Description The young manager of a Vermont B&B finds an extremely unusual, and unexpectedly erotic, item has been left behind by a departed guest.
|Updated||26 Oct 2019|
You find a lot of weird shit lying around when you manage an old-fashioned secluded Vermont B&B. I totally understand people wanting to leave their lives behind for a few days for a few weeks—that’s why people trek all the way out here to the lush forests and mountain vistas of the Northeast Kingdom. What I have a little more trouble getting is the way people leave behind their wallets, keys, passports, laptops, smart phones, dildo collections, briefcases full of important business papers, briefcases full of dildos… Seriously, what’s up with bringing all the dildos? We do honestly have sex toys up here in the Kingdom, folks. It’s not the Moon. Hell, Valerie’s Food & Wine down the hill in Little Waterford has ribbed condoms (extra large, boys, if you need ‘em) and erotic massage oils. She even has some fetish handcuffs behind the counter, which she’ll sell you if you swear never to try to use Fifty Shades of Grey as a how-to manual.
It’s gotten so my relationship with the FedEx guy feels like it’s mostly about outgoing flotsam. That turns out to be a bonus for me, since that means I get to see Xavier pretty often, and Xavier is probably the cutest wannabe surfer in all of upstate Vermont. Which, okay, is a fairly mild superlative, but he really is damn cute verging on fucking gorgeous. I also have kind of a thing for tall and lithe guys with broad shoulders and long, sweetly muscled arms and legs and endless abs and … you know, all that. And Xavier, well, he’s also tall enough the he looks like he’s standing on a crate every time I glance up from the office to see him standing there behind the front desk, grinning at me from under his long, loose black hair like he just came back from catching a string of big waves at Supertubes.
So far it’s just been just smiles and small talk between us, though I’d started noticing his hands, which, like him, were nicely tanned, very long, and very strong. I’d withdrawn from the dating arena a couple years before after an easygoing fling with one of my boyhood friends had descended within a few short weeks into a caustic hell, Barry having revealed himself prone to both direct confrontations with lots of shouting and passive-aggressive sneak attacks. That unpleasant adventure, plus an ill-advised one-night stand with a guest on a lonely drunken birthday a year after Barry stormed off to parts unknown, yielding both a killer hangover and nauseous regret by the time the extremely awkward checkout time rolled around the next day, had pretty much cemented my self-unselection from the partnering pool. I was still feeling gun-shy even after so many moons had turned, but I had been starting to get an inkling lately that the sweet, deliciously lanky Brazilian surfer/delivery boy with the bright eyes, long dark locks, and wide, disarming smile might just have a shot at wearing me down.
It was nice having him around, anyway, especially since he was more likely to stop and chat with me, standing there leaning on the counter with a boxed-up pair of $400 chinos some Silicon Valley exec had left behind between us, than my own coupled-off gay and straight customers were to pause and shoot the breeze. My patrons were all too busy nuzzling or fighting to worry much about the owners’ boyish grandson laying out jam for them or fielding questions about the hiking tours up the nearby mountains.
Not that you can’t still be surprised by what the guests get up to every now and again. I’d been “temporarily” running the rambling two-story, 15-room Wentworth Bed & Breakfast for six years, ever since I came back from UVM with an art history degree and no immediate prospects. My gram and gramps had taken that as a sign that it was time for them to fuck off into a long-anticipated Florida retirement (away from Vermont’s relentless efforts to freeze your nuts off) and, by way of replacement, install in their stead the most feckless of their progeny, young Aaron the artist. I’d met some strange people and boxed up some strange leave-behinds for Xavier to return to their forgetful owners, but none quite as strange as this.
It was a crisp Monday morning in October. I’d just gotten back from a very long run along the river, having been finding lately that the exertion of these sustained jogs was very effective at keeping me alert and energized all day. It was around half past eleven, not long after checkout, and I was still red-cheeked in my jogging outfit (sweatpants, black Sluggy Freelance tee-shirt, and my favorite old red hoodie), in the act of hastily unscrewing my much-needed post-run lime-flavored water, when Lucas, the tight-shirted gym rat I had working the front desk, popped into my bright, window-lit office. I had a good idea what to expect.
Sure enough, Lucas easily hefted a heavy-looking brown leather gym bag to show to me. As I was in mid-chug I nodded for him to set it on the oversized rolltop desk beside me. I couldn’t stand small workspaces, and had been thrilled when I’d come across this six-foot wide walnut behemoth deliberately made to create a desktop that was broad and deep. It was more than half again as big as any antique rolltop desk I’d ever seen and twice as solid. Yes, make jokes about how I like things that are big and hard. I won’t contradict you.
Speaking of which, Lucas, who’d sussed out that I was gay not long after I’d hired him as an assistant and general dogsbody fresh out of high school in May and who, in the interests of ensuring job security, had been making it his business to more or less subtly appeal whenever possible to my appreciation for the inherent beauty of the male physique, having deposited the bag on the desk as requested was now leaning back against the office doorframe with his left shoulder and expressing perplexity over the gym bag by running his hand over the pelt of stiff dark-blond bristles covering his scalp, not so incidentally giving me an eyeful of the thick, bunching muscles of his upper arm. I watched the show, no fool I, as I finished swigging the entire contents of the 20-ounce bottle, then chucked it into the bin by my side of the desk. I was pretty sure Lucas was straight, but if he wanted to strut the sweet results of long hard hours in his basement gym at home (and, lately, in the gym on site here at the Wentworth before and sometimes even during his shifts), who was I to complain, much less look away?
Lucas was still rubbing his close-cropped hair. “That is one sweet bag,” he said, his voice a little higher than you’d expect for a hot, thick-pectoraled jock, but still smooth and resonant. I often thought he must be a good singer. “Hard to imagine someone forgetting that.” He shifted to crossed arms over the chest, which, we were both aware, placed undue strain on the seams near the shoulders of the snug, brick-red button-down shirt he liked to wear on days he thought he was looking especially yummy.
I held my position and looked the bag over consideringly. It was well designed and crafted, but scuffed and well used, as if its owner had had it a while and was used to taking it everywhere. “Maybe he didn’t,” I said. To tease Lucas I added, “Maybe it’s a bomb.”
Lucas’s eyes bugged and he forgot his posing for a moment, his arms dropping awkwardly to his sides as he looked at me nervously, inadvertently highlighting the sharp V created by his wide lats and narrow waist. “I’m joking,” I said. As he appeared only partially reassured I added, “C’mon, who’d want to bomb the Wentworth? Now, blowing up the bastards up at the Whitewater Inn I could totally understand—”
He grinned crookedly, embarrassed by his anxiety. “Yeah, totally,” he said, going along with my mostly facetious jab at our occasionally more unscrupulous upriver rivals. “Um, anyway,” Lucas went on, trying to recover his professionalism, “Rebecca brought that down right after the checkout sweep. It was in 202.” One of the nicer rooms, windowed on two sides on the second floor of the upper wing of the house (the Wentworth sort of climbs a foothill of Chapman’s Peak, so that the north wing is a good twenty or thirty feet above the south wing). “Jonas McKenzie,” he added, and he would know, as he was the one who would have run the payment info and closed out the res when the guy checked out earlier in the morning.
I frowned, trying to remember this weekend’s 202. We were packed for the tail end of fall foliage, but I was pretty good about getting to know my guests over the course of their stays. “Tall dude,” Lucas said helpfully. “Blond, blue eyes, handsome I guess—” He paused, then amended himself, “Okay, damned handsome.”
I smiled at a straight boy’s grudging admission of male pulchritude but I still couldn’t place him. “Brad Pitt?” I queried tentatively.
Lucas shook his head emphatically. “Kellan Lutz,” he said. “Circa Hercules.” His arms were back in position, folded over his chest, as if to say that he was way more of a man than any of those Hollywood pretty boys. I reassessed his shirt-straining physique and wondered if he might not indeed be in a position to give Mr. Lutz, or his forgetful doppelganger, a run for his money.
I nodded, then let out a little gasp, suddenly remembering. “Damn, I do remember him,” I said. “He took early breakfast Saturday morning—I saw him before my run. Fuck, he was hot,” I said, more to myself than out of any idea that Lucas might be interested in this information. My cock, which had perked up to take a passing interest in Lucas’s performance, like a bored husband looking around his newspaper at some dancing competition show he half liked, was now seriously awake at the memory of this quiet hunk taking breakfast before anyone else. Hell, I’d done my entire run that Saturday in a more than chubbed condition, but when I came back he had vanished, and as far as I knew hadn’t reemerged the entire weekend. Jonas McKenzie. My eyes fell to the gym bag. Now I had an excuse to reach out to this beautiful, boner-making man. Reach out to him, and grab his—
“Um, boss?” Lucas said. I glanced up and hid a smile. Caught off-guard by this unexpected challenge to his ability to grab my attention he was flexing his pecs so hard one or two buttons were seriously in danger of shooting off and potentially putting my eye out. “Can I take my break? I missed arm day last night and I was thinking I could—”
“Go ahead,” I said. Checkout was done, so things should be quiet until folks started emerging from lunch looking to boot and bike out into the Technicolor mountain forests in which we were securely nestled. “Take a couple hours and flog those big bastards. I’ll watch the desk.” He grinned, happy at the compliment to his biceps, and turned back toward the desk. His own bag, a newer canvas affair, was on the floor behind the front desk, and he took the opportunity to bend over, hard muscle ass pointed right at me, to pick it up. I watched, amused and still aroused, as the tight fabric stretched taut over his thick muscle ass. Then he straightened up, as it were, and sauntered out of my line of sight, headed downstairs to work on his own personal contribution to the beauty that is Vermont.
