Description Imagining yourself as being hotter, more hung, and possessed of extras sometimes is just a phase, but other times it can spiral to extremes.
|Part 1 Imagining yourself as being hotter, more hung, and possessed of extras sometimes is just a phase, but other times it can spiral to extremes.||2012-02-15|
|Part 2 Benny seeks help curtailing his increasingly multiplied extras from a young mage who’s not the most experienced magic-user in the book—though he is able to hold Benny’s attention in other ways.||2018-10-06|
Magic is not an exact science—especially when you work it on yourself. That should go without saying, especially if you’re one of those people who thinks of “magic” and “science” as direct opposites. Mutually exclusive. But think about all those spellbooks and potion recipes that saturate our legends about magic. They’re always very precise, right? Three hairs of a virginal male, two eyes of newt, that sort of thing?
That’s the way the instructions read in the magic book Benedict found one day in an old trunk of his father’s. He’d grown up knowing about magic—there were books about magic in the bookshelves, and old totems and talismans with fascinating stories on every shelf. His parents even claimed their ancestors had practiced it, even though they insisted that they themselves had long abjured any but the most academic interest in their families’ occult legacy.
But what Benny didn’t understand was that talismans and potions are just the medium, not the magic. And in the hands of the inexperienced and naive, magic doesn’t want to be controlled. It may be an elemental force of the Earth, a metaphysical energy that’s all around us like wind and sunlight, but it’s the product of billions of life-forces, and has its own laws and ends. Sometimes just an impressionable young boy reading about magic, becoming engrossed (say) in the story of the sort of spell involving image and beauty, involving inconspicuously fostering your fantasies about yourself, can have unforeseen consequences.
His parents had warned him throughout his childhood that magic was too powerful a force to be played with by “nonprofessionals,” and Benny had let his family’s background lie dormant in his mind, a collection of colorful stories about his strange parents that he could amuse his buddies with.
It wasn’t until he’d left for college that it suddenly, and very unexpectedly, occurred to him that his forgotten, foresworn ancestral legacy might be his best hope for a normal life.
Benny’s renewed interest in magic came from his body, and how he realized he wanted to change it. He really had no urgent need to alter himself. He was a 25-year-old who looked 18, constantly asked if he was an Abercrombie model: dark hair, smoldering green eyes, and a zealously, even compulsively, gym-groomed gymnast’s bod. And yet ever since he’d been 9 or 10 he’d felt this low-grade fever of desire, a constant thrumming in the back of his head, sometimes barely perceptible, sometimes flooding every register of his vivid imagination.
It was a desire for more. More of his own succulent body, more of his lithe but thick arms, more of his strong Olympic swimmer’s legs, more of his ten-inch torpedo cock, more of his seductive face. When he beat off (which he did at every opportunity, from his earliest awareness of boners and ejaculation), and even, later, when he was having sex with other hot guys from his middle school, he dreamed, imagined, tried to feel, thought he felt his body growing, expanding, adding, transforming; and every time he blew his copious, hot wad, every time shooting more cum than he ever saw anyone else blow, he increasingly experienced his electric, soul-wrenching orgasm exploding from two, three, even twenty cocks at once.
As he grew into his hormone-soaked teens his fantasy became obsession. He walked down the corridors in his bustling, athletically obsessed high school imagining, and half feeling, extra muscle arms hanging heavily from his shoulders. He’d be sitting at the dinner table at home, more or less oblivious to his gabbing family, and be self-consciously thrilling to the sensation of new cockflesh gently shoving out of his groin, pushing his existing ponderous cock aside, making room for itself in his already tightly packed boxer briefs. He’d walk alone through the mall, or even with a pack of his loud jock friends, smiling in his head to himself, glad the four-legged jeans he was wearing didn’t need replacing just yet. He worked out like a fiend, pretending to work first one set of arms, then another, then another.
This fever, this desire and obsession, only grew more intense year after year. He’d expected—and, sneakily betraying his own delicious nonstop fantasy, sort of looked forward to—the intensity of his imaginings subsiding as he left the carnal intensity of high school and entered the supposedly more mature life of college. But at college it was worse than ever. He was hard all the time. And he actually felt like he had two, three, or ten oversized boners, bigger and thicker and harder than his real ten-incher, all the time. He knew he didn’t—he held firm onto reality with the conscious, rational part of his mind. But the part of his brain that fed him sensations from his body finally gave itself over completely to indulging his fantasy.
At college he had to concentrate on getting dressed, at first, reminding himself he had only two arms to put through the two arm-holes of his shirt. Two legs to slide into his jeans. But after a few months he stopped thinking about it, at some level choosing to assume that his shirts and pants had as many arms and legs as he did.
The most amazing thing was that, in answer at some level to a deep and long-felt yearning, he started to see his extras, his augmented body, when he looked down at himself, even in the mirror, even as he continued to know as an irrefutable fact that these things weren’t there, that his friends saw him just as a hot, deliciously buff guy. He was certain that his supercute, inspired-by-his-bod-into-gymratdom roommate Bobby only had one ten-inch torpedo to eagerly suck down every night, and two of Benny’s arms to hold him as they drifted off to sleep, for all he felt, and saw, the more he had always craved for himself.
He started to become fascinated by what was happening to him. His body, and even his eyes, told him now that he never had fewer than six arms and four legs, that erupting from his crotches were always at least three permanent oversized boners, and sometimes a lot more. His mind knew better. But he also knew he couldn’t extinguish the fantasy—it was a part of him, coded into the surface of his brain. Most of his life he’d felt like his obsession was the perfect solution to wanting a fantasy body: he felt it, saw it, fucked with it, but no one else knew it was there. No one knew he was a freak, or even that he wanted to be one. The sensation, and the knowledge, of having this strange, enhanced, volatile body filled him with constant joy and unending erotic stimulation.
But as he entered his final year at school, and contemplated life beyond it, he started to wonder occasionally about his future mental health—especially as his transformations were becoming more extreme. Since the start of his junior year he had been waking up sometimes with two heads—infrequently at first, then it started to happen as often as once a week; by his senior year it was permanent. He stared into the mirror, mesmerized by the erotic effect of two of his cuter-than-ever faces.
Quantities of other things started increasing. He realized at some point in his junior year that he had seven fingers on all his hands—he didn’t even know for how long he’d had them. His cocks were getting bigger—massively thick and long—and more numerous. He started finding extra boners lying around. He would open his bookbag only to find it full of hard 15-inch boners, ready to be stroked and sucked. He liked to pull tube socks over them and stuff them back in his pack, enjoying the feeling of a cargo of huge boners over his shoulder, feeling them rubbing against each other, all his cocks permanently hard and eagerly awaiting release.
