by Bill Noble
(02/27/02)

Hannie Arenson was born one minute after midnight on April 27, 1969 in Mackinaw City, Michigan. So was Steve Arenson. Y'see, from the belly button up, Hannie and Steve are two separate guys; from the belly button down, they're just one.

Hannie's blond, with a big Scandinavian jaw holding up an easy smile. Steve's darker, with a clown's sadness behind his eyes. Hannie's generous. Steve's judgmental. Hannie makes appreciative love, then goes to sleep all wrapped up in you. Steve dangles you at the edge of coming till you beg.

How do I know all this? Hey, who should know better? I'm Meg Kapinski. They're my husbands.

I met them in May on their twenty-sixth birthday. My friend Myra knew them from college, and invited me to their party. They blew out their candles by leaning around opposite sides of the cake and emitting a huge simultaneous puff. I can't truthfully tell you whether it was Hannie's sunny face that got me, or Steve's elusiveness, or imagining one-and-a-half guys making love to me -- one straight-home cock and all those hands. You know us ex-Catholic girls. Kinky.

It took me a week to figure out they were virgins, and that just made me hotter. We were in this noisy seafood bar in Ann Arbor, drinking beer and scarfing oysters. I took two of their hands and with a sudsy leer asked them how they handled goodnight kisses. Hannie laughed, but Steve looked away.

Hannie said, "Meg..."

I said, "I'm sorry," talking to the tears in Steve's eyes. A klutz. I was a complete klutz. I leaned across the table and kissed him without thinking. He resisted at first, then opened his mouth and kissed back like a tiger. Hannie's eyes were like golf balls. So I kissed him too.

I drove them home -- Michigan still hadn't figured out how to give drivers' licenses to two guys with one set of legs -- and stayed and talked. Between the beer and being an outspoken broad, I wasn't about to let them get away with anything. I brought a chair over to the couch and skooched up close.

I smiled my brightest all-American-Kapinski smile. "So, would you guys like to work on kisses three and four?"

Hannie closed his eyes and leaned toward me, a grin fighting with the pucker he was trying to hold. As I kissed him, I looked sidewise into Steve's guarded, hungry eyes and felt a slick of wetness between my legs.

It was a great kiss. Hannie and I got our hands into it, faces, fingers through hair. I let my mouth relax, let Hannie come to me.

When we finished, I turned to Steve, smiling. "Not tonight," he said, not looking me in the eye. "Just not tonight."

I picked up his hands and buried my face in his palm. I gave each of his fingertips a wet kiss with lots of tongue. Hannie put a hand on my shoulder and started to breathe hard. Without any warning, their bodies stiffened. Steve gasped and went red. Hannie let out a long, pent-up breath he might have been holding for twenty-six years. The two of them had just come for me. I stared at the blotch on their pants. Nobody knew what to say.

Three dates later, we were at their sunny, bay-windowed flat again. We'd backed off after that first explosion: the last thing I wanted was for my Godzilla libido to hurt these guys. But now, lace curtains blowing, Norway maples June green all along the street, I was ready to roll again.

"Esalen massage. Really, guys."

"Massage?" They both said it together.

"You know," I deadpanned. "Rub-a-dub? Like California."

Hannie glanced doubtfully at Steve. "That okay with you?"

Steve put on a studied nonchalance, but he was running his eyes-somewhere-else routine. "I'm game. If you are."

"What do we do?" Hannie looked about twelve years old.

"Just take off your clothes and lay down on the bed." I waited, an ache in my belly.

Steve made the first move, undoing the top button on his shirt. It didn't help my ache any to notice that they already had a pretty good erection loading their jeans. Steve, despite being Republican, dropped his shirt on the floor. Hannie, the Democrat, laid his neatly over the back of the bedroom chair. I was having a hard time breathing, so I knelt down real quick and undid their belt. I snaked their pants down and confirmed Meg's First Conjecture: they didn't wear underwear. Meg's Second Conjecture was that they weren't circumcised. Confirmed. The Third? Go ahead, guess. But I was right on that one, too.