Leaving the door open so I could watch the front counter, I sat at my desk and pondered the gym bag. Neither Lucas nor Rebecca had looked inside it, I was certain—they knew that I would, and had, fired people for lesser invasions of guests’ privacy. But my no-tolerance rule for such intrusions didn’t extend to myself, and I was frankly curious about Mr. McKenzie’s stray property. Did I have a right to unzip and excavate? Not really, I thought reluctantly, and sighing at the knowledge that “not really” was, in bare-naked truth just a wistful way of saying “no,” I got on my laptop instead and looked up McKenzie’s res for the details I’d need to ship back the wayward bag.
The information was the basic minimum—a home address in Pasadena and accompanying phone number. He’d plunked down cash for the whole weekend, reserving with a cash deposit in person six weeks before, so there was no credit card info. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the number.
“Pasadena Playhouse, can I help you?” a cold male voice answered.
Momentarily taken aback, I said, “Uh, hi. I’m looking for Jonas? Jonas McKenzie?”
“There’s no one here by that name,” the receptionist answered testily, as if I had asked for Michael Hunt or queried their stocks of Prince Albert in a can.
“Uh, really?” I said, not sure what to do with this unexpected information. “Are you—sure?”
By way of answer, the next sound to come down the line was a resounding click, followed by the silence of a broken connection.
Deeply perplexed now, I sat forward and Google-mapped the address he’d given us. After a few clicks and zooms I could see for myself that the street and number in the res corresponded to a large empty lot where, a news search told me, the local Whole Foods had been struck by lightning and burned to the ground four years ago.
I bit my lip and looked sidelong at the suddenly sinister gym bag. With the too-hunky McKenzie having given us fake credentials all around, the formerly innocuous well-used leather bag was now capable of holding literally anything. Drugs. Guns. Neatly bound stacks of twenties.
Shit, maybe it really was a bomb.
I thought of calling my friend Hank, the sheriff. As soon as the thought crossed my mind I was certain what our fit but notoriously sedentary sheriff’s first exasperated question would be. “Well?” my old friend the sheriff would say, “d’ja open it?” This would be immediately followed by, “No? Why the fuck not?” The conversation would then curve around into, “Call me when you have, but it better be a bag of angry snakes and not some guy’s sweaty jockstrap.” And then Hank would hang up and go back to his champion sudoku puzzle mag.
Nerves warred with curiosity and my imaginary conversation with Hank, but it only took me a moment to stand up and, moving gingerly, start pulling open the bag’s thick-toothed zipper. Once I’d pulled the key all the way to its terminus, I carefully grasped the edges and exposed the main compartment to the light of day. I felt my heart beating a little faster than usual, and for some reason what was revolving around inside my own mental Theater of the Irrational at that moment was the bit in The Hobbit about the trolls’ talking wallets. I half expected the bag to object, “‘Ere! ‘Oo are you?” as I pulled open its old zippered maw.
I bent over a bit to peer into the bag. Towels, I saw. Carefully folded cobalt-blue towels, and a couple of balled up pairs of pristine white crew socks. Relief crashed down on me, followed closely by annoyance at McKenzie having put me through all this. The annoyance twisted into anger as I looked closer and realized the towel on top looked like one of ours! I reached in to pull it out, all set to track down the miscreant and lay into him for, well, unsuccessfully attempted theft. But as I touched the soft surface of the thick blue towel, something underneath it moved.
I ripped my hand away like I’d almost been bitten, the image of a bag of angry snakes from my (imaginary) chat with Hank manhandling my brain. As I watched, the towel shifted slightly one more time, betraying a decent-sized something, alive under its folds. My timorous id-brain told me to chuck the whole thing, kit and caboodle, out the back door and have done with it, or even grab a hammer and lay into the bag until nothing could possibly be alive inside it. But then a stray thought tentatively asked, “What if it’s a kitten? Or a ferret, or—?” I wasn’t sure what else it could be, but if McKenzie had callously left a pet behind in his bag, wouldn’t I be a worse monster for tossing it blindly out the door like a pail of spent washwater, or mindlessly smashing it to a bloody pulp?
Slowly, very slowly, I returned my hand to the interior of the bag. Observing my own progress closely I grabbed the corner of the towel between two fingers and pulled the top layer toward me, ready to snatch my exposed skin out of danger the moment I spotted anything poisonous and malignant.
But what I saw made me freeze, unable to believe what I was looking at, my fingers still gripping the swaddling blue terrycloth. It was a human hand. It was arched slightly on its fingers, the stub end at the wrist sealed over smoothly and seamlessly, as if hands didn’t belong, and never had belonged, attached on the ends of forearms. I was trying to process what was strange about it—strange even for a disembodied human right hand—when it lifted up a finger and, as if hungry for the warmth of human contact, that long finger very gently caressed the nearest finger of my own fear-frozen hand. The touch was warm and tentative, and it shot through me like my nerves were on fire.
I yelped, yanking my hand away, and because I was still holding onto the towel I hauled the whole towel out with me. The hand went flying. I responded instinctively, driven by some impulse deeper than the rational, and dove to catch the hand before it could smash violently into the hard-wood floor of my office. Of course, in so doing I ended up smashing myself against the floor, my chest and the elbows of my outstretched arms taking the brunt of the hit. I let out a grunt of pain and then a heartfelt “Fuck!” as I lay there, but all thoughts of bruised ribs and barked elbows were subsumed by the sight of what I’d compulsively saved. There, cradled in my palms, was a warm and living thing that had to be either a genuine human hand or some kind of robotic confection so near to the real thing as to make no difference. It quivered a little, obviously having felt the giddy shot through the air and the unexpected catch, and, as I watched, it reached out with the long middle finger and stroked my left palm, leaving a trail of hot sensation across my sensitive skin that coursed through me even more potently than the first touch, coursing through me like a conflagration.
It was then that I let myself understand what I was seeing. What was strange about this handsome, warm, strong male hand, with just the dusting of blond hair on the edge of its back … what was strange even for a disembodied hand … was that it was cautiously caressing my palm with the middle of five fingers—five fingers, that is, not including the thumb.
A supercharged frisson of powerful emotion flashed through my innards and I felt myself breathing hard, open-mouthed, as I stared. I swallowed, unnerved at the extent to which I found this six-fingered hand deeply fucking arousing. My cock, even mashed as it was against the polished wooden floor, started aggressively inflating and hardening as if someone had pulled the cord on a life raft. Overcome with a wash of erotic need I listened to my heart slug against my smacked-up chest as, licking my lips, I lifted up the thumb of my right hand almost without the direction of will, as if it were itself another erection. After only a second’s hesitation, all that I could bear to wait, I touched my thumb to the side of the hand. It felt hot and electric, as if I’d touched a live wire. The hand reacted immediately, leaning into my touch as it became a stroking caress, and I shuddered all though my body with an intensity of desire unlike anything I’d ever felt before.
“Hey Aar,” boomed a voice, “what’cha doing down there?”
In a moment of pure panic I realized that Xavier was at the front desk and that he could see me, or most of me, sprawled across the floor of my office. I looked up so quickly I put a crick in my neck even as, again acting on unthinking impulse, I closed my hands around the errant six-fingered hand as if to hide it—as if to protect it. I let out a sigh of relief as I had to crane around the door to see my tall, gangly visitor, which meant he couldn’t see what was going on at the ends of my outstretched arms. “Hey, Xavier,” I said lamely. To his dark, inquiring eyebrows I said, “I, er, tripped. Give me a second.”
I climbed to my feet, making sure to keep my hands out of sight, and then ducked completely behind the door. I looked around hectically for someplace to stow the hand as I stood there, gripping it firmly between both of mine, but I didn’t want to just set it on a shelf—it might wander off, for one thing (the thought struck me funny, and I almost giggled a little hysterically), but, even more strongly, I was overcome with a powerful desire not to let go of it. It was warm, it was strong, it was sensual in my hands—and it was alive. It shouldn’t be just blithely set down somewhere, let alone abandoned like it had been, huddled alone by itself in the gym bag. I had no pockets, really, apart from the front pocket of the hoodie, and the hand might stick out from that. Feeling like I had no choice, I stuffed the hand down the front of my sweats, into the warm, damp tightness of my jock—only belatedly remembering that that space’s usual occupant was already wide awake and as hard as Vermont stone.
“So, what do you have for me?” I called around the door, knowing this would make Xavier look down to pick up the packages and flats he’d dollied in. Sure enough, when I hurriedly rounded the corner and took my place behind the counter he was looking down and away, completely having missed my obscenely bulging crotch. I set my hands on the counter, as if to provide (misleading) proof that all my hands were accounted for.
As he set the stack of parcels on the long, darkly finished maple counter my new friend settled himself in my groin and, moving like a powerful magnet snapping against its mate, wrapped itself firmly around my hard, fat cock. I grunted, unable to contain my deep arousal, and Xavier looked up from his tablet computer and his dark eyes met mine. Suddenly all the attraction I’d been repressing for his tanned, angular features, his large, shining brown eyes that seemed to drink me in, the dark stripes of his eyebrows, his ready smile that came from someplace deep inside him, it all broke through the walls I’d constructed and flooded through me, taking my arousal that had come about because of the hand to a new and complex level.
“Dude, what’s with you today?” he asked, leaning forward confidentially. In my current state of intense arousal I found that I was irresistibly captivated by how beautiful he was, and, in particular, how lush and kissable his wide dark lips looked. I realized I was staring at them, and that he had caught me staring. I licked my lips without really even realizing it. He bent down a bit further, so that our faces were closer.
“I don’t know,” I said, belatedly answering his question. The hand, firmly wrapped around my thick boner inside my musky underwear, began moving its thumb gently up and down my rigid shaft, and I knew that I was losing track of my increasingly strange conversation with Xavier. From the way he was looking at me I guessed I must be a bit glassy-eyed. I sensed as if from a distance that my mouth was hanging open, just a bit. I licked my lips again. They were awfully dry for some reason. The hand squeezed my cock and I held back a gasp.