He was starting to go beyond even what he could “pretend” to walk around in. He woke up once with a pile of thirty legs, and as wonderful a sensation as it was—he got really hard in what felt like a hundred huge cocks—for the first time he had to consciously reimagine himself with a manageable number. He got it down to nine long, thick soccer-boy legs before he felt like he could get up out of the bed he shared with an increasingly very built Bobby and go take a whizz in the hall bathroom. (Everyone on the floor was used to seeing him naked, even if they didn’t see what he saw.)
Another time he was sitting in class and he suddenly was overcome with a reality-blurring, erotically intense moment of disorientation, and then as he regained his senses he realized he had eight beautifully huge and heavy pec muscles, each of them leaking what he somehow knew with certainty was precum from the nipples, making little stains on the tee shirt that—to his eyes, if not in reality—had risen up to cover his bumper crop of pecs, thereby exposing his entire twelve-pack of abs. Always after that, even when he got his pecs down to three (across) or four (stacked two by two)—never just two!—they were always bigger than before. And they were always leaking.
What concerned him, when he allowed himself to think about it—when he wasn’t in the gym pumping his eighth pair of arms or pretending the hot guy in the pec deck was staring at him because he lusted after his long slick cobblestone road of abs or wanted to make out with both his gorgeous mouths at once—was that the disconnect between mind and body would someday erode his so-far solid grip on what was real. The increasing magnitude of the changes he’d been experiencing made him aware that the status quo might not erode.
Daringly, perhaps in slight desperation, he tried incorporating his fantasy/reality into his sex life with Bobby, slipping in sex-talk about his extras in a way he knew Bobby would find exciting. But that only went so far. In a way it seemed unfair to hide all this from him. Benny sensed that Bobby was falling in love with him, and he realized that what prevented them from having a real relationship, rather than nonstop hot sex, was this all-consuming secret, his secret vision of himself so different from the world’s.
And suddenly, as he sat on the train from campus into the city one afternoon to visit the large city library for a term project, his legs comfortably piled up in front of him, his senses enjoying the feel of warm, heavy muscle legs lying on each other, from the back of his thoughts he brought forward a thread of reasoning that had been developing for some time unconsciously: maybe the way to reunite mind and body was to make his body like his fantasy imagined it, only for real.
And with this new clarity he knew there was a way to do it.
Benny was one of the last to disembark the train, his sturdy canvas bookbag clasped loosely in one eight-fingered hand. He had to duck low to exit the train, not having realized until he’d gotten up from his seat that he’d actually imagined himself an extra, additional row of thick, slow-leaking pecs while his mind had been busy elsewhere on the journey. He straightened up as he came out onto the concrete platform and looked down at himself in a mix of awe, arousal, and dismay that he was becoming increasingly accustomed to, the six rigid seventeen-inchers his eyes and senses told himself he was sporting up front these days jumping and shifting excitedly from their straight-up position behind his waistband, secured half-way up their wrist-thick shafts by his tightly cinched belt, while further clusters of cocks between his back legs did likewise. His attention, though, wasn’t even drawn to his insatiable cocks—at least, not much more than usual. They were always there, throbbing in the back of his mind, when they weren’t demanding a more central, starring role in his thoughts.
No, he was staring down at his row upon row of impressively thick, closely stacked, precum-seeping pecs. This was getting completely out of hand. Seriously, who needed five rows of firm, hard, melon-thick pecs? This was insane—he had more pectoral real estate than abs, and that was with the twelve-pack that had been his absolute minimum washboard complement for months, now mostly uncovered as the green polo he’d unconsciously configured for four rows of thick pecs rode up to expose his lower abs and tall-standing cocks. Shirts were such a hassle now that he was transforming more frequently. They usually adjusted to his latest shape by the next day, but lately Benny was more and more tempted to go without.
He licked his lips, unable to quite believe what he was seeing. Five fucking rows of pecs. He’d never stacked that high before. Not to mention all the arms! Each pair of pecs had beautiful eight arms apiece, all of them caressably thick with mesmerizing, corded muscle. Fuck, he didn’t even let himself do the math. When you had literally dozens of arms, the actual exact tally started to matter less and less. The damned parade of pectorals and all the arms that went with them made the ridiculous assembly of just ten long, jeans-clad, closely crowded, exquisitely sculpted legs he was currently standing on seem modest by comparison.
And yet, as always whenever his body shifted and multiplied, he could feel an electric rush of pure, exhilarating arousal flood through him. Staring down at his endless chest made him want to find a mirror. More than that—his countless eight-fingered hands were mostly twitching with a need to feel up all that pectoral acreage, to feel how hard and heavy all those pecs were. He wanted to find a gym and work every single cubic inch of pec flesh until it burned and grew, the sweat earned from a punishing workout tricking over the curved, tan surface of each eye-catching muscle, mingling with the slow streams of nipple-precum as he lay on the bench, gripping the bench press bar with yet another set of arms.
He was having trouble taking his eyes off of them, and he could hear the breath from both of his mouths had turned a bit ragged. He was so impossibly, colossally turned on right now. He felt this primal, overpowering impulse to find a bathroom stall right here in the train station, yank a couple or four of his detachable cocks right out of his crotch, and start sucking himself down like he hadn’t cum in ages. Fuck, it had only been an hour and a half since he’d been with his hot, increasingly gym-honed lover Bobby, enjoying a stolen moment of morning lovemaking in their shared bed before his roommate had to go to class while Benny embarked on this trip to the city library, but as he stared down at his bumped-up pecs and their overall impact on his crazy, incomparably arousing body it felt like he hadn’t blown a load in a hundred years.
He was getting more and more turned on lately, he’d noticed. His cocks were always almost painfully hard and leaking with a steady outpouring a pre, like someone constantly on the verge of an incredible climax. His nips, likewise. It wasn’t even just the massive, slicked-up boners he had jostling each other, shoving up out of his jeans or between his back legs like a posse of sex-starved adolescents each craving the slightest chance at release, intensifying each others’ inflamed arousal like tall, lanky, hormone-soaked athletes egging each other on. No, it wasn’t just them, or the sets of quadruple-sized balls they shared like powerful, cum-producing roots in his overheated crotches. Though they were beyond the confines of his body he could feel the cock that weren’t attached to him but just existed, aroused and separate, every one of them multiplying his steady, unrelenting yearning for release. There were ten in his bookbag alone—no, fourteen, now, all massive and hard and all of them pulsing in his mind and tugging on his churning balls. There were more back at the dorm—fuck, the drawers of his bureau were full of them, nestling in amongst his underwear and socks and tee shirts, all seeding his clothes with doses of cum that were invisible (and unsmellable) to anyone but him, and all of them firmly vividly present in his brain, wanting touch, wanting release, wanting orgasm after orgasm.
