling with muscle, and his calves were perfectly sculpted, all covered with that flawless tan skin and a light coating of soft brown hair. But that wasn’t what was amazing about his legs. It was that there were four of them.

I joined the rest of the guys in staring dumbly at our new teammate.

The coach was introducing us. I don’t remember a word he said; I just remember staring at Lucas’s legs, standing there. None of us could help it; our brains wouldn’t believe what our eyes were telling us. But then Lucas moved one of his hind feet—hind feet!—just slightly, and removed all doubt. They were real!

Coach had wrapped up his speech and was clapping his hands, trying to get us to move, but it took his whistle before we were finally shocked into action. Autopilot kicked in. We were a team, we were there to play soccer. It was just that one of us was a little… unusual. To put it mildly.

Once out on the field, it became obvious why Lucas had earned the scholarship, why the coach had brought him here: the way he worked that ball with his legs and feet was magic. Shyness dissappated, he could run like the wind, all his legs moving in perfect concert. It seemed that moving that fast, darting this way and that, with all those legs so close together, that he would always be tripping over his own feet—literally—but in fact he moved with a grace that seems hard to put into words. His control was perfect, his passing and shooting amazingly precise, and he seemed virtually impossible to mark; with all those feet to feint with, just when you thought you were in position to block his pass, another foot—you never knew which one—would come in contact with the ball and a powerful kick from that leg would send it flying in the other direction. Sometimes this astonished the receiver as much or more than the defender; despite the accuracy of his passes, more than a few of them turned, after some fumbling on our part, into counterattacks. But Lucas never got angry or even frustrated. He would just smile, almost apologetically, and soon the receiver, and the rest of us, couldn’t help smiling back as we watched Lucas turn, almost rearing up a bit on his hind legs to slow and change his forward momentum, and gallop back down the field.

That was what was most important: no matter how many legs he had, Lucas was fun to play with. He didn’t speak or even laugh, but you could tell he was so excited to play, and the feeling was infectious. Despite faltering many times just from our continual amazement at Lucas’s centaur-like body, we soon were rallying as a team with a camaraderie that usually took many more months to build. And by the end of that practice, I was starting to really notice how well his specially-made athletic shorts clung to his toned hind ass.

After we were done, the coach called Lucas to his office, so it was just the rest of us in the locker room. No one said anything. It seemed like we should talk about the practice, about Lucas, but no one knew what to say. Despite being complete zombies during Lucas’s introduction, we knew there hadn’t been a word of explanation about his legs. I began to wonder if I’d missed something in geography class and all Brazilians were like that, but I knew that wasn’t the case.

It wasn’t until we’d hit the showers that Lucas returned, and then we all had another chance to be shocked. Lucas clothed was amazing, but Lucas naked was gorgeous. His tan was rich and even all over his body, from his torso, broad-shouldered and heavily muscled with beautiful definition, to his feet, large yet nimble, and sexy; and his cocks—cocks, plural—were huge. His front cock dangled almost halfway to his knees, and his giant hind cock between his hind legs danced and swung among his powerful thighs as he walked.

He smiled to us in greeting and headed for the free showerhead, basking in the sudden rush of warm water over his amazing body. The rest of us were only perfunctorily washing ourselves. Really we were all staring at Lucas, his eyes closed, his head rolled back, slowly himself soaping up. Hardons were rampant and unconcealable as we watched Lucas slowly bathe his muscular torso, bulging arms, four powerful legs, four large feet, and two gigantic cocks, which swelled impossibly large as he carefully lathered them up and rinsed them clean. Finally, Lucas closed the faucet, carelessly shook the streaming water from his jet locks, brushed his hair back with his hands, and then slowly sauntered, giant cocks swaying and bobbing, from the showers, his bare feet slapping wetly on the tile floor.

We stood there, frozen, staring after him, replaying his show in our minds. I’m not sure that any of us had really moved since he first stepped in.

Eventually, one by one, we finished and left, only speaking to give casual farewells that seemed to uncomfortably break the silence.

I was in my car, turning out of the parking lot when I saw him, Lucas, standing at the bus stop. My head, which was just then beginning to clear, was suddenly overwhelmed by the sight of him again, standing there, in a plain white T-shirt and four-legged shorts, casually waiting at the bus stop; the only one there, since it would be weeks before any other students arrived.

I made a decision.

I pulled up by the curb and rolled down the passenger window. “Hey, Lucas, can I give you a lift?”