“Maybe what’s wrong with you is that you need this,” Xavier said in a low, soft voice, and without waiting for anything further from me, he covered my mouth with his. As his lips moved against mine I felt his tongue lick against the seam where our mouths joined and I opened up for him. As he slid his long, warm tongue into my eager mouth I felt his hand cup gently around my neck and my hand wrapped around his thick, lanky tricep. At the same time, and with the sensual potency far greater than anything I was used to, the six-fingered hand I had taken inside my intimacy, as if sensing my erotic extremity, was now confidently massaging itself up and down, bringing me quickly toward an unexpected climax.
I was kissing Xavier hungrily now, enjoying the thrill of being expertly beaten off without either Xavier or me touching my junk, and Xavier was responding to my accelerating arousal too and was massaging my neck and brushing his other hand along my side, up and down my lats, and as I imagined the two of us in my bed, the six-fingered hand between our naked bodies, stroking our big cocks together as we kissed ferociously, I couldn’t hold back the cataclysmic orgasm that had been building up from zero to infinity over the merest handful of seconds, and I came hard in my jock, the hand milking my thick boner. There was no way Xavier could miss what was happening to me and he did everything he could to help, kissing me hard and deep and rubbing my neck and torso with his strong hands. I gasped and moaned and panted into his kiss, until I had ridden out the orgasm and could separate us, my sweat-damp forehead falling against his.
The hand loosened its grip, resuming a slow nuzzle with its thumb, and Xavier relaxed his grip on my neck and side too.
“What the fuck was that?” Xavier said hoarsely.
“Accumulated lust?” I panted, not completely untruthfully. I had been wanting him, though I had pulled back from doing anything about it until the hand had pulled my inhibitions off like an old Band-Aid.
“Jesus,” Xavier said, rolling his forehead against mine. “I get nothing from you for six months, and then bam! Suddenly you blow like Vesuvius!” He grinned easily, letting me know he was pleased with the outcome.
“I’m not normally like this,” I admitted, straightening up reluctantly. Xavier did the same, disengaging his hands. The hand in my crotch kept up its simple, wet caress.
“I’ll say,” Xavier said with a wink. He reached down and adjusted himself, just out of my line of vision, and I felt a pang of guilt that I’d blown my wad and he hadn’t even if it was entirely not my doing or intent. “I gotta get back on my route,” Xavier said reluctantly, eyeing me with a blazing lust I was sure he’d been muting before. He added with a quirk of his lips, “Can we do that again sometime very soon, without the big, hard counter between us?”
I nodded and smiled at him, and he turned and headed out. I stared at his perfect ass, pondering the potential complexities of my suitor being totally unaware that there was a third party involved in our nascent connection, the same party that was currently gripping my cock like it would never let go. Xavier was probably better off not knowing about that, I decided. Sometimes, ignorance really is bliss.
Once Xavier was gone I found the “Back in 15 Minutes” sign and, propping it up on the counter, I slipped back through my office and pounded up the back stairs to my apartment for a quick shower and change of clothes. As I peeled off my running clothes I found myself standing in front of the long, wide freestanding mirror (a nice semi-antique from gramps’s day with a simple rectangular dark wood frame), so that I was soon seeing myself wearing nothing but white socks—and a spare hand wrapped around my sticky, half-hard cock.
With both hands I pulled the spare hand off my privates, peeling it away finger by finger from my dick in a way that reminded me of pulling the rind off a tangerine. It relaxed comfortably in my grip, awaiting events, and I examined it with appreciation for its masculine desirability. It was wide and long, lightly tanned, and altogether beautiful; and the addition of the extra finger and the fact that its warm skin was moist in places from my thick, hot cum escalated its allure into pure intoxication. I hadn’t softened much, and now I was already rock hard again. Without really thinking about what I was doing I lifted the hand to my mouth and began licking off the fat globs of jizz from the palm, the fingers, the knuckles, and especially the stretch of skin between the thumb and index finger. The hand responded eagerly, stroking my jaw with fingers and thumb as I mouthed that strangely attractive inner recess, and I felt myself flexing my aching cock, wanting to feel the six-fingered hand around it again.
I felt an abrupt pang of guilty awareness that I could do this all day, and I was supposed to be watching the front. I thought wryly that I’d sure dress down Lucas if I found out he was macking with a disembodied hand instead of manning the desk. I reluctantly pulled the hand away from my mouth, looking it over as I considered the very real problem of what I’d do with it the rest of the day—which translated, at the moment, into how to both (a) hide it and (b) keep it with me at all times.
As I looked it over, turning it about in my hands, I noticed for the first time that the next-to-last finger, the one to the left of the pinky, was slightly crooked, as if it had gotten mildly dislocated at some point; the knuckle was blushed with a bit of red and might be slightly swollen, I thought, looking at it more closely. Maybe the finger kicked out of joint when the hand had gotten thrown from the gym bag? I lightly brushed the knuckle where that finger joined the hand. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought the hand flinched very very slightly. “Does that hurt?” I asked it softly, feeling my brows draw together. Still naked I moved into the bathroom where I could lay the hand on the counter and crouch down in front of it. Gripping the back of the hand with my own left hand, I gently teased the misaligned finger with my other hand, hoping I could find a way to pop it back in line.
Then suddenly I lost my balance, falling out of my crouch and landing on my ass on the cold tile. I realized with sudden dread that I had instinctively thrust out my hands to help cushion the blow while at the same time tightening my grip, and as I lifted up my shaking hands I saw the horrible fallout from my little bathroom spill: in my left hand I gripped the hand, my fingers above and my thumb below as if I were lifting up a hamburger, and I stared at what was now a gap where the penultimate finger had been like a missing front tooth. In my right hand—in my right hand, I held the yanked-out missing piece, the still-flexing finger I’d pulled off it, its end already sealed off with smooth skin like the gap where it had been on the hand—like the butt end where a wrist and arm should have been.
I almost cried out in gut-wrenching dismay at having maimed this beautiful hand, but even as I was opening my mouth to scream or swear or God knows what, something altogether amazing and unimaginable happened: in the gap where I’d pulled out the troubled finger a new finger emerged, growing in the space of two heartbeats from a stub to a perfect twin of the still-wriggling finger in my other hand. Once the finger had grown out the hand flexed itself, then relaxed again in my grip, back to being a perfectly normal six-fingered disembodied hand—only the better for the exchange, since the new finger was no longer dislocated.
My mouth still open, I sat there buck naked on the bathroom floor, gaping at the hand as the thumb began very gently brushing up and down my nearest finger. I was now able to answer a question I hadn’t been able to ask myself, namely why, if this really was that guy McKenzie’s actual detached hand, he hadn’t rushed back reclaim it. The hand regrew the finger it lost; and McKenzie must have regrown the hand he’d somehow, for some reason, left behind after his weekend getaway in the flaming autumn forests of Vermont. I felt very good about this, because it meant that the abandoned hand was spare, extra, no longer needed, and therefore (so reasoned my fevered brain) claimable by me. I barked a laugh as the other fingers of the hand, new arrival included, got in on the gentle stroking of my left hand has I held it up before me, gazing at it as if it were the Holy Grail.
But as much as my hardening cock wanted to switch off all thought and resume exploring this wondrous thing, my brain wasn’t done sorting things out. The other question I hadn’t asked myself was to query why it had six fingers. Now, I thought I knew. I looked at the extra, still-living finger in my right hand. If the fingers were detachable—
In one swift movement I lifted up the extra finger and then pushed it into the gap between the newly grown penultimate finger and the slightly longer finger to its left. My heart pounded one, two, like a boxer’s combo, as I pushed the finger into the divide, and then, amazingly, the hand reacted, making room for the finger, growing knuckle and bone, claiming the finger and making it a full and perfect part of itself. The hand flexed again, breaking in its seven-fingeredness, and then calmly resumed its casual groping of both my hands as I held it up before me. Despite having cum only minutes earlier I was colossally turned on and, in fact, achingly close to another climax.
I shuddered with deep arousal as I petted the just noticeably wider hand. I wanted to kiss it, lick it, suck on the fingers, let it grab and fondle me all over, let it rub another orgasm out of my panting cock, but most of all I wanted the thing I had already done. I wanted it for real, not by accident. I stared at the hand until I couldn’t bear it anymore, then I grabbed the longest finger, right in the middle, then pulled—not hard, not a wrenching yank, but a firm, steady pressure. My delirious heart slugged at the inside of my chest—one, two—and the fucking finger came off in my hand. I almost forgot about the finger itself as I watched, eagerly, feeling the pounding heartbeats, sensing the parallel pounding pulse in the throbbing veins of the hand—one, two—the new finger pushed out from the hand, and I came, hard, pulsing jets of cum straight up out of my cock as I held the hand with moth of mine, cumming as hard as if that new finger thrusting out from the hand had been a big fat, well lubed cock shoving deep up into my tight, nearly virginal ass.
I came very close to blacking out. But as I regained control it slowly dawned on me that I had done something shocking in the midst of my storm of ecstasy. As I’d gripped the writhing hand with both of mine, somehow, maybe with some deep unconscious awareness of what I was doing, I had shoved the finger I’d pulled off in between the fingers of my own left hand as I gripped the strange hand and came. I had pushed it in right between the second and third fingers… and it took me several seconds to realize that somehow the finger had taken. My hand had accepted it, integrated it, merged it into itself, and as I experimentally flexed my left hand I was forced to accept, with awe and a little existential dread, that I was no longer the Aaron I had been a minute ago—I was now Aaron whose left hand had a freaky extra finger. A freaky, wonderful, bonerific extra finger. Transferring the disembodied hand into my own right hand, I brought my left hand to my mouth, loving down to my soul with the passion of someone who’d never dared dream it how fundamentally, heart-lurchingly hot it was to lick and suck, and feel being licked and sucked, one after another, five fingers and a thumb.