This was the only time in the years I've known my guys that I remember their coordination failing. As their gorgeous thingamybob hoisted, they tried to hide it by turning toward the bed -- each in opposite directions. All they succeeded in doing was fwapping it across my cheeks, twice, once in each direction. You've never seen a blush until you've seen bare-assed Norwegian Siamese twins go red right down to their toe tips. They finally lurched around and fell face down on the mattress.

"Guys," I said.

They twitched, but didn't really move.

"Guys, turn over." I saw frantic eye signals, then finally, laboriously, they turned over. Each one tried to pretend their grossly inflamed dingus belonged to the other guy.

"Watch," I said. They were.

I undid my top button. Then the next one. Grossly-inflamed became more grossly-inflamed. I took my blouse off and lofted it across the room. I took off my bra and lofted it, too. I hefted my breasts and slurped a nipple, smirking through well-batted lashes. I was directly wired to that macarena cock. I dropped my skirt. My darlings' dick hung a long streamer of silver, anchored yummily in the fine hairs on their belly. I wriggled out of my panties, then wafted them past their noses. I tugged a chair to the foot of the bed, and sprawled in it, legs flung wide. I raised my middle finger and lowered it toward my puss. I slipped the finger in, then took it out and licked it. My guys licked their lips. I was the goddamn Pavlov of the boudoir! I drew the wet up around my clit and circled.

One thing I'd extracted from our long evenings of talk was the mind-boggling news that they'd never "touched themselves." Hah! Meg the Kinky Sex Maven was about to change that.

I petted myself close to coming, and then I danced. I straddled them on the bed, pulling open my puss. I almost -- but not quite -- grazed their lips with my boobs. Mama, I was merciless. After nearly an hour of tease, I sat back in the chair and propped my legs wide apart on the corners of the bed.

"Touch yourself." I breathed the words in my best Marlene Deitrich baritone.

Steve's hand crept down. He was almost cross-eyed, staring at their cock. Hannie flung a panicky glance at him.

"Touch yourself. C'mon. Both of you."

They each put reluctant fingers on the shaft of their penis and gave a shudder of pleasure.

"Stroke," I said, holding their eyes.

Hannie took the initiative. He wrapped his hand around it and began to stroke. Steve joined in. I was beginning to shake.

"Slower," I said as I diddled myself again. "Real slow."

"Slower."

Hannie's mouth was locked open, gulping air, heh, heh, heh. Steve's face darkened toward purple. He was looking at me, but I'm not sure anything was getting recorded in his brain.

"Jeezus," I called, riding my wave. "Slower!" I kept my eyes locked on theirs.

The muscles in their thighs were vibrating. I was trying to stay with them.

They both shouted at the same time -- I shouted, too, but I have no idea what -- and a second later this fountain spurted out of them. They snapped nearly upright; a big glop of semen caught Steve across the neck.

I struggled to stay upright on the chair, deep in those two pairs of eyes. Holy shit, this ain't kink anymore. You're in love, girl.

"All right," I said, not near as in charge as I was acting. "It's time for the massage." And I gave them one. Really. Just a massage.

Weeks later, we were in the lap of August, sitting under jack pines above the clearest little backwoods lake on the Upper Peninsula.

We were making love. And talking about marriage. And swimming. They'd been picking raspberries for me and they were licking raspberry juice off my nipples. This is why I've got two breasts. I may be the first woman in the history of the world to really understand about that about boobs.

"You can only marry one of us, you know," Steve said, looking out at the lake.

"No way," Hannie and I said together, and then we grinned.

But Steve's voice had an edge. For the first time in their lives Hannie and Steve were rivals.

If another Ice Age came, I felt like I'd personally push back the glaciers with animal heat. "I want both of you," I said.

I pushed them over and smooshed raspberries all over their warm, big intellect. Then I sucked it all the way down my throat. They both hollered when I did that. I grinned at the looks on their faces and then popped them out of my mouth for a minute. "I can do anything I want."

All the while I sucked there were hands wrapped in my hair, hands over my shoulders, fingers tracing the lines of my back. Anything I want. Anything. I came before they did, and then I came again when they exploded.