The weirdest was the one he hadn’t seen coming: his hopelessly “more”-obsessed obsessed brain had somehow overlain one of his steadily proliferating detached, massive, quivering and close-to-cumming cocks onto the oversized dildo Bobby had brought to school and kept hidden for use when Benny wasn’t around. Which meant that not only did Bobby think Benny had only one huge dick to suck, he didn’t even realize that when he fucked himself on his warm, rubber, super-thick and extra-long Piledriver-brand sex toy, Benny felt every… single… inch as he fucked his roommate up the ass, over and over again.
He’d be doing it this morning, too. The moment Bobby got back from his class, Benny would be fucking him hard and deep, regardless of the fact that they were an hour apart from each other and Bobby thought he was alone. He never failed to cum when Bobby used Bennyts secret sex-toy cock that way—and Benny always came right alongside him, if only he knew. He felt himself inching toward climax just thinking about it, his dicks and nips all suddenly spurting a violent, spine-shivering jolt of almost-jizz all at once from too many places to count.
He wouldn’t know it was coming, of course, because he couldn’t see what was going on in their room when he wasn’t there. He wouldn’t know until he felt Bobby’s eager hands wrapping suddenly around that one cock—the one Bobby knew as the dildo he had stashed away in the little box under his bedframe. Then Benny would gasp in sudden, tactile pleasure, as he had four or five times already this semester at often very inopportune times, whether standing in line at the coffee shop or sitting in his sternest professor’s most important lecture or deep into an intense set at the campus gym, each time forcing a sudden, embarrassed rush to the nearest men’s before the deep-fucking of Bobby’s ass with his disembodied cock made him geyser massive amounts of hot, fragrant spunk onto his hastily bared chest and, usually, a good deal of whatever stall or closet he’d hurriedly secreted himself in.
The pneumatic doors rolled shut behind him and the train he’d arrived on slid slowly out of the station, picking up speed as it headed for the turnabout. Benny closed his eyes, trying to steady himself and focus his thoughts. He’d come to a decision on the train ride here, and this new augmentation only confirmed it. He had to act, if he had any chance at heading off his body multiples spiraling out of control, and with it his libido… and his unslakable need for even more.
Stubbornly forcing down his hands’ strident clamor to feel up his five gorgeous rows of heavy, touch-hungry pecs, Benny made his way through the station. He was ducking under doorways and generally feeling more self-conscious than usual in this unfamiliar environment, though he knew that no one else could see his extreme enhancements, and that all the stares he drew like a wake behind him as he strode through the domed, thundering main hall of the station were simply for the exceptionally good-looking, dark-haired, green-eyed, lower-lip-biting gym-groomed jock that everyone else saw him as, from strangers and fellow students to his family, teammates, and even his lover. No one would even notice as his fantasy-crafted body grew more and more extreme in the coming months and years—and the loneliness of that divergence in perception, he worried, would only hasten his eventual disconnect with reality.
However much he loved, loved, oh god loved this imagined, multiplied body he saw and felt but didn’t actually posssess, he had to put it to a stop. Or… slow it down, at least? No, he told himself firmly: he had to reverse this process, unbuilding this multiplied body until the day he saw himself as a normal man again. Though (he admitted at a some deep but intractable part of his brain), if he were honest he’d probably let himself hang onto having just a mere couple of extra arms, legs, and cocks for a while before making the final plunge.
Soon he found himself emerging from the station’s main entrance into the bright cool morning, a faint breeze tickling the damp trails from his seeping nips. He looked down at himself in surprise—fuck, in the short walk through the station his brain had evidently decided to green-light the no shirts thing, at least for today. Though he knew everyone would see him with the green polo shirt he was still actually wearing, in reality, he thought, on the normal body he still had but couldn’t see anymore. Or not? Fuck, this was getting very slightly scary. And, at the same time, bizarrely awesome.
More confirmation he’d made the right decision on the way up here, anyway. Instead of turning right and heading up the handful of blocks to the big city library, as had been his original purpose for this trip, Benny instead flagged down an SUV taxi headed the other direction. Folding himself awkwardly into the back, half lying across the rear bench seat, Benny gave the driver an address that he only knew about from a hidden cache of family records he was never supposed to have seen.
Dan Kimura stomped barefoot and vexed across the parquet floor of the narrow but palatial dark-paneled and chandeliered fifty-foot entryway, in many ways the most conventional and the least impressive space in his family’s echoing, modest-hotel-sized townhouse on a secluded city back street that was itself hidden from all non-magic-users. He hadn’t bothered throwing on clothes. If some damned son-of-a-witch was rude and clueless enough to ring the family business doorbell and intrude on his peace and quiet on this, the day after everyone involved in the family business—grandfather, mother, older sister, the friggin’ house seneschal, even his hermit cousin Louie—had publicly decamped to the ancestral homeland with a good deal of fanfare (in the mage media only, of course) to deal with the scandalous curse that had just recently been revealed to be attached to the richest and nastiest corporate executive in the entire Pacific Rim, then that benighted doorbell-ringer deserved to get an eyeful of him in nothing but his electric blue swim shorts and a whole lot of skin.
He yanked open the massive, oak-paneled main door and got as far as the exasperated “Yeah?” he’d been planning all the way up the stairs from the basement Olympic pool and the entire length of the exquisitely tiled entryway before his jaw dropped open and his eyes started traveling up and up the incredible expanse of his unwanted visitor, widening with every inch of muscled, multiplied flesh he took in.
When he finally met those two sets of piercing green eyes, they were staring at him in awed astonishment. His visitor hadn’t missed Dan’s stunned reaction to his form. “You can see it?” the young man demanded, surprise and excitement edging into his voice.