Abruptly I heard a shout up the stairs from the main floor. “Boss?” called Rebecca, the flinty head of housekeeping. “You up there? We got customers.”
I felt myself yanked unwillingly back to reality—and yet, reality that included the seven-fingered hand and my own freaky left duke as well. “I’ll be down in a second!” I shouted toward the open door.
I stood up. There was now no time to shower, but I could do that later at my leisure once Lucas was done thickening his biceps in the gym. I set the hand on my shoulder, which it gripped in a way that was very pleasant indeed, and set about getting dressed. Quickly I hunted down my loosest jeans, which, I had remembered as I walked out of the bathroom, had usefully big front pockets. I climbed into them, not only commando but still sticky and mostly boned. I was glad not to have to wash away what had just happened. I grabbed the hand off my shoulder and slid it into the front left pocket of my jeans, and was gratified to see that, while there was of course as bulge, it was not obviously an unaccounted-for hand, and the pocket was just deep enough that even with the fingers fully extended nothing was exposed above the lip.
I found my much-loved old Green Lantern logo tee and pulled it on, reveling in the fact that I was covering up clandestine dried cum on my flat abs instead of scrubbing it away. Fuck if it itched later. Right now my pulse was rocking with how new I felt, how new the world felt. Not bothering with shoes I skipped down the stairs two at a time, finding myself wondering dangerously maybe, just maybe, Xavier had a secret yen for guys with extras.
It turned out that Xavier wasn’t going to be my first concern.
Once Rebecca called me down to the desk it got busy for a while, starting with a Atlanta wedding party—two sweet, adorkable grooms, both IT pros who’d been savvy enough to book for foliage season six months back, and their eight saucy Southern groomsmen—checking in a few hours earlier than expected and then wanting all the info I could give them about the local bike tour operations and trips further afield for shopping and sightseeing. And then, once I’d got the boys packed off to Ollie’s Two-Wheeled Tours down the hill, the gaggle of giggly L.A. twentysomethings descended on the front desk on the way out to follow their map of local covered bridges and bent my ear for a full half an hour about how vibrant the colors were and how clean the air was and revelations of that sort, followed by another ten minutes of selfies with every possible pairing and tripling of the girls and me. I smiled gamely and tried to put off a “friendly local guy” vibe, and they winked and flirted with me even more outrageously than that one dark-eyed, goateed groomsman who’d clearly had lots of ideas what he wanted to do with my ass.
It wouldn’t be quite accurate to say I forgot about the strange, disembodied hand I’d dropped in my pocket. That’s not the kind of thing you can really forget about. Not that it was causing mischief: it seemed to decide to relax and just hang out in its comfy cotton berth, though its fingers were just in reach of my not-quite-flaccid junk, and the longest of them tended to idly move its fingertip along the sensitive flesh of my dick through the thin, soft barrier, a little this way, a little that. Oddly enough I was finding that low-grade, steady stimulation more comforting than arousing, though the sensation also seemed to steadily accumulate, like drops of whisky slipping down your throat in a steady patter, one after another, until at some point you realize your senses have been thoroughly altered and your rational brain sodden with need and want. But for the most part I was able to put all that to the back of my head and focus on being a lovable host and a helpful facilitator of a memorable stay in a radiantly beautiful world a comfortable distance from reality.
My own newly freaky left hand was another matter. At first, as I was working through checking in the wedding party, I was keenly aware of my left hand and its too many fingers. I kept rubbing them against each other as I typed with my right hand, made key cards, and handed out sheaves of brochures and flyers about local business and Vermont tourism apps, hyper-aware of this mundane sensation to the point where my fingers brushing together felt almost uncannily bizarre. Needing to focus on my duties as host and proprietor, I stuffed my left hand in my pocket, because apparently my roomy jeans pockets were the standard repository for extra-fingered hands around here, and I made myself concentrate on the blushing grooms and their bro-tastic, Georgia hunk entourage. Despite my awareness of the very strange hand in my right pocket and my own, pretty strange hand in my other pocket never fully subsiding, that worked for a while. Then, as I was copying out the day’s wifi password on a Wentword-branded notecard, I realized I had my left hand out and resting on the counter, thumb on the corner of the card, as I habitually did when writing longhand. I lost track of the code I was transcribing as my eyes fell on my wildly anomalous six-fingered hand, and I stilled just for a second, staring at it on wonder.
Abruptly I realized what I was doing, and my gaze flitted up in alarm to the blonder of the two grooms, Harper, who seemed to be the quiet, organizing type and was methodically working through all the arrangements and plans with me while the others chatted and helped Rebecca get all their bags on the luggage trolley. My eyes met his just as they jumped up to meet mine, and it was pretty clear he’d been staring at my hand too. I flushed, quickly pulling my hand out of sight, but instead of exhibiting disgust or even surprise, or calling me out as a monster, he did something unexpected. He dropped his gaze to my right hand, still frozen as it rested against the card, wrapped around one of the rich blue gel pens I favored, and then met mine again. As if sensing my apprehension, he turned his lips in a soft smile. Keeping his voice soft so that only I could heard, he said with a gentle drawl, “Symmetry is overrated.” Then he winked at me. Not in a salacious way, but conspiratorially, as if to gently impress upon me our shared membership in an exclusive, secret club that found strange beauty in the imbalance of a five-fingered right hand and a six-fingered left.
I gaped at him, then decided my best course of action was to pretend nothing had happened. “Let me get you that password,” I said, still feeling heat in my cheeks, and very self-consciously finished writing out the randomly generated code for the day.
After that I kept my left hand firmly in my pocket, all through finishing up the wedding guests and the subsequent time-sinkhole created by the selfie-loving Angelinas. I caught a single sympathetic glance from Harper before they bundled themselves out into the chilly afternoon, and I guessed he was a little disappointed I felt a need to hide my freak from someone I knew wouldn’t judge me. But the whole thing was too big for me. The sensations were too powerful. But even more than that, Harper’s comment had opened up a door in my head I couldn’t close. Up until that moment, my thoughts were saturated with simple erotic wonder that I had become New Aaron: the Aaron with a six-fingered hand. But once Harper had spoken aloud that secret word—symmetry—the implications began to explode through my mind like cascading fireworks. What I had done, what I was, wasn’t a solitary event. It didn’t have to stop with just that first New Aaron. It didn’t have to stop with one six-fingered hand.
I could do it again.
I could do … more.
My cock started to inflate in my jeans like a fucking life raft, unfurling and sliding against the course denim as it hardened free from the constrains of underwear. My strange passenger, the disembodied hand in my right pocket, took notice of my growing condition and stepped up its fingertip caresses through the pocket’s cotton lining. I was fully, almost painfully boned before the last groomsman was out the door, and I stayed hard and swimming with arousal all through the endless circles of conversations and grinning mug shots with the L.A. women, obscenely grateful for the second time that day that I could stand behind the hotel’s long, dark-maple counter and hide the goings-on below my waist from my unsuspecting guests.
No sooner had I cleared the lobby of all potential witnesses to my state of heightened arousal and general freakiness than I felt, as much as heard, the smooth, warm tenor of my jockboy assistant clerk from behind me, sliding over the heated skin of my neck, back, and ass.
“Hey boss,” said Lucas, excited as usual after a workout. “Check out my pump!”
I was … understandably reluctant to turn around. The strange hand in my right pocket had managed by this point to gain a solid grip on my dick once again, clasping it firmly through the soft pocket lining so that my big, rock-hard was locked in place at what you might call 9 o’clock with respect to my body (the general direction it tended to go anyway, which might or might not have been why I’d dropped the hand in my right pocket in the first place); so it was less scandalously visible than it might have been. But I wasn’t in a hurry to chance things. “I’m sure you’re hot as fuck, just like always,” I muttered, busying myself with straightening some brochures stacked to one side of the counter.
“Come on,” Lucas cajoled, and to my surprise I felt a strong hand on my right shoulder, turning me inexorably to face him. I was so turned on that such close proximity to this Adonis—he really was quite beautiful, even apart from the perfection of his growing muscles—made me gasp. My dick flexed spastically, and the strange hand gripped it hard and fast. For the last few minutes the thumb and forefinger had been slowly dragging up and down near the base of my dick while the rest of the hand held the shaft tight, a sensation not unlike being buried deep in a tight ass and slowly torturing both myself and the ass’s owner with short, sweet strokes. Now the hand squeezed the thumb and forefinger tight, right near the base of the shaft, even as I stared into Lucas’s exuberant, bright, ocean-blue eyes barely a foot from mine, and in the space between one heartbeat and the next I discovered I was maddeningly close to a torrential, probably blackout-inducing orgasm.
Lucas’s left hand was still on my shoulder, and it didn’t seem to be going anywhere. It was as if, like Xavier this morning, he’d finally decided it was okay to touch me. I had to actively ignore the feel of Lucas’s warm, strong hand on my shoulder to keep from cumming right then and there.
Lucas’s eyes were boring into me, as if he were looking for the switch inside me that would ratchet my dick even harder than it was. “You’re the only one around this place that really appreciates what I’ve done to my bod,” he said, and I had to force myself not to speak, not to tell him in no uncertain terms just how close I was to “appreciating” him in that moment. His right arm, the one he hadn’t used to turn me around, was raised in a bicep flex, and he was looking at me expectantly, eager for praise. Fuck, he was inviting me to fuck him with my eyes, and I was fast approaching the point where inhibitions was not even a word. I swallowed and allowed myself to drink him in, willing to be intoxicated by his raw sexual beauty.
