Hey, check out this app I downloaded.”
I looked up reluctantly from my laptop —I still had to figure out the architecture for the new photo assets database by Monday, and I wasn’t having any luck —and saw my husband eagerly showing me his newest toy, a top-model iPhone. I wondered what it said about us as a couple that even sitting in bed naked side by side, with our nicely buff Chelsea-boy bods still pink and sated from exertion, our postcoital activities tended to involve electronic devices.
“What’s it supposed to do?” I said, mentally shifting gears from work stuff and peering into the screen. It seemed to be showing the phone’s normal camera function, which was currently showing me a murky shot of the opposite wall of the dimly lit bedroom.
Jess grinned and turned the screen back toward himself. “It’s very goofy,” he said. (Just like the guy who downloaded it, I thought to myself fondly.) “It’s supposed to set up a split screen to make it look like there are two of anything you’re pointing it at. See?”
He showed me the screen again, angling it so that the phone was between me and him, and sure enough the screen was showing two of his boyish, grinning faces shifting around as he moved his hand a bit this way and that. There was a green button on the screen at the bottom, presumably to save and store the image.
I laughed. “Very cute. But why?”
“Because,” he said, with an adorably crooked smile, “you are so gorgeous that one of you isn’t enough.” And he playfully aimed the phone at me and clicked the “save” button.
And suddenly I felt very strange.
Jess was still looking at the screen, giggling. “Wow, that is so hot. It’s like you have two heads! See?” he added, turning the phone toward me. Then his face froze.
On the screen was an image of me with two heads, set close together on my broad shoulders, the ears about an inch apart. And judging from the expression on Jess’s face —and, more importantly, by the fact that I was now somehow seeing him in some sort of bizarre three-d vision from four eyes instead of two —that was what I now looked like.
Jess was still staring at me, shocked and open mouthed. At the same time, I noticed the sheet draped over his big cock was moving.
“Dude,” I said —with two mouths, simultaneously. Jess’s face still hadn’t moved, but the tent over his crotch was rapidly rising. I tried concentrating on speaking out of only one mouth and realized I could do so without really thinking about it, like choosing to draw a breath rather than just breathing. “Dude!” I said again, out of my right-hand head. “What the fuck did you do?”
Pleasure at being able to control which head I was talking out of gave way, suddenly and without warning, to unbridled panic. I had two heads! How was I supposed to go into work? How was I supposed to go anywhere?
“Dude!!” I said, getting close to jumping out of bed and freaking out. But in that moment my eyes fell on our bedside “cute couple” picture, taken at a beach picnic three months into our relationship, and even at glance I could tell we had three heads between us. But before I had time to process this Jess grabbed my heads and pulled them hard toward his own, drawing me into one of my favorite things in the world —a three-way kiss.
A little backstory: I used to spend the first part of the night whenever I went out looking for cute couples and telling them I loved three-way kisses more than anything, and it’s amazing how often they obliged. Even after I met Jess, he took the lead in finding hotties at the bars —or even on the street or at the grocery store —and telling them about my love of threesome kisses, and usually Jess telling them that was enough to lead directly into a steamy bout of three mouths gyrating together.
And now two of those mouths were mine. And now I had other memories, new memories, alongside my old ones, of having guys come up to me in bars with the line that their favorite thing was threeway kisses, and how I’d grin with both heads and say “mine too,” and how I’d spend the whole night making out with gorgeous, hot guys who couldn’t get enough of making out with both my heads at once. Threesome kisses happened all the time, everywhere I went —high school, prom, college, the subway, even at work. My boss —younger than me and a gym nut —was hungry for them, and my memories said Jess didn’t mind at all —it was erotic for him, thinking about me out in the world, making hunks helpless with desire for my luscious mouths, and coming home to him.
But memories of doing it were nothing compared to doing it for real, for what was —at least to half my memories —for the first time.
I can’t even describe how it felt. Jess has a hot tongue —literally, it always seems palpably warm —and I was feeling his mouth and his tongue from two different directions, and my own mouths and tongue, and our stubbly chins brushing together. Fuck, I was beyond turned on, I was already close to cumming.
I pulled one of my mouths away just long enough to whisper, “Give me the phone,” and a second later I felt it in my right hand. Diving back into the impossibly hot three-way kiss I used my other hand to yank away the sheet. Before Jess knew what had happened I broke away, aimed the phone at his big thick cock, and pressed “save.”
And then I did it again.
Jess moaned wildly and I reflexively tossed the phone down in shock. I stared at the eight writhing monster boners in awe. I’d meant to only dupe his beautiful cock once, so that I could give him a double blow job. But I couldn’t stop myself. I was obsessed with his cock, even more than three-way kissing, from the moment I’d seen his luscious bulge in the drug store three years ago. He’d been buying condoms —magnums. I wanted to suck that cock before I ever saw it. It belonged in my mouth.