Dan knew he had to mean the extreme transformations to his body. He was tempted to shoot back something like “How could I not?”, since it was all impossible to miss. The man was standing on what looked like a haystack of long, denim-clad legs, rising from a closetful of worn but durable maroon hightops in a considerably larger-than-average size. Massive hard dongs protruded rudely up from the tight, narrow waist, obscuring a good deal of what looked like easily twice as many rippling abs as Dan himself possessed. Above that were the real shockers—five rows of tanned, round, heavy pecs, all of them adorned with nips that seems to be leaking as copiously as the slippery cocks in view below, and from these depended racks and racks of long-muscled arms and big, heavy-looking, many-fingered hands whose myriad touches and caresses Dan already craved over every inch of his exposed, eager skin.
The pecs looked like they had emerged in a tight stack, each chest muscle pressing against the upper curve of the one below it, but even as Dan watched the upper row seemed to be trying to creep upward away from the rest of the pectoral expanse, creating a tiny mini-abdomen between the first and second rows of pecs that, Dan saw to his secret delight, already sported a compact little four-pack in the tiny, shadowed space emerging like a crevasse between the hard, palm-thick pectorals.
And above that, almost mundane compared to the surreally augmented torso with is uncountable bristling of strong, languid arms, were two beautiful, troubled but excited faces, set close on the broad shoulders between rounded traps—yet not too close. They were near enough to share a three-way kiss, Dan thought in a bit of a daze—but maybe set apart just enough to make out with each other…
Fuck. How had super-dick-hardening fantasies he hadn’t known he had not only been made flesh but actually been sent knocking on his door? When it was just him in the house? Fuck, am I dreaming this? ‘Cause if this is a dream I’m just going to stand here and stare at this guy until I friggin’ shoot cum a mile into the stratosphere…
His attention was handily distracted by a fast-rising sense of self-consciousness, what with him standing in the big doorway in just his trunks getting stared at in stunned disbelief, like that scene at the start of Kamen Rider OOO where a blasted-out wall exposed Eiji in just his wacky boxers. And the damnedest thing about it was, it was kind of turning him on… almost as much as the unreal, mega-awesome dream bod of the multi-everything hunk looming over him with wonder writ large in his bright green eyes…
Dan ruthlessly focused his mind, grateful he knew at least five different mage-regimens to prevent unwanted erections. He brutally paced himself through all of them, twice. His balls churned and his skin itched, but he could ignore that. Friggin’ boners, though… He was literally wearing only his swim shorts, and giving away to a stranger just how much he wanted to fuck said stranger was… not something his grandfather would approve of, or thank him for. Dan made himself concentrate on behaving toward the client—and this guy was obviously a client—like a mage-facilitator was supposed to.
The guy was clearly wound up about what was happening to his body, which seemed to be changing and augmenting even as they stared at each other. And the question he’d asked Dan, marveling that Dan could see the body when (presumably) others couldn’t, also had made something else clear: it was his phantfig, his internal astral image that normally stayed intermal, that was changing. Somehow this guy’s phantfig become unsubmerged… and, what was even rarer, the guy had apparently started seeing and experiencing it in reality, instead of his real one. Wild, impossible… and intriguing enough to plane down both Dan’s considerable annoyance at his solitary, blissful swim being suddenly interrupted and the burgeoning arousal that was trying very hard to break through Dan’s most powerful anti-erection spells.
Dan nodded up sat him. “Yeah, I can see it,” he affirmed quietly, nodding up and down the man’s wildly extreme form. Before the guy could ask how he went on briefly, “It’s what we do.” Gotta love the family business—even if you didn’t want it, your friggin’ bloodline stuck you with all kinds of shit. Without further explanation he turned and headed back up the long entryway, leaving the new client to close the door and follow him, no doubt relieved at how high the ceilings were in here.
Dan headed for the main consulting room, curiosity and low-burning arousal still warring with exasperated grumpiness. He tried thinking the presented situation through to steady himself. Like anyone in his bloodline he could see all kinds of things even other magic-users couldn’t—a big edge in this business—and that included phantfigs, the apparent physical form people gave themselves when they visited any of the various nonphysical planes of existence. Normally they were buried deep, since the pathways to the other planes were inward into the mind and soul; though it was possible to bring them forward into the real world—his visitor was living proof.
The problem was, Dan had been left behind for a reason. Out of all the family, he was the least adept—at anything, really, but especially all that inner mind shit. Dan was a creature of the physical world. Give him a bar and a bench and a set of weights, and he was happy. And strong arms to hold him, and thick cocks to—
He shivered and ran through his anti-boner mantras again. Maybe he should try hanging onto the annoyance he’d been feeling when the doorbell had interrupted his workout. He was pretty sure he could feel his visitor’s dual sets of eyes boring into his perfect, round muscle ass as his cheeks shifted the thin fabric of his skimpy swim shorts. His back looked good, he knew, as well—broad shoulders and curved, not-too-huge lats tapering to a narrow waist, his long, slicked-back, damp black hair brushing just past his prominent traps, his skin just a bit darker than most people expected in a Japanese-American guy. And with his swim shorts barely hiding his glutes and nothing more, his legs were on full display, and almost everyone seemed drawn to them. A couple of lovers had even said they were his best feature, and Dan worked to make all of his features as hot as he could make them…
Dan shook his head, trying to dispel his own obsessive need for physical perfection as they entered the larger consulting room, the one with the pale, warm-white wallpaper above knee-high dark-wood wainscoting and large windows with a view of the shady interior courtyard. The room itself was round in shape, except the double-high ceilings—a feature of almost every room on the main floor—made it seem more like a cream-clad cylinder, or the base of a keep after an old-school decorator had got at it. The muted sunlight from the gauzily curtained windows seemed to be supplemented with a great deal of warm, bright candlelight, giving the room a cozy, amber ambience, though in fact no candles were in evidence. Soft riffs of lights wafted and rolled half-seen along the round, creamy walls like a faintly glimpsed aurora borealis, one of the family’s many subtle calling cards of the occult scattered about the more public rooms of the house. For some reason Dan had never understood the room smelled faintly of cinnamon, though cinnamon was never applied here; the hint of sage, however, was genuine.
Dan waved his guest toward a very dignified but comfortable ruddy brown leather couch in the center of the room and sat across from him in a matching armchair, a low table occupying the narrow space between them. He schooled his features as multiple bonfires of suppressed arousal sparked inside him just from watching the man sit down. They were close enough that Dan could feel the warmth of his multiplied body in the slightly cool room, and it seemed to wash over him like a tactile cologne. The little pile of long, crafted legs (he could be a swimmer for sure—fuck, imagine him in the water!)… those hard cocks, red and dripping with pre from a constant arousal he probably had to get used to trying to ignore… those endless, pre-slicked abs, and… fuck, those friggin’ pecs, and all those arms!…
In one respect Dan kind of felt bad for him—Dan himself barely knew what to do with two hands in strange social situations like this, so imagining having dozens of them… His visitor’s solution, in any event, seemed to be for his various hands to unconsciously clench each other, which was kind of hot all by itself, like nervous stallions making friends (before fucking each other silly).