If he’d been dressed any other way I might have been able to school myself. But instead of the dark red button-down he’d been wearing before, he was still wearing the loose workout tank he wore to pump iron in the gym downstairs. He must have come straight up without even showering, because his thick, round traps and delts were shiny with sweat, as was the peak of his pumped, impressively mountainous bicep. I settled my stare on it, drawing in a deep whiff of his musk, and both the sight and the smell went straight to my aching, straining, cock—the same cock that was getting a subtle, secret hand-job with a strong, deft, and very appreciative seven-fingered hand.
Lucas nodded his head toward his peak, grinning happily as he kept eye contact with me. “C’mon, dude, what do you think?” he urged. “I haven’t taped it yet but I think I finally made eighteen inches,” he added proudly.
I stared at the little mountain and nodded. I found my voice and admitted, “It’s … amazing.” Lucas nodded in agreement, smiling ridiculously wide at the praise.
My cock jerked again in accompaniment of this admission, and Lucas seemed to notice or sense the movement out of his peripheral vision, because he looked down in time to see the huge bulge to the right of my crotch jump one more time. He looked up again. I met his gaze, and now his eyes were darker, and his gaze even more intense. I would have turned away from that penetrating gaze, but his left hand still held me firmly by the shoulder.
“I guess you do … appreciate what I’ve done to myself,” he said—sounding both cocky and inviting, like only a straight boy who loves his body being admired can, I thought. He licked his lips, then bit his lower lip, his expression speculative. I stared back, thanks to my excessive arousal almost hypnotized by his beauty. Somewhere in my subconscious I registered what he’d said twice now about what he’d done to himself, and like two snakes sliding through the same grass the echoes of those words met up with what I’d been thinking before—what I’d done to myself, to make myself the New Aaron. We were both changing, both transforming, both seeking the limits of what could make a man more exciting.
Lucas watched me watch him for a long moment. Finally, he said, “Do you want to … touch?” He nodded again to his still-flexed right bicep.
There was no thought involved. I wasn’t sure I was even capable of it. Before I was aware of it, I’d lifted up my left hand and hard started caressing the tall, rock hard, living muscle of Lucas’s strong, arduously grown, every stroke of my too many fingers filling my eyes and inflaming my desire. My cock was hard enough to fuck concrete, and the seven-fingered hand was still keeping up those short, maddening strokes, as if it wanted to prolong my aching arousal beyond measure of time, into infinity.
I was staring in wonder at the hand I’d made for myself slowly, sensuously muscle-worshipping the mountainous upper arm that Lucas had made for himself. After several loud-thumping heartbeats of this I realized Lucas was staring in wonder at the scene as well. He took his other hand from my shoulder and grabbed my left hand in his holding it up to goggle at. His eyes met mine and they were lit with pure amazement.
Lucas’s abrupt awareness of my freakiness sent a thrill of anxious fear through me. I snatched my hand away and turned my back to him, stalking the few steps into the office. “Aaron…” I heard Lucas say as he followed me in. The door was snicked shut, closing us in.
I tried to make sense of my sudden panic. Everything that had happened to me today had been amazing. I had loved finding the strange hand, but the gift of another finger had felt like a fantasy so powerful that I’d been drawn into the dreamworld. All that day, the two worlds had been kept discrete and separate. The fevered make-out with Xavier? Xavier hadn’t noticed my new fantasy self. And Harper? He had noticed, but Harper was a guest, a completely impermanent and so, in a sense, unreal part of my life. But Lucas—
“Aaron, dude, it’s okay,” Lucas was saying from a couple of feet behind me, no doubt chary of getting too close and spooking me again. I kept back to him, mind racing. I realized I was pulling on the offending extra finger on my left hand, as if trying to get rid of the evidence. A desperate hope thrilled through me and, remembering I had actually successfully removed this finger once today. I tried yanking harder, but the finger seemed obstinately unwilling to budge.
“Bro, seriously, it’s okay,” Lucas murmured. He sounded closer, like he was moving slowly into range so he could turn me around and make me face him.
Frantically, I gave the finger a huge yank, this time with a twist. To my surprise, this time it pulled off, nearly making me lose my balance.
“Aaron?” Lucas said, sounding concerned.
“Just give me a second,” I said huskily, turning my head just a little to the side but keeping myself turned away from him.
Lucas let a few heartbeats pass. Then he said, “It is okay, dude,” he said. Then he added, “Actually it’s … very okay.”
I frowned. As my jumbled, overheated thoughts tried to make sense of this, I suppressed a gasp as an entirely unfamiliar sensation slid through me like a drug: the altogether amazing, and incredibly erotic, feeling of the body part you’ve pulled off relentlessly, unstoppably … growing … back.
The new finger thrust rudely out of the gap I’d made in my left hand, pushing my curling fingers apart, and I almost groaned with how good it felt. It was almost like it was growing out of my balls, like I was growing a fucking cock out of my hand. The finger felt good, but the growing—I stood there, panting, realizing that there was no going back to the old Aaron, and (just as importantly) I sure as fuck didn’t want to ever again.
Lucas spoke again, distracting me from everything I was feeling. “I want you to touch me,” he said, and his voice was sure and steady, like he, too, had decided in that moment to own what he was becoming. “I want to be touched, and now I know that … that it has to be you.”
I straightened up, still with my back to him. I shifted the extra finger I was holding from my right hand to my left, and then, firmly and deliberately, I pressed the root of that finger hard into the gap between the second and third fingers of my right hand.
“I want to feel your hands on me, Aaron,” Lucas said, and once again I was struck by how his words seem to stroke my back as he spoke to me. “I want to feel those hands on me. Aaron—I—please, man,” he said, his voice thick with yearning in a way I never would have thought I’d hear from him in a million years. Still confident, still sure of his effect on me, and yet hungry for my response. He spoke again, quiet and strong and heavy with desire. “You have to understand, dude,” he said. “I need you to touch me.”
I looked down at my freaky left hand, all five fingers and a thumb, and then at my identically augmented right hand. My cock throbbed in the stroking grip of the even stranger hand in my pocket, and all I could think was that more New Aarons awaited me, and that I and my extras could not fucking wait.
I turned around. Lucas, beautiful Lucas, was watching me, stormy eyes full of want, his smile full of hope.
I smiled at him and folded my arms, making sure my extra fingers were on prominent display over my own not-too-shabby biceps.
I licked my lips and he watched me, waiting for my answer.
“I think …” I said, then started again more sure of myself: “I think we can help each other out,” I said. Lucas grinned.
I moved toward Lucas, my eyes fixed on his. They were stormy blue, dark with desire. I still wasn’t convinced that all that desire was for me… but that was fine. Lucas wanted his hard, expanding muscles to be touched and appreciated. He wanted that very badly. Craved it. And I? I wanted to touch. I had new hands. Augmented hands. And I wanted to put them to work.
I saw the moment when he realized what what about to happen. Barely a foot of empty space separated us, and a tiny hint of doubt crept into those wide, ocean-dark eyes. Suddenly there was a part of him that was second-guessing—what? Inviting the touch of another man? Coming on to his boss? I gave him a gentle smile and raised my hands, pausing my advance. “We don’t have to do this,” I said.
But my gesture had the desired effect, because Lucas’s eyes dropped to my hands, just as I knew they would. I watched his gaze skim over them, counting the fingers. Five fingers and a thumb. His eyes flicked back up to mine. He wet his lips and, in a low, rough voice, said, “Please.”
The guest-hand in my jeans pocket squeezed my hard, fat cock, and I barely suppressed a moan. Our breaths were both coming heavier and deeper as we stared at each other. Lucas said, “Do you want me to—should I … flex?”
“Not yet,” I said instinctively. I wasn’t quite sure how this had become about what I wanted. It had definitely started with Lucas’s need, and with Lucas’s body. But I kind of already knew the answer, because after five months of playful posing and straight-jock flirting I realized I knew Lucas a little better than I thought. Lucas wanted his body to give me pleasure, and I was so, so down with that. Before it had been showing off, because he’d wanted me to like looking at him. My pleasure and appreciation gave him confidence and validation—he’d pretty much said as much only a few moments before. But now that he knew I had… the kind of hands I had? Well, me just looking at him wasn’t enough anymore.
Lucas gave a quick nod, acceding to my subtle assumption of control. He tried to relax himself, so that he stood loose and natural for me, waiting for my touch. “It’s just, I’ve never been—” He trailed off, unwilling to say the words.
I edged close to him, my hands still raised so that they were inches from his protruding pecs. Our gazes were still locked. I cocked a brow and supplied, “Muscle worshipped?”
Lucas’s cheeks colored slightly, and he seemed to fight an urge to look away. I wondered if he was hard, like I was. I couldn’t imagine not being hard, if I were him, strong and pumped and about to be touched by hands like mine. “Yeah,” he said. He seemed both embarrassed and please that he understood this gay concept at the same time, and most of proud that a gay guy like me found him worthy of it—that I, Aaron, wanted to appreciate him.
“I’m sure you have,” I said wryly. As a hint of confusion tinged his gaze I added, my lips quirking, “Just probably not to your face.” He took my meaning after a second a blushed a little deeper now. I took the moment. I reached out with my slightly widened hands and wrapped them around his glistening, bulging deltoids, watching the six digits on each side as they splayed across the tanned, brawny muscle. Lucas took in a ragged breath and closed his eyes.
“Does that feel good?” I asked. He nodded, keeping his eyes squeezed closed, so that he could drink in all the sensations his skin was giving him. His delts were beautiful. They were lightly sun-kissed like the rest of what I could see of him to a warm amber—had he spent the warm months of summer sunbathing when he wasn’t at work, laboring at outdoor chores, or wandering shirtless through the fields and mountains?—and firm to the touch, the striations visible even as he stood there, relaxing into my touch. The veins that would pop a little when he flexed were just visible, his hard work laying bare the powerful machine that lay beneath the skin. My second fingers on either side lay along the cleft that seemed to feed into his traps, and that in itself seemed intimate and somehow unexpectedly erotic.