One of their doctors explained it to me with an unprofessional leer: two brains pumped hormones through one set of equipment. Five or six times hardly seemed to wear them out. In fact, it was usually me who begged for mercy. But the same doctor also told me that their lower body was the rarest thing in joined twins: a chimera. They came from two different eggs, but their cells had mingled. Their immune systems had learned each other's chemistry: they were two separate bodies, mingled as one. They made two sets of sperm in one set of balls, Republican and Democrat, and launched all that stuff into Catholic me every time they came. And came. And came.

When we ran out of raspberries we went swimming. They leapt up with their weird, top-heavy grace and sprinted toward the cliff, catapulted into the air. Hannie grabbed a pine bough and pendulumed them upward. Steve caught a higher bough to swing even higher. They sailed out over the lake, twined in a Tarzan duet. I dove in after them.

When I surfaced, they were nowhere in sight. Two heads tickled up between my legs. Two mouths blew bubbles, one up my butt crack, the other tingling my clit. They burst to the surface. We clung together, laughing, half-choking on lake water, and then laughing all the more because of it. All those hands were holding me up.

By early October we'd gotten to the hard parts. One particular afternoon, I was trying to hammer home the subtler arts of munching my puss. Problem was, the guy who wasn't employed never had any idea what to do with himself. Hannie was lying face down, listlessly stroking my belly and breasts, clearly uncomfortable. Steve was doing Olympic-level tongue-fu. But all those hands I'd loved so much were just distracting. We were on our way to a first in our relationship: I wasn't going to come.

I rolled them over and impaled myself. I kissed my taste off Steve's mouth and then tried to kiss Hannie. He wasn't having any. I fucked them, hard and steady, staring into Hannie's eyes, willing him to open up. I swooped and jiggered, broke my rhythm, went slow, went fast, milked them with my puss. "Hannie, where you at?" I said.

"Meg," Steve cut in, "I thought you and I were the ones making love." His lips were set in a line.

I sucked his tongue into my mouth and then bit it till he winced. Then I did the same to Hannie. I pushed their heads together, ear to ear, and bent hard over them, kissing one and then the other. I wanted to come so bad, but it was as elusive as ever. If I kissed one of them for long enough they'd respond, but when I switched back to the other, the first one'd go all distant again. I closed my eyes. I humped cock. Sweat ran down me and dripped onto their chests. I tried to pull them closer to each other, but it wasn't working.

I stopped moving.

I wanted a circle of love, and I was living in a fucking isosceles triangle. I pulled them out of me and stood up.

"Guys! This isn't working. I feel like I'm sneaking around having two separate affairs."

"Meg, I think we're all in this together." Steve was trying to joke, looking out the window at the yellow maples, but I knew they both understood what I meant.

I grabbed my blouse, but my shaking fingers buttoned the damn thing one button out of whack. A button rattled to the floor as I tried to undo it. Tears spilled.

"I only ever get to make love to one of you. The other one's always acting like they want to watch TV."

Hannie turned to his brother. "She's right, you know."

"Fuck if she is."

"Steve, we always--"

"Shove it!"

"Steve--"

"Damn it. I don't want to hear this shit!"

I was crying full out now. "I'm leaving, Steve. It just makes me feel lonely."

Hannie tried to touch my cheek, but Steve wasn't letting him lean forward far enough. His hand fell back in their lap.

"And get your God damn hand out of my crotch!" Steve spat at Hannie.

Hannie winced and blinked away tears. Shaking, he reached up to touch Steve's cheek. Steve struck Hannie's hand away. His shoulders were bunched, his face all twisted up. I stopped trying to get dressed. Hannie gave me a long, steady look. All of a sudden he wasn't holding anything back, tears, truth, anything. He turned to Steve and cradled his brother's face. Their legs shifted unconsciously on the bed to support them. Steve glared, but didn't move.

"Steve."

Silence.

