Dave looked around his little office frantically, but there was nowhere he could hide. His three monster cocks were softening rapidly, but he knew there was no way to conceal them. And as for his extra arms—he spread his four hands in an unconscious gesture of futility.

Whoever was outside knocked again, and Dave stood, walking toward the door, while trying to shove his still-ponderous cocks into his slacks. "Yeah?" he called through the door, staring down. The bulge was beyond obscene. Not to mention uncomfortable.

"Mr. Logan?" It was Ken, the college kid he'd just hired as a new cashier.

"Yeah, Ken?" Dave reverted to his nervous habit of knuckle-chewing. He felt flushed and weak from fear and regret that he'd so rashly given in to temptation, changing his body in a way he could never hide; yet, perversely, something in the back of his mind was straining to pull him back to the box and its remaining contents, like an eager dog on a long leash.

"I was just going off shift, and wanted to see if I needed to, you know, touch base with you," Ken said. He sounded perplexed that his new boss hadn't opened the door, but evidently wasn't about to ask questions. "You know, before I went."

"No, that's O.K.," Dave said. "You run along now." He breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"O.K. See you tomorrow!" He heard the noise of Ken walking off.

Tomorrow. He would see him tomorrow. He'd only delayed the inevitable.

He walked over to his desk chair, around the big box in the middle of the floor, and sat down, only to find that doing so severely scrunched his enlarged genitals. With some exasperation he kicked off his shoes and shucked his slacks and overstrained Calvins. He slumped in his chair, naked except for his socks, arms resting atop one another, his cocks lolling on the leather seat between his legs. The light hair on his back forearms tickled the hair on his front forearms. He could feel the skin on his back and legs sticking to the chair, and he stayed still for a while. Delaying the inevitable again, he decided grimly, sitting forward—much to the annoyance of the skin on his back.

He remembered something about customized clothes from the packing slip. He leaned over and pawed through the big box, pulling out a tight stack of men's dress shirts tied crossways with ribbon, and a similar stack of slacks. Untying the ribbon on the shirts he held the top one up. It was just like one of the dress shirts he owned—fine linen, cornflower blue with a button-down collar—but it had four sleeves. He held it up, spreading the sleeves with his two remaining hands, and chuckled to himself at the absurdness of it all. It slipped on easily and was startlingly comfortable. There was a very comfortable snug spot, right between his front and back arms on each side, that the shirt slipped into in a way that felt particularly pleasant.

Next the slacks. These looked like ordinary slacks, but there was clearly more room in the crotch area and the legs were roomier as well. On inspection he found silk sleeves on the insides of the legs, two on each side, presumably meant to hang onto his loose cocks. The extra sleeve intrigued him. He slipped the slacks on, standing to hitch them up with two hands while guiding his soft salamis into the sleeves with his other two hands, for the first time wondering how he'd gotten by with only two arms. He buttoned the slacks and felt better. He might be a freak now, but at least he was properly and comfortably dressed.