I squeezed his magnificent delts with gentle affection, massaging them, letting all those fingertips press firmly into his powerful sinew. Lust seemed to flow between us, channeled by the direct, deliberate contact. My cock gave a violent lurch in the grip of my passenger hand. I ignored it, focusing everything on the connection between my hands and his warm, swole, sweaty muscle. Lucas’s full, red lips parted slightly, and I had to forcibly resist an overpowering urge to close the distance between us and cover those sweet lips with mine.
Instead I slid both hands down from his granite shoulders, past the vee where his deltoids gave way to the powerful muscles of his upper arms, until I was loosely grasping his thick, pump-swollen biceps and triceps. Even though his arms were loose at his sides he couldn’t help but flex them for me, first his triceps, then his biceps, back and forth, so they felt a little like they were spasming in my hands. I brushed my fingers up and down, caressing him, and he stilled, soothed, but waiting for more. I didn’t know for sure what state of arousal Lucas was swimming in, but I knew I was so achingly hard that if the stray hand in my pants weren’t squeezing the base of my hard, heavy cock right then, and were choosing instead to caress it with the considerable skill it had already shown more than once today, I would be in serious danger of spraying a gallon of spunk all over the insides of my jeans. That would be rather a faux pas before I even knew if Lucas liked anything more from a guy than admiration of his beautiful, sculpted beef.
So I kept us in the moment we had created: small touches, intense appreciation. I kept up the stroking of my fingers up and down the backs of his awesomely pumped upper arms. The felt so amazing, and once again my dick jumped in the grip of my strange passenger. I focused on the sensations I was feeling, the sensations I was giving. “Do you like that?” I asked, slipping deeper into a low dirty talk register I hadn’t tried getting away with in god knew how long. “Me stroking your big, hard, thick muscles like that?” As he started to nod I gently stroked up and down against his exercise-swollen triceps with each finger separately, one at a time, counting silently to myself as I watched his face for signs of pleasure. One finger, up and down, pressing just slightly into the brawn, the action mirrored on each side. Then the next finger by itself, the same firm caress, stroking minutely up and down. Then a third. A fourth. A fifth. Then I moved my thumbs against his biceps—a sixth.
“Oh—oh god,” Lucas whispered.
The front desk bell dinged. “Hello?” called a male voice—one of the guests.
Lucas’s eyes jumped open. I was taken by surprise myself, but Lucas’s startled, wide-eyed alarm was kind of endearing. Usually when I was in the office I was at least minimally aware of noises in the main reception area, and the office door’s had a pane of milky, textured glass that had me regularly catching faintly shadowed movement out of the corner of my eye. We’d been very immersed in what we were doing. I gripped him firmly around his arms where I’d been holding him, conveying reassurance with eyes and touch, and Lucas visibly relaxed again. His responsiveness to me was… gratifying. It was kind of amazing that I could do this now, touch Lucas, and it dawned on me then just how badly I had been craving the incredibly hot jock-boy bod Lucas had been impudently and unashamedly parading in front of me all these months, a tantalizing feast of perfect, sculpted muscle that was meant to be touched. My dick throbbed insistently and it was all I could do to ignore it. “I’ll be right out,” I called back to the guest over Lucas’s shoulder, before the bell could ding again. To Lucas, I said more quietly, but in my usual, businesslike tone, “So, I suppose ten minutes of appreciation a day should be good enough?”
Lucas’s look of dismay at that was definitely comical, and I couldn’t keep back a smile. “No way,” Lucas said, and then we were both smiling. Tentatively he gripped my arms, just below the sleeves of my Green Lantern tee, taking me by surprise. He had definitely not gotten enough from our first foray into tactile encounters. “I’d like—could you—I mean…” he stammered helplessly.
“You want me to touch you more?” I offered, keeping my voice low and matter-of-fact. “Where do you want me to touch you?” I teased.
His eyes widened a little, and his smile became a lopsided grin as a bit of color returned to his cheeks. But he held my gaze as he whispered, “Everywhere.”
I gaped at him, and to be honest I very nearly came. My breathing reverted to shallow pants, and I gripped his arms just a little more firmly as if to stop my hands getting a head start on fulfilling his desires. Lucas, for his part, seemed pretty damned pleased to have been the one to shock me for a change. His cocky demeanor flooded back in full force. He cocked his head toward the closed office door and the front desk beyond. “Do you want me to get that?” he asked casually.
“No, go get cleaned up first,” I said. I lifted my left hand toward my mouth as I added, “You’re still a little—” and here I licked my fingertips “—sweaty.”
It was Lucas’s turn to stare, and I lapped it up, literally and figuratively, as I saw it occur to him that there were more ways to appreciate his thick, hard, sweaty muscles than with fingers and hands. “Go on,” I prodded, feeling the half-smirk on my own face and nodding toward the door.
Reluctantly we let go of each other, and Lucas backed away from me, running a hand over his dark-blond, close-cropped hair the way he was wont to do. He bumped against the door behind him and seemed to realize he needed to switch to more conventional locomotion. He gave me a quick nod and a wide grin, and then opened the door and vanished out of the office, the sound of hurried feet pounding down the basement stairs following after him a moment later.
I took the opportunity of moving up and sliding behind the long main desk while the guys standing on the other side were staring after him. I recognized the two grooms from the Atlanta wedding party, Harper and Owen, now in sweats and hoodies for a walk or bike ride. With them was the preppy-dressed man with the dark blond mustache they’d introduced as their best man. Often the best man or matron of honor handled wedding parties with us but in this case the grooms had made all the arrangements, and consequently I’d had no interaction with the crafty-looking, mustachioed young man standing before me, apart from this morning’s introductions. At the moment all I remembered was that he had a ridiculously posh name redolent of European nobility, like Baron, or Viscount, or something like that. It had been a busy day, and I was more than a little distracted… even beyond the full house. “What can I do for you gentlemen?” I asked pleasantly.
“Hello, Aaron,” Harper said, sharing a knowing look with me. It occurred to me then for the first time, rather shockingly, that I now had a different number of fingers from when we’d met earlier that day, and I was glad I’d had the presence of mind to keep my hands under the desk rather than lacing them together on the surface as I often did. At the same time it struck me kind of funny—it was not your everyday predicament.
“We just wanted to say that everyone is very pleased with the rooms and amenities,” Owen added genially. I found myself again enjoying his Georgia drawl, just a bit thicker than his husband’s. My smile in response was genuine.
“Always great to hear,” I said. “We’ve got everything arranged for your party’s celebratory dinner tonight, and I confirmed the foliage tour with Esmerelda for the morning. So far it’s looking like blue skies and mild weather, so you should be in for a treat.” I noticed several of the L.A. women bubbling down the stairs, also looking ready for an outing—in this case into town, I was wagering, as they’d quizzed me rigorously on the shopping and antiquing to be had in the two small but rather touristy towns flanking us up and down the minor highway that provided access to the Wentworth, the mountain and woods, and the state forest beyond.
“Great,” Harper said. “You remember our best man, Prince?” he added, gesturing to the guy in the mustache.
“Jim Prince,” the man clarified with a grin, offering his hand to shake. “Lots of Jims in the world, not so many Princes,” he explained with a wink.
“Oh, god,” I groaned, shaking his hand automatically. “Do you get a lot of dates with that line?”
“A few,” he said, eyes twinkling. He held onto my hand and turned it in his own, gazing down at it appraisingly. Too late I thought to pull my hand back, but I resisted the impulse and decided to brazen it out. Being New Aaron unavoidably meant moments like this. “Looks like you win the bet, Harper,” Prince said blandly, glancing up at the beaming groom. “I owe you a C-note.”
“No way!” Owen said, craning for a look.
“You had a bet? What was the bet?” one of the L.A. women butted in, unable to resist investigating a hundred-buck wager. She was the most intense of the group, the impossibly sexy raven-haired businesswoman who looked to Aaron like she was probably a high-powered attorney by day and a superhero by night, if you could be a superhero that never stopped talking and checking her twitter. She was picture perfect from her poise to her hair to her sleek Victoria Beckham hair, and even her fashionably raspberry hoodie and trainers ensemble and subtle day-trip make-up somehow suggested her real look was a dark blazer and heels, when it wasn’t a black cocktail sheath and a strategic diamond or two.
Prince didn’t answer her buttinsky query—he just turned my hand toward her so she could see for herself. “Oh my god!” the woman exclaimed, grabbing the hand for herself. “That is so hot.” She looked up at met my somewhat stunned gaze with a look that was downright salacious. “What else you got extras of?” she asked shamelessly. She didn’t vamp her perfectly shaped eyebrows, but only because she didn’t have to.
I stared at her, open-mouthed. I was completely thrown. See, up until this point everything had been about fingers. And, honest to god, it had not truly registered for me that this could be about anything but fingers. In retrospect that was stupid, of course, because the day’s events had started with a whole hand that had somehow gained a separate plotline from the body to which it had once (presumably) been attached—namely, the mysterious hottie with the fake info that had signed in as “Jonas McKenzie”.
I’d been hung up on fingers, and only fingers. But staring into that woman’s wide eyes, I realized I’d been thinking small—very small. And—
Hell, did I want to think bigger? I had no idea. No fucking idea at all.
The extra hand in my pants, the one that had kicked all this off, chose that moment to run its thumb along my rigid, aching cock as it gripped it in its many fingers through the soft cotton of my pocket lining. And it hit me then that I did in fact have more extras than a bit of polydactyly—I had a whole extra hand hidden away just out of sight below, and though not part of me like everything else, it was apparently mine to enjoy.