"Steve, we...we are in this together, y'know." Hannie put a soft kiss on Steve's forehead. Steve flinched, but didn't bolt. "Steve," he said, in the softest voice I'd ever heard. He lifted his brother's face up and kissed him on the mouth. To my amazement, Steve's face relaxed. He looked into his Hannie's eyes, searching. Thinking hard.

Steve turned. "Meg. Hold us."

I hesitated.

"Just hold us. Please."

I came and sat on the edge of the bed with my puffy face and my draggled hair and one boob hanging out of my half-buttoned blouse. I put my hands on their shoulders. I was shaking. Shit, one way or another, I always ended up shaking.

Hannie's face was a big, open question. Steve was headed someplace, and Hannie was ready to go.

"Whatever we feel, we both feel." Steve reached down and touched their cock with the greatest tenderness. He wasn't holding anything back now, either. A first.

"Whatever we love, we both love. That's just the way it is."

Hannie nodded, just the briefest movement. Steve's fingers began to stroke.

"Feel that?"

Hannie nodded again, a solemn big-eyed boy.

"So do I. Feel Meg holding us?"

The ghost of a smile passed over Hannie's lips.

"When I talk about Meg, you feel what our body does?" Steve squeezed their cock and it bloomed.

Hannie's eyes blinked tight, then opened. This time the smile was unmistakable.

I couldn't tell who started the kiss. I felt a sudden flood, not just in my puss, but everywhere. I never knew men could be so tender.

Steve pulled Hannie's face closer, kissed him deep. Hannie took over stroking. We had some lube beside the bed, so I grabbed it and poured it all over their cock and Hannie's hands.

Hannie stroked the shaft and Steve made a little tent with his fingertips for their cockhead. I watched the muscles in their one precious pair of hips bunch and release. They made tiny sounds into each other's throats while I held them.

I don't know how long it went on. You can't believe what four hands can do. To a cock, to faces, to bodies, to two men who discover love.

I was afraid they'd break. They held their chests so close -- I didn't see how it was possible, the way their body was made. But it wasn't frantic. I watched a patient dance.

I watched the little eye in the tip of their cock open. I felt their come move through their entire body, I swear. Pulse after pulse. I just held them, watching their lips just touching.

When it was time, they turned and brought me into the center of it.

"Hey," I said in a little voice.

"Hey," Steve said, in a voice just as small. Hannie smiled his little boy smile, but didn't say a word.

Our lips and noses and tongues tangled, breath passing soul to soul to soul. Our arms wove a circle to hold it all. One of my nipples was crushed against Steve's curly chest, the other rubbed Hannie's smooth one.

"Get hard for me, husbands." As I said it, they swelled. Their cock made little scritchy sounds rising through our pubic hair.

I raised my butt. Hannie and Steve held my eyes and edged their mouths together. Their tongues danced, following the dance of my puss on their cockhead.

They darted their tongues and I jabbed their pink head in and out of me. Steve slipped his tongue behind Hannie's upper lip and I slickered their cock over my clit. That squeezed an involuntary "Yuuuuf!" out of me. The two guys cracked up, and that made me lose it. We started roaring with laughter.

We howled so hard I couldn't hold my butt up; my puss fell all the way down on Hannie and Steve's pole. There isn't a word for the sound we made sliding together, but there oughta be.

We stopped laughing.

Hannie took our hands and leaned back -- and then the three of us were swayed back at arm's length, hands locked, our two bellies fused: three separate, loving people, joined into one.

We curled our hips up, and we could see the column of our cock entering. If we strained, we could make out the rim of the head slipping out, but then our belly muscles would relax and it'd glide back in. It didn't matter who had an innie or an outie. It didn't matter if we came. Well, maybe a little bit.

The distance Hannie and Steve always held was gone. The little smart-ass separation I'd always kept from men was gone, too. I pressed that sweet cock in and rocked and felt it bend and unbend inside us. Our pupils widened in unison. A salty tear ran right down into my wide-open mouth and I started to climb the hill of a gargantuan come. They climbed too, the three of us did. When we burst over the top, indistinguishably one, a whole new country opened up beneath us.

October sun rushed in and filled the room. Leaves danced down our street for joy.

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