Dan blinked and focused himself again on his visitor’s face. Er, faces. He was watching Dan closely, nervous excitement in his eyes. Perhaps he wasn’t used to having consultations in splendidly appointed chambers with the scion of one of the most famous and venerable magic facilitators in the world, and particularly not when said scion was wearing a pair of swim shorts, a blank expression, and not much else.
Well, he’d upheld his dignity dressed in less than this. The main thing was, he was here representing the family—even if the reason was there was no one else. He might not like it, but he wouldn’t let the family down no matter how much they expected him to. “I am Daniel Kimura,” Dan said, consciously mimicking his grandfather’s politely imperious manners, though it was true his grandpop was generally more formally attired. “May I ask your name?”
“Er—Benedict,” the visitor said. He seemed to be choosing to speak from his right-hand head. “Benedict Macklin. Junior.” The last was delivered almost as an afterthought. “People—” he started to add, then stopped, but when Dan lifted an eyebrow he went on awkwardly, “People call me Benny.”
Dan dipped his chin, acknowledging the introduction. Though he hadn’t reacted outwardly, he was pretty sure he’d heard of the Macklins. If he was remembering this right, they’d fallen out of the magic world and hadn’t dealt with the Kimuras or anyone else in a generation or more. Essentially a new client, then—rare in the close-knit world of magic users. He could at least get things started, even if he’d have to hand off the actual facilitation to grandpop when he got back from Kyoto.
“Would you like tea?” he asked Benny, still polite. This he could do, at least.
Benny nodded mutely, and Dan mentally triggered the spell he had long memorized. A second later a bone china tea set manifested with a small susurration of shifting air on the low mahogany table between them, the chubby pot steaming happily from its spout. Benny jerked back in his seat, astonished. Damn, the Macklins really were out of the game, Dan thought.
So if the Macklins had lapsed from the use of magic, how the hell had Junior here managed to dislodge his phantfig and wear it so intensely that Dan could see it without having to work a single revisioning spell?
Benny was looking down at the teapot with an air of bemusement. His left head glanced up at Dan, green eyes glinting. “Is this something you do for all your two-headed visitors?” he asked wryly.
Dan frowned, his brows drawing together slightly. He looked closer at the teapot and almost gasped, though through long practice he was able to keep his expression more or less bland. Somehow, the tea-conjuring spell he’d done a million times—usually just about the only thing he personally did for paying clients—had somehow gone askew, and he’d managed to produce a teapot with two spouts instead of one!
Dan met Benny’s bright green eyes, the edge of amusement in them crowding out the nerves, and Dan melted a little inside. He felt himself smiling crookedly as he admitted, “Maybe I was a little distracted.” At that the other head looked up, too, and when they both smiled, conveying just a hint of the cocky, good-hearted jock he must normally be when his body wasn’t making him nuts, Dan’s pulse sped up. His heart thumped and he felt his cock starting to get hard, and none of his anti-boner regimens seemed to be working anymore. He suddenly wished he was back in the pool. He got boners in the pool all the time, and the water hid them just fine—and usually there was no one to see, anyway. Dealing with clients was not his bag.
Benny’s mood shift seemed to draw them closer somehow, the rest of the room and the massive house falling into nothing as Dan watched his freakishky, stunningly multiplied guest. Benny poured the oolong tea into two large, flat-bottomed china cups with a right arm chosen seemingly at random from the thicket of limbs all resting against each other as he sat, startlingly tall, on the impeccable overstuffed couch. He took the wide cups in two different left hands, also apparently random. Dan half expected him to bring both cups to his two mouths, but instead he handed one of the cups to Dan. He took it with a grudging smile. As he did so his eyes slipped down to that emerging gap between the top row of heavy, sculpted pecs and the row just below it. The divide had widened a bit more, and Dan could definitely see that tight, little four-pack in the shadows.
Quickly, Dan lifted his eyes to meet Benny’s. His visitor was leaning back against the back of the couch, exuding more confidence than he had before. Evidently Dan being able to see Benny’s multiples, plus his little proof-of-magic hospitality spell (complete with a tension-defusing multi-related gaffe), had reassured Benny that he’d made the right decision coming here, despite his prospective facilitator’s obvious youth and shocking state of undress. Dan decided to abandon his grandfather’s stiff formality. “Why don’t you go ahead and tell me why you’re here, Benny,” Dan said, his face marginally more friendly but not quite smiling—ideal for getting other people talking, just like his mother had taught him. He drank a bit of the tea, glad as always the spell courteously made sure the beverage was served at the correct temperature for it to be drunk as soon as it was poured.
Sure enough, Benny, encouraged by Dan’s almost-smile and attentive expression, began to tell his story, sipping his tea with one head while he spoke with the other, then switching roles when he refilled his cup, all apparently without conscious thought. He spoke hesitantly at first, clearly embarrassed by the libidinous need for “more” that had so propelled his younger self’s fantasies; but as he continued, he forgot his chagrin and spoke frankly about the escalating changes and his fears of losing touch with reality. Dan listened, fascinated, his own tea almost forgotten in his hand. His cock lay thick and hard in his lap, radiating heat and lust through the thin fabric of his swim shorts.
“A while back I remembered something I’d seen when I was a kid, going through all the books and papers my family had relating to magic,” Benny said. “There was a business card with the name Kimura, and underneath was something like ‘mage-facilitator’. I asked my mom what that was, and at first she was suspicious I’d been digging in stuff I wasn’t supposed to be digging in. But I told her I’d heard it in a dream—she’ll believe anything that you say was in a dream. Anyway, she said it was like a doctor—they sort of fix magic that’s gone wrong.” Benny gestured at himself with several multifingered hands that Dan just wanted to grab. “Well, my seeing this and feeling this when no one else does—no one but you, anyway—that has to be magic. And it’s… well, it’s something I wanted. Something I want, to be honest. But it is getting… it’s out of control, and I decided I ought to see if I can get a little help from an expert while I was still… before it’s too late.”