I gulped, and, for the life of me, and with six years of hospitality services behind me, I could not think of a single thing to say to my importunate, impertinent guest.
“Uh oh, you broke him,” chided Prince amiably. My eyes flicked to Harper and Owen, and I could see that they, too, were suddenly curious about the possibilities the L.A. woman had unwittingly opened.
Suddenly the woman’s friends called at to her from where they were gathered by the main doors comparing notes on the afternoon’s destinations. “Veronica!” they called out.
“Ooops, that’s me,” Veronica told our little group. “Gentlemen,” she said, acknowledging the three wedding party guests. To me she added, “When I come back I’m gonna want a full inventory!” with the most naturally audacious grin I’d ever seen before dashing off to to her gaggle of friends and bundling out the door with them.
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I muttered after her, though I waited until she was far enough away not to hear me to say it.
Prince snorted. “Is it always like that?” Owen asked wide-eyed. “People gawking and commenting and everything?”
“You mean, like this?” I said, lips quirking as I meaningfully took in the tableau of the three of them crowding around me across the desk, not to mention my hand still gripped in Prince’s handshake trap. (My bemused replay of this scene later in my head would definitely include a brief clip of Admiral Akbar uttering his famous line as I reflexively took Jim Prince’s hand to shake.)
Owen had the grace to look chagrinned and ducked his chin, but I could tell he still very much wanted to hear everything about what it was like to have a six-fingered hand. As I only had less than an afternoon’s worth of history to relate to him I thought he might be disappointed. Though if I ever told the tale of the mysterious, left-behind gym bag…
“Hey,” Harper said suddenly, brows creasing as he frowned at the hand Prince was still clasping in his warm, firm grip. “Wasn’t… the extra finger on the left hand before?” he asked slowly. He was staring hard at my hand, and I could almost see the word asymmetrical floating through his brain.
I glanced down at the hand, then up at him, meeting his gaze. “Was it?” I said casually, taunting him a little. Any other time in my life I might have had a different reaction to being called out, even as mildly as this; but I’d changed a little, and more than just in the number of fingerprints I left behind. New Aaron brazened things out.
His husband frowned too and said, “Wait… was it his left, or your left?”
Harper’s brows furrowed some more. “I thought it was his left,” he said doubtfully. “I’m pretty sure it was his left.” He was clearly bothered by the dissonance between his memory and the evidence of his own eyes. “Unless—” he started to say, glancing up at me again.
“Maybe it moves around,” Prince offered, and I smiled at him just for keeping up the joke. He winked at me again, squeezing my hand as he did so, and I shook my head inwardly. This one was a player.
At that moment Lucas bounded into view from the downstairs stairwell around the corner, his short hair still damp—he’d evidently showered and changed in record time. He was back in the yummy brick-red button-down shirt that showed off all his curves and bulges, and below soft, snug, dark-blue jeans and well-worn sneaks on his big feet. He took in the sight of me apparently holding hands with a handsome, appreciative guest, two more hunky guests looking on, and his face instantly fell. It was heartbreaking and adorable at the same time.
I turned back to the three members of the wedding party and let my smile morph slightly into the professional, genial-host version, turning Prince’s hand back toward the vertical as he gripped mine and resuming the interrupted handshake. “I’m glad the accommodations are to your liking, gentlemen,” I said amiably. “I’ll see you all again later this evening at dinner. I hope you have a nice afternoon. If you need anything, be sure to let Lucas, here, or me know and we’ll be glad to help.”
Prince smiled and finished the handshake, finally letting go. “It was a pleasure chatting with you, Aaron,” he said warmly, in a way designed to let me know I hadn’t seen the last of him. I smiled and gave him a nod. Owen and Harper glanced at Lucas and then gave me a smile and a nod, and the three of them headed off toward the main doors, the two grooms already in animated discussion, heads close together, as Prince kept pace, watching them with the same calm amusement he’d shown me.
I turned to Lucas. He looked a little peeved. “What was all that about?” he asked.
I glanced around the now-empty lobby, then turned to Lucas. I took a step closer. “I want you to understand something,” I said. Just this movement toward him, this gesture of intimacy between us, cleared his expression and darkened those stormy, ocean-blue eyes.
I thought about what I was going to say, but there was really no question. What had happened before in the office, those mere ten minutes of simple touch, were something special, much more so than I’d imagined. Lucas had bared himself to me. He’d given his emotions into my magical, special hands. Sure, I remembered Xavier, and knew that he would be back before I knew it hoping for more fun with the sexy B&B guy on his delivery route, but for all the lusting after him I’d done that spontaneous kiss we’d shared now seemed oddly distant, compared to the pulsing connection Lucas and I had forged when he’d submitted to my touch. I remembered, too, that Lucas was probably straight, and his need for me was for appreciation, not sex, not love. It didn’t matter. Lucas was so vulnerable, so tender and in my power, that I knew I had only two choices. I could either do as he wanted and touch him, or I could cut it off, right now, and let him have had those ten minutes of touch to remember.
It wasn’t a difficult choice.
I raised my new and improved hands, palms out, just as I had in the office. Lucas watched them avidly. “You see these?” I said. He licked his red lips and nodded. “These are yours… and only yours. You understand?”
His gaze jumped up to mine, then flicked, probably unconsciously, toward the main doors where the now-departed Prince and the grooms had disappeared. When his eyes met mine again I said reasonably, “I’m going to shake people’s hands, Lucas. I’m going to greet the guests. But,” I added, “there’s a world of difference between that, and… what I have planned for you.”
Lucas swallowed, his adam’s apple jumping. I suppressed a smile and instead tilted my head toward the front desk. “Go on. I still need the receipts and the mini-bar tallies put in the system. And the suppliers will be here at four.”
Lucas nodded with a grin, and a turned toward my office, then abruptly turned back, feeling suddenly unaccountably nervous. “Lucas,” I began tentatively.
He was still smiling as he turned back to me, dark-blond eyebrows raised. “Yeah, Aaron?”
I drew in a breath. “Are you available tonight?” I asked finally, sounding, to my own ears, pathetically uncertain. “After work, I mean?” Christ, I was like a high school kid asking a boy out on a date for the first time. I wondered how hard it would be to wait that long. What with the reserved dinner for the guests and the rest of it it would be at least eight o’clock until we were both done with our evening duties. It seemed a long way away.
Lucas grinned wider, and his allure when he did so was almost blinding. “Sure thing,” he said easily. At that moment the phone rang, and he snatched it up as he turned away from me. “Wentworth Bed and Breakfast,” he almost sang. Then, “I’m so sorry, we’re booked for the next three weekends. We do have a couple mid-week availabilities this month—would you like to discuss alternative dates?”
I smiled, leaving him to it, and retreated to my office, closing the door behind me and, after a moment’s hesitation, locking it. My cock had been raging hard in the grip of my seven-fingered guest hand for hours, it felt like, and I needed release. It couldn’t wait any longer, not after standing out there so close to Lucas, feeling his warmth from the shower, smelling the scent on him of water and soap and man. I wanted to drag my nose close to him, all over, and breathe him in. I wanted so many things with him, and the only question was what kinds of pleasure he would decide he wanted from me.
I moved over to my desk chair, unbuttoning my jeans as I did so. I knew I should probably go up to my rooms as I had before, but there was something thrilling about doing it here, now, only a few feet away from the man whose body had been torturing me all day, and before that all the damn summer. With one hand I reached into my pocket and grabbed onto the multifingered hand I’d stuffed in there. It let go of its grip on my cock through the cotton pocket lining with only a little reluctance, obviously sensing there was something more intense immediately ahead. With my other hand I shoved down the jeans, exposing my leaking, red, incredibly rigid cock, and dropped into my heavy wooden desk chair.
Gripping the extra hand at my side by the base, thumb in the middle of its palm and fingers gripping it from the back, I pondered my prick for a moment. It was uncut, red and aching with need. Though it was long, just shy of nine inches, it was so wide and fat that its girth was what really impressed itself on me, and also on the handful of others who’d had a chance to see it over the years. “It’s so thick!”—I’d heard that said in awe (and dismay) more than once in college. It didn’t widen in the middle like some cocks I’d seen—it was thick as a PVC pipe all the way from the base to its head, which was decently big but looked slightly dwarfed by the massiveness of the shaft, curving slightly so that it was just that much more interesting than a straight, flat slab of cock would have been. It tucked neatly into the line of my hip, but I knew it would bend up and in enough to stroke with the head pointed right at my defined, slightly hairy chest.
I grabbed it close to the base, now, the thumb and index finger gripping it tight like a pincer while the lower fingers cupped my balls. I stared down at it, its drooling slit now staring right up at me. I let myself put it into words, forming the question in my mind, the question I knew I would be asking myself from the moment that guest, Vernoica had pushed my beyond my deep, erotic fascination with the guest hand, and with what I had done to my own. I loved this cock. It was responsive, sensitive, and eager to give me intense, mind-blowing pleasure as often as I wanted.
What if… what if…?
I sucked in a harsh breath, almost losing it right then and there. I gripped the base of my tool more firmly. I needed to spell it out for myself. I needed to question to ask myself, and to answer honestly. The fingers I’d added to myself had been impulsive, the product of blind desire. This needed to be more than that. That had to be a decision.
What if… what if I had two? Did I want two of this goddamn amazing, incredibly hot cock?
I didn’t know. I didn’t know if the answer would be yes. But asking the question, just that, was enough. In no time at all was hurtling uncontrollably toward the edge. Quickly I brought up the seven-fingered guest hand and wrapped it firmly around my fat prick, keeping my hold on the base of my cock with my other hand. The guest hand understood and started caressing and stroking my precum-slicked tool with its fingers and thumb alternately, twisting itself somehow as its top two fingers slid around the head, and I had to fight to keep from releasing a yell.