And now my second memories filled in, and the bulge I’d seen in his baggy-everywhere-but-the-crotch jeans was immense. Fortunately Jess was a grower (unlike me —my cock is impossible to hide even soft), but eight flaccid cocks make a huge lump no matter how compact they start out. He’d always been a little shy about it, and ironically had started working out and going shirtless (as he was that day, showing off a much better built torso than I remembered) to sort of distract attention from his enormous crotch. He’d even started bartending in gay clubs while he was still in high school because it was the only job he could find that would let (or require) him to work shirtless, and his incredi-basket was usually hidden behind the counter. Outside the bar the distraction didn’t always work —certainly it didn’t work on me that day in the drug store, as he bought ten economy packs of magnums.
But in my regular memory I was seeing them for the first time, thick and pink and jostling with erotic power, and I was more entranced by what he was packing than ever. He was staring at them too, panting, a little unnerved.
“Sorry,” I lied.
“Just get me off,” Jess panted. His newly awesome pecs and granite eight-pack were shiny with sweat. “You duped the balls too, I think, at least the first couple times, and now I gotta cum so bad, dude, I have fucking buckets of cum to unload.”
I bent to look underneath his cluster hard-on and sure enough, there were four ballsacs down there, swollen with Jess’s racketball-sized balls. Fuck. His cocks weren’t just leaking precum, they were spouting it like a fountain. Quickly I bent down and took two cockheads in each mouth, slowly going down on his cum-slick cocks, two of his hot wide shafts just barely fitting in my well-practiced mouth, my tongues dancing along the shafts, and I felt them suddenly stiffen even further —the ones in my mouths and the others rubbing along my cheeks. “Oh god!” Jess cried, and I’d only just gotten the heads in my throat when his cocks stiffened even more and abruptly spasming in my mouth, releasing so much cum I could only swallow a couple of times before I had to pull off, and he was spraying cum on me from eight beautiful nozzles, and suddenly I arched my back and I was cumming all over his massive, heavy pecs —a powerful stream of cum painting his chest —wait —two powerful streams —wait –
I looked down and saw that he had the camera pointed at me, at my crotch to be precise, and he was grinning even on top of his eight-cock orgasm ecstasy —and I realized/remembered my four big, impossible-to-hide cocks, and I started cumming again harder as he kept on spraying me unstoppably, and I yelled “Fucker!!” as I came more powerfully and more pleasurably than I’d ever cum in my life.
I don’t even remember falling asleep, exhausted and sated, but sometime that night I woke up very blearily having to pee. I padded mindlessly into the bathroom with my eyes closed, lifted up the seat lid, and started peeing like a racehorse.
Only I started to groggily realize I was also peeing on the bathroom floor. I frowned and opened my eyes in a squint.
Opposite me was the wide mirror that covered most of the wall over the sink and toilet, and in it I saw —two of myself. I realized I was looking out of both bodies —all four of my supercute faces shared the same consciousness.
Having two of my double-headed bods wasn’t all that was different. Both of them were unexpectedly god-muscled, with pecs the size of one of my heads. As I stared at myself I figured out I must have adopted Jess’s “distraction” tactic even before the memories came of my life pretending to be twins, working out all the time and never being able to conceal each of my bods’ four —no, six! —oversized, always semi-hard-from-the-friction cocks.
Actually, my cocks felt even longer —I lowered my gaze from my amazing pecs, barely taking in changes along the way (two nipples on each pec, and —whoa! a 12-pack!) to take in six cocks on each bod, all of then heavy and half-hard and hanging down to the knee. How could he have made them longer? Maybe if you focused the camera sideways on the part of the shaft, so that the double image lined up making the section you were looking at in the phone look twice as long. Would that work? Apparently it did. My cocks started to rise to hardness as my memory filled with guys constantly groping me and caressing my over-muscled bod to get me turned on, just so I’d have to readjust my hardening cocks by pulling them out and letting them stand tall out of my jeans, drooling on my shirtless torso. At first in junior high I’d been mortified —but after a while I came to accept it and even love it, and found a way to live with being boned all the time, six unnaturally massive hardons on each of my oversexed musclebods.
And even as I was remembering that, I realized I was stroking my twelve-packs behind my cocks with more than two hands. I suddenly realized/remembered that I had four long, muscular arms on both bods. I’d thought it perfect during puberty —I could suck off two cocks on each bod, and stroke the rest. I did that all the time, whenever I was alone. And sometimes when I wasn’t, like the bathroom at high school. And college. And the clubs. And work. My hot gym-rat boss was hungry for the sight of my getting myself off.
I turned my bods toward each other and hugged myself, enjoying the feel of my hard monster cocks intermingling, and started making out with myself. I was thinking about Jess, wondering what I would do to him with the phone, but that, I thought, enjoying all kinds of new sensations from my delirious fantasy bods, could wait.
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