Dan immediately felt guilty, his lips tightening at the corners. An expert? Not hardly. His mother had been putting off his advanced-level mage-training for years, airily claiming that Dan wasn’t “serious enough” and only wanted to swim, fuck around (literally and figuratively), binge-watch sci-fi, and occasionally play guitar for adoring crowds at the big indie coffeehouse when he wasn’t doing either of those (though he wasn’t unaware that the skin-tight long-sleeved tee shirts showing off his sculpted muscles brought in at least half of his crowds, aided and abetted by his thick, beautiful hair and bright eyes)—and so what if she was right? His always peevish grandfather was even less sanguine, having callously announced to the whole family at dinner three or four years back, without any regard for his descendant’s feelings, that the friggin’ spirits had made clear to him Daniel had no aptitude for facilitation magic and should perhaps train instead to be a firefighter, or an optician—anything but a mage.
Maybe he was right, Dan thought sourly for the millionth time. Dan’s abilities working basic spells seemed just barely average; worse, he seemed prone to quirky screw-ups at the weirdest times, like that bit with the teapot. The thought of performing the intricate, super-complex stuff his mom and grandpop made look easy filled him with dread.
The upshot was, he was woefully undereducated for a scion of the Kimura. He knew only the basics about phantfigs—and as for how this transfer to the real world might have happened, he had no friggin’ clue. He felt better qualified going down to the basement pool and evaluating his form on the breast stroke. Honestly, he could hold forth more authoritatively on friggin’ Supernatural than on the nuances of phantfigs and involuntary interdimensional perceptual remapping. As long as they kept to the first five seasons or so, anyway.
But his whole family was going to be in Japan for a month at least, and—well, the truth was he didn’t want Benny to leave just yet. Dan grimaced. The house was damned empty at the moment, and Benny was nice—and a living fantasy that filled gaps in Dan’s lust-profile he didn’t know he had. Just being near him… near so much of him… was doing things to Dan.
They could talk about it for a while, damn it—and screw the internalized voice of his ill-tempered grandfather for telling him he’ll fuck it all up.
“There are some things I can tell you,” Dan said carefully, trying to ignore the hopeful look in Benny’s eyes as he leaned forward, watching Dan intently. “First, you’re right that this is all in your head. It’s your phantfig you’re seeing—your phantom, or astral, figure—and that’s wholly a product of your imagination. It’s the body you feel and see when you’re traveling in another dimension. Everyone has one, tucked away in their brains—but most people never see it unless they actually do the whole ‘visiting other planes’ shit.”
Dan paused. He was almost as certain about this next part. It had to be close, anyway. Benny was looking at him like he was the answer to everything he was worried about, and having this literal vision see him like that was doing weird things to Dan’s insides. “What’s different in your case,” he went on stolidly, projecting confidence he was pretty sure was justified, “is that instead of being directed inward, toward your astral access point, yours is inverted. So you’re feeling and seeing it in reality instead of where you’re supposed to feel and see it.”
Benny blinked at him, and Dan found it oddly appealing to see it done with two sets of eyes. “That actually makes sense,” he said slowly. Then he added, “Unless—how do we know that this isn’t another dimension? Then I’d be using it correctly!”
Benny was smiling, though. Dan answered in kind. “Well,” he drawled, “the other dimensions are all coral pink for some reason. So—you’d know.”
“Yep,” Dan said, settling back in his armchair. “Sky, grass, people, everything. Makes ordering a rare steak damn confusing, let me tell you.”
Benny barked a laugh. “I can imagine.”
He figured Benny would ask about how to stuff his phantfig back on the inside next, but he didn’t. Dan was glad—he had no friggin’ idea. Some part of his brain had been percolating through Benny’s problem during this jocular interlude, though, and now it offered up a possible avenue of approach. “The other thing I know about phantfigs,” Dan said, working it out as he spoke, “is that it is sometimes possible to shape someone else’s phantfig, if it’s someone you have a close connection with. It’s all imagination, you see, and there are ways to share your imagination with people you have an emotional bond with.”
“Wait,” Benny said, frowning. “Wait. So, if you and I were close, you could—fix it? Fix this?” he asked, gesturing to himself again.
“No. It’s not like that,” Dan said instinctively. He didn’t know this stuff chapter and verse, but Benny’s story in and of itself made it very obvious to him that it wouldn’t be that easy. What would be a plausible explanation for his instinct, though. “I mean…you built this body, and you’re deeply attached to it,” he hazarded, pleased that it sounded right as it came out. He realized his gaze was drifting downward toward that incredible stack of pecs and the little gap opening up among them, and he forced his eyes back up, ignoring his throbbing prick. “So that means that… clearly you’d have to be the one to unbuild it.” He kept spinning it out, aware he should stop talking. “But maybe you could make that happen in stages, if—”
“Could I—could I, like, offload parts of my—my ‘phantom’ bod onto someone else’s? Piece by piece?” Benny broke in, speaking excitedly. “I mean, it wouldn’t affect them, because for anyone else they won’t see it in this dimension, right?”
Dan blinked at him. That was more or less where his thoughts had been heading, too. “I think so,” Dan said. Feeling a need to paper over his out-of-his-ass assessment and, you know, general lack of expertise with a disclaimer, he added, “I’ll need to consult with my grandfather, of course. But the main thing is, I don’t think this thing spiraling out of control is the only way this plays out.”
Benny was nodding, clearly taken with the idea. “If I could offload my extras a bit at a time, I could work my way down toward normal instead of rocketing away from it,” he mused, half to himself.
Suddenly his eyes shot wide and he all but jumped to his many feet. “Um, do you have a bathroom I could use real quick?” He seemed very serious about the ‘real quick’ part.
For a half a second Dan stared at him—he might have thought it was some other problem, only the monster erections busting upwards from his tight-waisted multileg jeans were visible writhing and straining, and the precum was practically spurting from his dicks and that just-slightly-bigger-than-normal nips gracing his endless supply of beautiful, hard, glistening pectorals. “Um—through there,” he said, pointing to a grass-green door across the circular room opposite the one they’d entered by. Benny was already moving, effortlessly moving on however many feet like he’d been doing it all his life. “First door on your right!” Dan called after him, rising to his feet. A second later Benny was gone.
Dan stared after him, his own cock jerking sympathetically in his trunks. Fuck, he could already feel the orgasm slowly building in his super-augmented guest. It was intense and powerful, like Benny’s libido and sexual potency had been multiplied too, and Dan wasn’t sure if it was Benny’s colossal arousal bleeding through onto his own psyche, or just good old animalistic attract to that stunning, literally fantastic man, but he was already close to the edge of release himself.