With seconds to spare I let go of the guest hand where I’d placed it on my prick—it knew what it was doing, there was no doubting that—and with that hand now free I reached behind me and hauled off my tee shirt and hurled it away, falling back against the cool, heavy wood of my chair just as my dick started releasing goddamn torrents of hot, thick spunk all over my chest and abs. Insane euphoria washed over me, as if it had been months since I’d cum rather than scant hours, and once again I was in danger of blacking out from the soaring release as jet after jet of spent shot relentlessly onto my bare torso. It was only with supreme effort of will and long practice—you never really feel alone to jerk off and truly let go when you live in your own bed and breakfast—that I kept from crying out in simple, transported bliss.
Finally, I slumped, spent and sated, and idly pondered how wondrously strange my life had become, and how ridiculously horny I was capable of being even now, six years out of college and supposedly a sober, responsible adult. I snorted, amused at the idea. My overcranked libido had always been a challenge to deal with, and now was no different. Things would sure be a lot more boring otherwise, I mused happily.
As I lay there, languid, undone, and immeasurably content, with the faint sounds of Lucas interacting with a guest not fifteen feet away drifting over me like the brush of air from a cool breeze, my eyes fell on the dark, well-used but top of the line gym back the mysterious guest in 202 had left behind. It was still sitting there on my oversized rolltop desk, forgotten and abandoned in the aftermath of my having pulled out of it the very hand that was now gently caressing my meaty, mostly soft cock with those top two fingers, providing a steady, low-grade pleasure and a hint of future resurgence. And even as it occurred to me that I hadn’t finished investigating what else was in that gym bag, I froze, staring hard, my well-exercised heart picking up speed once again.
Something inside the bag had shifted.
I sat there slumped in my wooden desk chair, shirtless, covered in jizz (again), and as stiff as my PVC-pipe cock had been only moments before (and would be again soon enough, as hot as my blood was running today), staring in shock at the large, upscale leather bag on my desk like a chicken who’d gone into her teenage son’s room only to find the walls newly covered in posters for Colonel Sanders and the Nuggetz.
For long moments I gaped at it, part of me mentally willing it to somehow deny that something in it had moved, while at the same time other parts of me were silently begging it to shift again, betraying hints of uncanny secrets still harbored within. I didn’t move, though my heart slammed gaily against my chest as I stared, and after a little while a few cooling rivulets of spunk started to trickle down my flat, tight abs; and my strange passenger, the now-seven-fingered hand that had joined my life only hours before, kin, perhaps, to what still lay within the scuffed and well-used bag, was languidly and obliviously caressing my spent but still slightly chubbed cock with two of its fingers, the pads dragging slowly and rhythmically up and down through the slippery cum that my cock seemed hell-bent on producing lately in industrial quantities.
There was another slight shift, a pucker along the square end of the bag as something moved against the thick material. The pucker shifted, then smoothed, and the bag was still again.
There was something else in there.
I found myself curiously conflicted about this development. On the one hand, I was all in on the fingers thing. I was literally getting off on the idea of having extra fingers, and I was becoming downright cocky about how into my polydactyl tactile appreciation my jockboy junior clerk had revealed himself to be. I was even more than okay with the extra hand that had been the bag’s original revelation, already accustomed to its presence in the general vicinity of my dick after only a few hours’ acquaintance.
Still… when the bag moved again I’d been thinking about dicks, plural, and though I was pretty sure I’d end up managing to work myself up to some kind of bodily escalation beyond increasing my personal finger-count I wasn’t there yet. And don’t ask me what weird path my brain had taken to get there, but I was pretty sure that the still-to-be-revealed second passenger in the inexplicable, Left-behind Gym Bag of Destiny was big, fat, hard-as-fuck boner.
I licked my lips, still staring. If there was a boner in in that bag, there was no way I’d be able to avoid jamming it into my own crotch. Except that wasn’t what I wanted. The only path I’d take to having a second big, hard dick was if I’d put on my big boy pants, girded my loins, and gotten up the gumption to twist off my own dick, watch it grow back (no doubt instantly orgasming spectacularly all over my chest and face and probably the whole fucking B&B), only to then, with shaking hands, plant my own dick next to its replacement twin where it belonged.
Jonas McKenzie’s (hypothetical) huge, hot, surplus hard-on could go eat a dick. I’d grow my own two-tree forest if I got that far, for Pete’s sake. And who the fuck left disembodied, detachable hands and dicks lying around anyway? And what else was in that bag? Was it bigger on the inside? If I dug deeper under the towels and designer boxer-briefs and spare phone chargers would I find more and more human components, until I piled up enough body parts to rebuild the mysterious guest in room 202 from scrap?
I huffed a laugh and shook my head, closing my eyes and pinching the bridge of my nose at the ridiculousness of my predicaments. Even this action felt slightly strange, in a subtly exciting way, now that I had a bumper crop of fingers on both my hands, and that only made me more exasperatedly amused. A stray memory struck me, of a class in art school where we’d paired up and had a go at drawing each other’s hands, first with pencils, then with charcoal, and so on. My partner in those exercises, a trust-fund whiner named Betsy, had mangled every drawing, complaining petulantly the whole time that my hands were “freaking hard to draw” when really she just sucked at drawing hands and couldn’t admit it. I smiled and dropped my hands to the arms of my desk chair, letting them passively hold my attention. If Betsy had to draw my hands now, I though with a smile, she’d probably throw a fit and accuse me of growing the extra fingers just to spite her.
As I was working through all of this, some idle corner of my brain was filling in new lyrics to an old Beatles song. I ran through them, amused, half-humming the melody. Jonas McKenzie / Leaving a bag with a hand with a mind of its own / Where does it roam? / See the bag shifting / Is there a wang in the bag left behind when he ran? / What was his plan?
Tickled at the new verses, I started singing the chorus softly to myself with a grin. “All the extra fingers,” I crooned quietly, “where do they they all come from? All the extra boners where do they all—”
A sharp rapping at my door brought me crashing back to reality. My pulse was instantly racing. I knew from five months’ experience that I had maybe three seconds before Lucas opened the door and stepped in and saw me, spayed out in my desk chair with my dick hanging out and spunk splashed across my shirtless, minimally hairy chest—oh, yeah, and an extra hand idly ministering to my junk. My beloved, oh-so-casually-hurled-aside Green Lantern shirt lay crumpled on the floor out of reach.
Out of time. I had exactly the amount of presence of mind to swivel my chair all the way around so my back to the door, completing the maneuver just in time for Lucas to open the door on cue and walk in. “Hey, boss, mail’s here. I’ll just—whoa, whoops,” he broke off, interrupting himself. Then he added, “Sorry, I, uh, didn’t realize you were on break,” and I could just hear the smirk in his voice.
I wanted to flip him off, but I didn’t dare move. Not that there could be much doubt what I’d been up to—he could probably smell it, if nothing else. I sure could. What the heck was up with me? I was never this reckless. I knew he couldn’t see much apart from my bare back through the slats in my chair, but I kept as still as I could. The only fun part of all this was that Lucas was almost certain to assume I’d had a sudden, violent spunk-break because his fabulous biceps had gotten me too riled up to think straight. Which, okay, they were a factor, so fair enough, but it probably wasn’t wise to let the kid get too full of himself without a little corrective playful domination, which I definitely was not in a position to do just at the moment, literally or figuratively.
Lucas was already exiting. “I’ll just—” he began smirkily.
“Wait,” I said. “Can you do me a favor?”
“Uh—” Lucas hesitated.
Before he started evaluating the merits of helping me out with my private business, I spoke up, almost without meaning to. “The bag,” I said. I realized with a touch of surprise that I’d already decided to do this, so I kept going. “I, um, talked with the owner, and he says we should just keep it. So I figured—”
“I can have it?” Lucas jumped in excitedly, momentarily forgetting that his boss was currently layered in drying jizz. “Man, he must have a closetful of these.”
My stomach fluttered at that idea. “Yeah, go ahead and take it. And, er, leave the mail there,” I added awkwardly.
“Sure thing,” Lucas said, already back to full smugness. I felt the bag leave the desk behind me, leaving a sort of negative space in my sense of what I couldn’t see around me. I felt Lucas move back toward the door, presumably with bag in hand. “I’ll just let you get back to work,” he chided gleefully.
“Fuck you,” I couldn’t resist retorting. Lucas laughed, and then I heard the snick of the door closing and latching in place.
Well. That was awkward as fuck. I turned my head enough to look at the desk over my bare shoulder, and seeing the little stack of mail, bills or not where the errant bag had been was a relief. The idea to hand it off to Lucas was mostly impulsive, but I was okay with it. If there were a big stray boner in there, it would be an interesting opportunity for him to explore just how he felt about dick. And if it were just another hand—well, we already knew that Lucas did like hands. Especially what they had to offer him.
As for me, I was on my own extras journey, now. It had felt weirdly intrusive for the bag to try to get in on the act again. I’d already proven I didn’t need it, after all. I’d pulled off my own finger, grown a new one in its place, and joined the extra one onto my other hand! Whatever it was was in me now, and it would be on my terms if I wanted more fingers, or toes, or cocks, or a detached extra hand of my very own (maybe to send surreptitiously wandering the premises in search of Lucas), or… holy spigots, would something like this work for whole arms? Or—heck, what if someone twisted off my head? Would I grow a new one, then get to do whatever I wanted with the spare? Before I could squick on how weird that was, an image sprang into my mind… and I got lost for a moment or two in the sheer insane hormonal allure of it. I wasn’t surprised when, though a little incredibly even for my amp-on-eleven libido and despite two volcanic orgasms that afternoon alone, my thick, apparently tireless dick was swelling to full and demanding hardness all over again.