Ivy always woke slowly—groggy, half-sunken in tangled sheets and half-forgetting her body wasn’t the same as it used to be. The ceiling fan spun lazily above, rattling just enough to remind her she was still in her quiet studio on the east side of Copper Spring. Outside, the desert was already warming up, the light cutting through the blinds like golden knives across her thighs.
She groaned and squirmed under the blanket, half-asleep and fully annoyed. Another lazy Wednesday, another failed dream about her old body, and—
Oh.
But it was the pressure—heavy, warm, and insistent—that really woke her.
She blinked at the ceiling, brow furrowed.
“Oh, come on…” she muttered.
Two tall, obvious tents stood, stretching the blanket high above her hips - again. They were thick with heat and a stubborn pulse. She sighed, almost laughed. Her transformed legs twitched.
They were lithe, long arms now, knuckled against the mattress, having grown in strength from persistent usage. Seeing that Ivy now didn't have any arms attached to her shoulders, where they should have been, these arms were the only things she had to help her move around and interact with her surroundings. At least her sense of balance improved.
The familiar pressure throbbed, twice over, beneath the sheets, pulsing like stubborn alarm clocks between her thighs. Her eyes flicked open. That deep, insistent ache had returned, sharp and warm and inescapable. Ivy exhaled through her teeth.
She shifted, trying to sit up, and felt it: both of them. Her dual cocks, that the Fusion Wave had so generously gifted her, throbbed against one another beneath the fabric, heavy and unwilling to be ignored. They pressed together like reluctant siblings in a crowded bunk, flesh meeting flesh, the friction warm and dangerously tempting. Ivy groaned.
Long, thick, and bobbing gently with each breath.
“I just wanna pee,” she said, dragging herself upright with her legs-arms and flopping back on the bed again, defeated. “But nooo, you two have other plans.”
Her oversized boxer shorts were barely containing them now, tented high and shifting with each frustrated twitch. The waistband was skewed by the sheer force of the dual morning woods. The friction where they touched—slick and subtle—sent a shiver through her belly. They had that familiar flushed look, veins pronounced, sensitive. Too sensitive.
She swung her leg-arms over the bed, then balanced carefully. She padded toward the bathroom, bare palms nearly silent against the hardwood floor. But by the time she reached the toilet, she knew it was hopeless.
No aim. No way.
The fullness, the heat, the need had built too much already. She leaned against the doorframe and sighed, lips parting as her twin shafts gave a teasing throb, lightly slapping together between her legs. The sensation made her stomach flutter. God, they were rubbing now. Sticky, warm, shifting against each other with every tiny movement. And it felt… good. Really good.
Too good to ignore.
She backed away from the bathroom, turned, and made her way back to bed—each step sending those thick lengths bouncing against each other with maddening friction. By the time she reached the mattress, her chest was rising fast, her mind already a blur of heat.
She flopped back onto the bed, sighing heavily as her back met the mattress.
She laid there for a moment, head tilted back, bare shoulders brushing against the cool sheet, breathing slow and steady. Her transformation had been traumatic at first, sure. It had been hard. Losing her arms—her real arms—and having to learn to walk with these absurdly long limbs for legs. The constant stares. The constant . . . need. The incessant urges.
It was strange - once she had given in, things had gotten, somehow, better.
Especially when no one else was watching.
The boxers had to go.
She grunted as she leaned up again, gripping the elastic waistband with one of her leg-hands and dragging it down over the thick bulges of her dual shafts. They flopped free with a weighty, wet-sounding slap that made her gasp despite herself. Already slick with her own arousal, the heat from where they’d been pressed together lingered.
With well-practiced ease, she brought her arm-legs upward, then slid her hands down either of her veined, throbbing lengths. Her long fingers curled around them, her palms already slick with moisture. They twitched in unison, and globs of milky pre-cum bubbled from their tips. With a wet, sensual smack, the dual heads met, and a sticky string was strung between them.
One hand curled around the base of the left, the other around the top of the right.
She sighed through her teeth, letting her head fall to the side.
She moaned softly. The weight of them in her grasp, the contrast of warmth and motion, the wet sounds of flesh-on-flesh—it was all electric. She squeezed, gently at first, then firmer, pulling upward along the full, veiny lengths. Her cocks twitched against her grip, dripping precum onto her stomach in thick, slow beads. Each pulse of pleasure bloomed low in her hips and climbed up her spine.
Should she take it slow, or fast?
Her dual erections curved up and toward her belly, twitching in time with her heartbeat, veiny and flushed. The heads throbbed together and slid apart slightly with every twitch of her hips. Even the smallest motion made them rub. Ivy moaned softly, biting the inside of her cheek.
“God, you two are needy.”
Her breaths turned to soft, whimpering pants as she began to stroke in rhythm—alternating, then together. Her fingers circled the heads, then squeezed at the base. The heat between the shafts made her hips buck. They were pressed together now, slick and swollen, rubbing in tandem. Every tiny motion sent bursts of pleasure racing through her.
The sensation of both shafts being touched, pumped, stroked in rhythm against one another was maddening. The friction, of where they met in the middle, was warm, slick, almost silken—
Eyes closed, mouth open, her back arched against the sheets. She whispered things—half-formed moans, maybe her own name—and slid her cocks like pistons into the gentle sockets of her own hands, chasing the heat building fast behind her navel.
She shifted her hips, angling them slightly so the cocks rubbed harder against one another at the base. She whimpered, breath hitching. The pleasure sparked hotter, brighter.
Ivy didn’t rush it.
She took her time, stroking slowly, savoring how good it felt to grip both shafts, to feel them pulse and leak against her stomach, to hear her own gasps echo off the walls of the studio.
She took her left arm away, and brought it downwards instead.
She almost flew over the edge as she gasped involuntarily. Her hand was put to use kneading her two, fat, churning sets of testicles. Her soft fingers gently squeezed the two pouches of "family jewels" in a most erotic massage. She hadn't had release in days.