That was a problem, because, for reasons that had never been diagnosed because Dan had never told anyone, Dan’s orgasms had involved impossibly huge amounts of cum—as in gallons and gallons of high-pressure jizz. (His grandpop’s snide remark about maybe becoming a firefighter instead of a mage had made his guts turn to ice when the old man had said it, even on top of the humiliation of being publicly branded a mage-dullard at the big family dinner table. But he’d convinced himself that night it was a pure fluke and grandpop couldn’t know. He’d have been immediately forced into facilitation to fix it the moment anyone found him out, he was sure of that.)
It was manageable at first when he hit puberty. He’d happened, by the grace of whatever spirits paid attention to horny preteens, to be in the shower when he’d had his first real spurt, and he’d understood instinctively that spunk up to his ankles after relentlessly cumming for five minutes straight wasn’t normal. He’d kept to the tub for all his self-pleasuring needs from then on, meanwhile frantically researching orgasm-suppression and cum-displacement spells behind his family’s back. But his problem had been getting exponentially worse; and a month or two back his latest displacement spell, which had been shunting all his phenomenal five-minute cum-blasts through a microportal into the middle of Lake Michigan, had abruptly broken down. He was cumming too much for the tub to handle now, and there was no way he could keep using that friggin’ mysterious bottomless pit under the Society’s secret Mage Archives on Fransson Street three block away before someone got suspicious…
Fuck, he was close—so close. He was going to blast all over the consulting room! He was going to paint the whole thing wall to ceiling with crazy high-pressure spunk! He was so friggin’ dead!
Looking around frantically his eyes caught on the little interior courtyard out the big, gently curving windows opposite him. No sooner had it hit him there was a smallish, round sewer grate for rainwater drainage in the center of that courtyard than he was on the move. He didn’t have time to make it to the exterior door onto the courtyard that was down the side hallway he’d sent Benny through. Instead Dan had covered the space between him and the windows in the space of a single heartbeat and was already launching himself through the window, mentally invoking the filter-through-glass spell with not even a millisecond to spare. He got himself through well enough, rolling onto the soft grass of the courtyard—now completely naked. Glancing up he saw that his electric blue swimming shorts were comically caught in the glass, half in the room and half out here with him, the fabric at the boundary fused to the pane.
Not even sparing a thought for how that could have been his very hard and insistently surging torpedo dick, Dan leapt to his feet and ran the few feet across the cool, tree-shaded grass to the little round grate, ripping it up with a little separation magic and exposing the foot-wide hole beneath. Casting the round grate aside to the grass with a soft thunk, he aimed his rigid, fat dick as best he could down toward the hole even as the Benny-induced orgasm slammed into him like a tornado. Within seconds he was blasting a constant, punishing, power-wash-intense eruption of nonstop pressurized jizz down toward that hole and into the endless bowels of the city sewers.
Fuck, he hoped this would work.
The fevered anxiety had almost stolen the pleasure from him, but now that he had secured an outlet for his preposterous firehose release of nonstop jizz he could let his head fall back as he crouched, naked and blasting, his thick, drying hair brushing against his swimmer’s shoulders, and let the euphoria surge through him. The primal, toe-curling gratification of his colossal releases seemed to be increasing with the volume and intensity, and Dan thrilled as perfect pleasure tore through him in a succession of relentless waves that crashed over him like a rollercoaster of climaxes on top speed repeating its heart-pounding route in a loop, over and over again.
It was several minutes before he could even open his eyes again—still blasting cum, but with not quite as much intensity as when he’d first started. He looked down, first, and saw that the foot-wide pipe was actually filling up with a rising upsurge of his spend, then dropping down abruptly before slowly creeping up again, like the sewer connections were having a bit of trouble handling the torrents of cum he was blasting into it. Fuck, he hoped he’d be done in time, before this all ended up being a big mess in the courtyard after all.
He lifted his eyes then and stiffened, the splatter of his high-pressure cum the only sound as, through the large, narrow, mostly-cum-drenched-from-the-inside bathroom window, he met the doubled, amazed eyes of one Benedict Macklin, Junior.
The moment the door was safely shut behind him Bobby Shelton had unceremoniously dumped his heavy bookbag onto the dorm room’s invulnerable industrial carpet and was already hauling his oversized, heavy-duty Maus tee shirt off as fast as possible and tossing it aside. He turned to catch sight of himself in the long mirror behind the door as he attacked the fastenings on his equally loose jeans, drinking in the sculpted beauty of his hard, deepening pecs, his swelling shoulders and thickening upper arms, and that six-pack that seemed to be slowly surfacing on his once unremarkable abdomen with a rush of awed warmth right up his core. Barely a second elapsed and his jeans were freed and pooling around his ankles, exposing thighs that, while not huge, sported hard-won tone and definition. The bulge in those charcoal boxer briefs swelled and rounded as he took himself in. Loose clothes made the revelation even sweeter.
It wasn’t that he was full of himself. Bobby knew he was totally average in every way. But fit, sculpted bodies turned him the fuck on, and to actually have one himself, to be carrying “hot guyness” around everywhere he went, was surreal and fantastically arousing. He’d never have imagined it, but Benny was the first amazing-looking, muscle-model evocation of hotness he’d ever met that wasn’t a total douche. The fact was there had been plenty of amazing-looking, muscle-model evocations of hotness in his life—they seemed to be forty percent of his high school, for one thing. His three older brothers definitely qualified. And without exception, every one of those gorgeous, testosterone-addled muscleheads was an unmitigated dickwad. It was how Bobby accepted having an unremarkable, skinny body and letting his wavy brown hair get way to long so it fell over his eyes and dressing almost entirely from the outcast collection—the guys who turned him on seemed to make a point of making looking good look bad.
Then… unh, Benny. He’d slunk to his latest dorm disaster this year expecting the worst only to meet this guy who was tall and dreamy and fucking carved from granite, a jerkjock who wasn’t a jerk at all but funny and friendly and actually thoughtful—and no one Bobby knew was thoughtful, least of all guys who made his dick hard.
Oh, and Benny made his dick hard. He hungered for that dick in his mouth like nothing he’d ever known. There was something about him that fed lust straight into Bobby’s balls and made being flaccid around him seem unnatural and, increasingly, unimaginable. And even though Benny seemed to have a really, stratospherically high libido he didn’t just see his wowed and easily seduced roommate as an opportunity, a prick and a hole. From the first night Bobby had casually climbed into Benny’s bed as if it were his own Benny had genuinely seemed to appreciate his roomie’s nothing body and his, okay, pretty decently sized dick. And that had got Bobby in the gym, sweating iron and squeezing out reps with a fervor that would have left his baller brothers slack-jawed, all so he’d feel that much less like an impostor and a fraud every time Benny stroked his arms or licked up his abs.