Lucas smiled. “Thank you.” His voice had a strong accent, kind of sexy, as if the rest of him wasn’t enough. He stepped forward and opened the door. I watched in amazement as he maneuvered all his legs into the car and sat in the seat. He was sort of sitting in his own hind lap—even though he was not very tall, his head brushed the ceiling—his front legs resting on top of his hind legs. I noticed his feet, all resting together, were bare; his four soccer shoes, which he obviously took great care of, hung by their laces from the rather ratty backpack he carried.

“I’m Tim,” I said, offering my hand.

His grasp was firm and powerful. He said nothing, but smiled.

“Where do you need to go?”

“The school has arranged for me a room in the graduate… housing.”

“Okay, I know where that is, no problem.” I kind of nervously shifted back into gear and headed across campus. I had trouble keeping my eyes on the road, with Lucas sitting barefoot beside me, in my car. My cock raged in my shorts.

“Um, Lucas, I… I’m sorry if we seemed rude today. I—we… we’re all really glad to have you on the team.”

Lucas smiled again. “It is okay.” He saw me uncomfortably trying to smile back and continued, “I remember how it was the first time I saw a centauro.”

“A centauro? A centaur? Is that… what you are?”

“It is… a word we use.” Suddenly he grinned wider. “Sometimes we joke and say, vaqueiro.”


Lucas nodded.

“Are there lots of… you? Centauros? Vaqueiros?”

“I know… thirty. In Rio. We are all friends.” Lucas’s eyes went a bit distant. I wondered if he was homesick already.


“We play football—soccer,” he corrected himself, “on the beach. With no shoes.” He looked, almost with awe, at the four new shoes hanging from the backpack in his front lap.

“No shoes?”

Lucas smiled again. “It is hard to buy four. And then, I cannot feel the sand on my feet.”

“Your feet are very nice,” I offered, nervously, glancing down at them again, four large tan bare feet clustered together on the floor of my car.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling wider, as he looked down at them himself. He wriggled all his toes and I almost lost my grip on the steering wheel.

“I—I didn’t know that centauros existed,” I stuttered.

“People do not talk about us…. They do not understand.”

That was certainly the case after practice. I tried to imagine Lucas’s centauro friends playing on the beach at Rio, barechested, barefoot, galloping gracefully over the sand. An amazing sight, no wonder Lucas was homesick. And no wonder he said he—wait!

“Uh, you said you remembered the first time you saw a centauro? You weren’t born a centauro?”

“No one is born a centauro. It is a gift we share.”

“A gift?”

“For those who… understand the centauros.” He looked at me. “Like you.”

“Like me?” I stopped the car with a jerking halt. Fortunately, we were at our destination.

Lucas smiled. “Like you.”

“I—I don’t think I understand.”

“You are…” Lucas began to ask, searching for the word. Eventually, he just grabbed his huge front cock, which was now hard, through his shorts and look at me for confirmation.

Am I horny as hell? I thought. You bet! I just swallowed and nodded, smiling sheepishly.

Lucas grinned back, reaching out to put a hand on my shoulder. “Then you understand.” He leaned down—he sat taller than me because of sitting on his hind legs—and we began to kiss.

I was more turned on than I’d ever been in my life, just kissing this amazing, sexy, centauro stud there in my car. The kiss didn’t last long, but when it ended I was breathing irregularly.

“Come inside?” Lucas asked.

I was out of the car in seconds. Lucas took his time, ducking under the doorframe, extricating his feet one by one, until finally he climbed free and shut the door. His giant cocks were obviously hard, the head of front cock poked out under the hem of one of the front legs of his shorts, and his hind cock had tangled the fabric of the hind legs.

I followed him almost like an eager puppy—even though he was the one with the puppy number of legs—to his door. Once inside, he tossed aside his keys and backback and just as casually pulled off and discarded his shirt. Moments later his shorts were shoved past the twin entangling obstacles of his cocks, and fell free to pool at his feet.

Once again I was struck speechless and motionless by the sight of him in all his naked, four-legged, double-cocked centauro glory. He smiled at my wide-eyed stare and stepped forward, reaching to pull off my shirt, his huge front hardon poking into my groin, leaving damp stains on my shorts. I quickly pulled them down and off, freeing my own hardon, much smaller but just as ragingly hard, and kicked my sneakers off as I followed him to his bedroom, entranced by the sight of his tan, muscular hind ass in motion.

A mattress with some sheets and a pillow on it was the only furniture in the room, in fact, I realized, the only in the whole tiny flat. But right now, all that I could think about was Lucas’s body, as he knelt his four knees down on the mattress; it was all I could do to keep from throwing myself down and sinking my cock into that ass I’d been following.

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