You know I can change for you,” David had told me. “You just say the secret word.”
“What’s the word?” I asked.
“It can be whatever you want,” he said. “I’ll just memorize it. When I hear it, it’s automatic. It even works if I don’t hear it.”
How cool, I thought. I was boned that he would do this for me. I could tell he was boned as well.
“Bubala,” I said.
“It sounds like boobs,” he laughed.
“Only if you want them,” I said, joining in his laughter.
We were doing laundry; David was folding while I watched. He was good at it; he could make something look like it just came from the store.
He was taking T-shirts from the pile of fresh laundry, holding them to himself with his chin while using his arms to hold the T-shirt in place, fold it lengthwise and then fold the results into a perfectly formed T-shirt, just as if it were out of the box.
He was doing just fine, but I found myself boning at the thought of what he would be like doing it shirtless, with four of his sleek, slender arms and hands; I couldn’t resist saying “bubala.”
He blushed and smiled, proud that I wanted him shirtless, and he was shirtless and immediately four-armed, his four arms skillfully cooperating.
“I can do it faster,” he smiled. His arms pleasantly kissed and slid over each other as the four hands gracefully picked up the shirts and worked among themselves.
A nice, very square pile of perfectly folded, new-looking shirts was growing, as David’s four beautiful arms gently folded them into neatness.
He was doing towels now, his four beautiful hands smoothing themselves along the soft contours.
I said, absolutely quietly, to myself, “bubala.”
And then, “bubala.”
“You keep doing that to my arms!” David laughed, as he folded towels, new pairs of arms getting in the way more and more as he kept working all of them. “It’s turning me on!”
They were all so long and slender, just like his originals, with smooth, fine hands, handsome wrists.
They were sweating lightly, and a drop of sweat ran down David’s long neck as his broadened and multiplied shoulder muscles made beautiful music among themselves, working his silken multiple pairs of arms, arms whose muscles intimately kissed and nuzzled each other as they joyously carried on their skillful labors, a panoply of David’s beautiful hands laboring lightly, sharing the work, not doing much individually, resting relaxed from their fine wrists as other hands did their little bit of holding, passing, folding, before resting and letting still other hands do their little bit of work.
The squared piles of folded laundry made a soft, colorful little Manhattan on the laundry table, but I didn’t even see it; all I could see were the relaxed, warm foursomes of arms on each of David’s sides, so supple and warmly clustered, long muscle against long muscle, relaxed forearms and wrists and hands dangling together.
It was then that I noticed his lips, parted; he was breathing a little heavily, probably from so many arms to run. But probably also from being turned on. I was, too.
My face burned, feeling so alive from watching David, so beautiful, and so more beautiful with so many of his arms.
I suggested more legs, explaining that it would also mean more genitals.
“That will make me more muscular, because of the testosterone” he said. “And horny. Would you like me that way?”
“Yes, and naked,” I said. “Bubala,”
“Whoa,” David said, suddenly with legs naked as well as his upper body. Four legs naked.
“I’ve never had two penises before,” he laughed. “I guess its two legs per penis.”
He was like a centaur, but instead of a miniature horse body beneath his torso, his form resolved into four full-size human legs, gracefully connected by a gently curving extension of his spine between his front and hind legs.
He was right; having two sets of genitals made his body more ripped and buff, from the extra balls and all their testosterone.
David being David, he was a calming kind of person to be with, but I could tell how horny he’d become; both his penises, front and back, were huge.
“I think I need to come,” he said, his four legs squirming, newly muscular. His arms bumped each other a bit more as his finished the folding, his arms and body defined with more rippling muscle; his arms were a lot of muscle on muscle now, and looked really hot. So many pairs of hands, all so nice.
“We can get carry some of this laundry on your centaur back,” I suggested.
“Why don’t you just ride me and put the laundry between you and me, and I can carry the extra stuff with all of my arms.”
That was just like David; so sensible, even when he was crazy-horny with two erections.
So I held onto his shoulders (so many of them!), loving the feel of his waist between my legs and the feel of his second ass beneath mine, tightening left, tightening right, left, right, under me as his hind legs worked beneath me, his four legs muscularly carrying me along as I rode him and held his shoulders, loving the smoothness of his naked back, the nape of his neck, his long, satiny black hair almost blocking my forward view.
“Let’s take a break,” I said, when we were done.
I rode him downstairs again, loving leaning my chest against his smooth back muscles as we headed down the steep stairs, and I dismounted. He climbed his four legs onto one of the stools by the kitchen counter, and I handed one of his hands a beer, and took a beer for myself.
“It feels funny to sit down,” he laughed, “like i’m sitting on someone’s legs and they’re sitting on my legs at the same time.” His pairs of hands smoothed themselves along his four legs. He looked at his four feet, handsome in their four flipflops. “So many feet!” he laughed, taking a drink of his beer with the one hand, passing it to other hands to hold.
I put on some country music, enjoying the slight pulsing of his four legs as he moved them to the rhythm of the music.
A few beers and he was ready to do the Texas Four-Step. I told him as much.
“You’re ready to do the Texas Four-Step,” I said, admiring his four feet as one of the four flipflops started sliding off one of them.
“What’s that?” he asked, his tongue shiny and slow.
“It’s the Texas Two-Step, but with four feet,” I explained.
“Oh,” he smiled. “That’s funny.”
I collected him from the stool, as he slid his four legs off of it, and gave him a moment to figure out how to get the slipped flipflop back onto one of his hind feet.
We didn’t do the “four-step,” but it was nice holding him as he leaned against me, his front legs against mine, his back legs against his front legs, his four feet beautiful in their four flipflops as they tried to follow him around while we danced together.
He brought all his hands up and started putting them all over me, beautiful David hands all over me.
“I have too many hands,” he laughed, his beautiful pairs of hands dangling helplessly, or resting on me, as he giggled, as we danced slowly, holding each other.
“No you don’t,” I said, meaning it, taking them and kissing as many of them as I could.
The song ended, but David didn’t seem to notice right away. When he did, he stopped dancing but still held me with all of his arms. One of his right hands found mine, and held onto it while he removed his other arms from around me.
“See, you can shake hands with me several times, and never shake the same hand twice,” he smiled, his breath sweet as he offered me another of his right hands; I let go of the first one.
The new hand felt equally sweet in mine, and I shook it. He had another right hand ready, and I shook it. It felt cool and fresh, and quickly warmed in mine, but he had one more right hand there, so I let go of the hand and shook the last one, just as fresh and cool as the first three.
He giggled softly, bringing all his hands gently around both of mine.
“I want to make love to you this way,” he said softly, holding my hands in all of his, stepping closer to me on his four legs.
I kissed a few of his hands, and I kissed his lips. They were so warm and sweet.
“That would be nice,” I smiled. “Are you safe to take the stairs again?”
“Maybe with another pair of legs,” he smiled. “I’ll just go barefoot,” he added, sliding his four feet out of their flipflops.
“Bubala,” I said. He was beautiful, swaying slightly on all six of his legs, on his six beautiful bare feet.
“I don’t think I could carry you right now even with six legs,” he smiled, “but you can lead me by the hands.”
So I did, loving the sight of his six beautiful feet as they found their way up the stairs, and, soon, the weight, sleekness and warmth of his six beautiful legs as they gently wrapped themselves around me.
And then he said it to me, my six-legged David held me in his beautiful pairs of arms and legs, and smiled sweetly, looking me in the eye, and he said it: “Bubala.”
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