The continuing wonder was how his body seemed to respond with matching enthusiasm. He clearly had fantastic genes, even better than his brothers, because gym novice him had already put on a good twenty pounds of hard, get-me-naked muscle—and maybe Benny was working out too to keep up, because damn, he was looking kinda swole and even more sweetly, gut-wrenchingly fucktastic. The effect was frankly intoxicating. Now he could think about two twining hot bodies when he got going, Benny’s and his own, and the joy of getting off seemed to only be ramping up whether they were together sucking each other off, or it was just him like now, admiring what he saw in the mirror and fantasizing Benny’s even hotter physique. He didn’t want any of this to stop. He wanted more of everything to do with him and Benny and their tight, hard bodies wrapping endlessly around each other, arms and cocks and mouths kissing like there was nothing the fuck else in the world but that, kissing and rutting and painting your brain with ecstatic fucking eruptions of white. hot. spunk.
Fuuu-u-uuck, he was already way, way the hell hard and galloping out of control toward shooting his wad… and he wasn’t even done fucking shucking his clothes yet.
And his not-so-little helper was still hidden under the bed…
Grinning at his reflection, he yanked down his briefs and stepped out of them, his long, slightly curved dick popping free and bobbing to excited hardness straight out in front of him as he turned and crouched by his bed to pull out the nondescript shoebox containing his favorite Benny substitute. Benny had said he’d be in the city all day doing library research, which meant this was the perfect opportunity. He knocked off the shoebox lid and grasped the large, rubber toy with some genuine affection. It was pretty big, which had helped him prepare for Benny, but more than that, it was almost like he and this inanimate prick were developing a kind of rapport. Even holding it as he leaned back in his crouch, grasping it with two hands, he could almost imagine warmth and firmness with just enough yield, like the flesh of the genuine article currently packed away in his roommate’s jeans somewhere in a huge, musty public library. And when it was inside him—
His heart was pounding hard. His skin felt hot and tight, and his own dick was hard enough to fuck right through these goddamned cinder blocks. He wasn’t going to last long, but that was starting to sound more and more perfect. Get himself off fast, like a fucking death star exploding, and then… a long, slow, excruciating self-fuck, teasing himself until he needed to pound himself hard, until he came so hard it felt like his body was an eruption, like he was Vesuvius spurting the fire of the Earth’s core onto all the lands and peoples, forever, until the world was empty and lands drowned in fire.
Now that was what he called a morning well spent.
He grabbed Benny’s lube, adding an little illicit thrill to the proceedings, and quickly slicked up the big dildo while he repositioned himself, shifting around on his knees so he was facing the long mirror. He stared into his own eyes for a second—fuck, he looked wanton. He grinned at himself and, gripping the dick firmly at the base, brought it around behind him so that it was nudging its way between his cheeks.
He gasped—already he was gasping. It felt so much like Benny’s big, hard, very fat dick nosing along his crease, looking for the right moment to
Damn. Da-aaaaaa-aamn. Oh god, just the head, and it felt so good, so perfect. He hadn’t prepped himself, and there was a bit burning, but that… that was part of… oh oh oooohhh…
He pushed the cock further in like it was another hard shove, the dildo now halfway in him. His dick was screaming, begging to be allowed release, and his balls were like hot planets spinning too fast, barreling toward the moment when they’re ripped apart by forces too big ad powerful for them. Fuck, he was going to last seconds, not minutes. It felt so much like Benny fucking him he could almost feel his roommate/lover’s towering arousal, the need that pounded though him when the two of them were in the throes of SHOVE unnnnhhhhh oh god oh god unstoppable passion.
It was like Benny was there, warm and muscles and sweaty and hard, fucking him rough, his lips brushing Bobby’s neck, a paragon of masculinity who seemed to get hotter and hotter every week, bringing Bobby with him as he explored just how arousing a man can truly become…!
Fuck, he was going to blow. He looked up, meeting his own eyes, half-expecting them to be Benny’s, but he saw a debauched and sweaty tight-muscled Bobby that he was not in the least ashamed to find hot as fuck, and he grinned wide. He gave himself the final push from behinds and suddenly he was seeing stars. The universe seemed to pause, cresting on an aching brink, and then suddenly burst, his seed rocketing through him and spurting out in jet after jet of arcing spunk. It felt—fuck, this was like nothing else—he could almost feel something, like Benny’s heart, like Benny erupting with him—
Oh oh ohohoh.
Bobby hadn’t realized he’d closed his eyes, and he wasn’t sure how long he’d been drifting in bliss. Clearly this was a candidate for the best orgasm ever. He opened his eyes, letting his image in the mirror swim lazily into focus as he came down from the the remarkable high, feeling the burn and heat of the big cock in his ass like it belonged there, and took himself in. He looked fucked, he thought, his sated grin widening. Fucked and fuckable. His cocks were still thrusting out rudely straight in front of him, red and hard as fuck, curving along the same slight arc above and below and barely sagging as if they were already spoiling for the real fuck-session to come, and…
He blinked. His… cocks…
He reached down and took one in each of his right hands. They felt sensitive but hard and stiff and all but shivering with readiness, like he could grasp them more firmly and even though he just blew the mother of all loads they’d hop to like it was nothing, responding to being stroked and jerked just as zealously as fucking or getting sucked, and…
He drew in a slow breath. Each… of his right hands…
He trawled his gaze slowly up his glistening torso in the mirror, across those steadily surfacing six-pack abs and up his nicely thickening pecs with their pert, hard nipples, riding the curve up to the next set of pecs, which were just as pert-nippled and hard and thick and sexy as fuck, dappled like the first set with sweat and a few stray spots of cum and altogether fucking beautiful. And then he met collarbones at last, and his nicely rounding traps and delts, and his neck, the adam’s apple shifting just slightly as he passed; and then he met his own eyes, and they were filled with awe and fathomless lust and a level of pure arousal he hadn’t even imagined before.
His grin got even wider as he met the reflection of his own lewd, needy, insatiable stare. Yeah. Best orgasm ever.
Description Imagining yourself as being hotter, more hung, and possessed of extras sometimes is just a phase, but other times it can spiral to extremes.
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