0 comments/ 2704 views/ 3 favorites A Fork in the Road By: Centauripede In every generation, there are a few centaurs born with human traits that extend beyond the ordinary. Most of the time, they are born with the characteristics of a human being extending to the torso, and a horse's bottom half. Sometimes however, nature intervenes with a different plan. Rarely, a centaur is born with two or four human legs attached to their horse half. Others are born as hairless as a human excepting pubic, chest, and arm hair. Occasionally, a centaur's human half contains horse traits, like a pair of horse ears or a long horse mouth and nose affixed to a human head. Even more rare: the centaur who is otherwise typical, but with the penis with the proportions of a human rather than a horse. It was the happiest of days when Bylon and Werna awaited the arrival of their little one in the centaur birthing barn. Werna had prayed to the gods that this one would be different. The other foals she'd brought into the world were sickly little creatures that never survived past infancy. The first one had a tiny head, the size of an orange. The second had two-inch long horse legs. The third was born with proportionate and normal human traits and horse legs, but a horse body the size of a watermelon. The vet said there might be something wrong with Bylon's tiny swimmers, because his tadpoles all seemed to have jumbled features, not the human head and ponytail of normal centaur sperm. The best reproductive scientists had tried to alter the anatomy of his seminal fishes, and they felt they re-spliced enough of them to give the worried couple a one-time chance to have a nice little seahorse-shaped blastocyst, tricked out with the finest centaurian features. Nine months earlier, Bylon asked his more-than-friend Werna, "Will you lie with me?" "I don't know what that means," she said. "What I meant to say is, may I row your boat to Blissville?" Werna looked at him with confusion. "Come again?" she said. Bylon coughed and shuffled his feet. "Let me put it another way. Can I peel your potatoes while you add the girl gravy?" Werna, still confused but beginning to suspect his intentions, looked below her more-than-friend's horse frame and observed the inflation of his flesh baton. "Ohhhh, I see what you want," she said with a wink. "Now that the doctors have fixed your fishes, I feel ready to receive your baby maker so we can make a nice, normal little foal." Bylon breathed a sigh of relief. With a brief kiss and a handshake (as was centaur custom at the initiation of coitus), Bylon move to the rear, taking care not to stumble over his substantial flesh tube. With little effort, he was welcomed into her labial temple of temptation. A few moments later, a million little swimmers sought the narrow road to her bulbous egg factory. While many seekers met their end on the road of no return, one lucky tadpole found sanctuary within her loving capsule of life. Nine months later, Bylon watched their schmutz-clad foal squeeze through Werna's dilated baby hole. After wiping off all of the amniotic goo, they held it tight in their arms as its tiny lungs came to life. The tinny swimmer, now an air-breathing creature of the earth, had left the placid sea behind forever. It squalled, its plaintive wailing a futile remonstrance at the injustice of being forced from the protection of mother's belly into the cold and hostile external world. At first they beheld the newborn with joy. "Four hooves and two arms," said Bylon. "Look, he has your eyes and my lips," said Werna tearfully. "Truly, oh truly, he is the most blessed creature, a fit, strong, example of our race, a gift from the Great Horse." "What shall we call him?" "How about Ertron?" "So noble, a fit name for a fit foal." But their delight turned to despair as they turned the helpless foal on its side, for there they discovered a defect. There, below the strong, horse rib cage, the perfectly formed legs and hooves, there their eyes betook the most terrifying sight a new centaur parent ever beheld. It was a human-sized, human-shaped, bifurcated penis. A tiny, sad little thing, a worm better suited for burrowing unseen through the mud than attached to any member of the most noble race The Great Horse ever saw fit to create. Bylon and Werna burst out with inconsolable sobbing at the sight of their tiny unfortunate. All the intervention of centaur medical science had not been able to prevent this ill-omened, misshapen freak from being thrust upon them, and the world. What is a penis, really? It's such a small part of the anatomy, usually hidden from sight (except in the centaur world, where trousers are unknown), barely used for anything, especially when compared with arms, legs, eyes and ears. It is not a sense organ. It offers no means of perambulation. It's a hindrance in combat why is it so important? But the penis is more than merely the "fifth leg" (for a centaur). It is the organ of generation for the species, the maker of legacy, the flesh rock that sends every centaur dude to the creamy center of horny heaven. A weird penis on a centaur is almost worse than no penis at all. For the world pities the penisless, but feels threatened by penile weirdness. For an abnormal penis is more than unfortunate, it reminds every other penis-bearer that penile normalcy is not a guarantee, but luck. It's no different than the fear that the healthy bear for the ill and diseased, because anything in the body that does not belong is a harbinger of death. At the Chiron Institute for Horse Half Health, a team of surgeons worked to lengthen the lad's longitudinal organ. They attempted to excise the left-sided penis and graft it to the end of the other one, but even if this perilous operation had succeeded, only human girth, not centaur width would frame the thin, pale, sad tube that had already caused so many bitter tears to fall. The operation failed. The vitality of the right penis rudely pushed the grafted penis off of itself like a gaunt, overheated, porcelain gentleman throwing off a heavy overcoat in a fire-warmed drawing room. If that was not enough, a new left penis grew from its terminal bud as quickly as a tree shoot in mid-May. The bifurcated penis, it appeared, demanded its right to exist. The doctors were stunned that Ertron was able to grow a new, offshoot penis, but Bylon and Werna were horrified. They resolved to one another, "We will mask his penis and give him a normal life." This was difficult, given the fact that centaurs of both sexes do not wear pants. Instead, the desperate parents turned at a fork in the road where science had failed them. They climbed the 10,000 stone stairs up Mount Mii to visit the workshop of Old Grandfather Widdlework, the magical wood worker. Old Grandfather was said to be the oldest centaur alive. He had a beard whiter than the snowy, forbidding glaciers surrounding his isolated home. It was so long that it hung forty feet from his cross-hatched window to his front door. Visitors pulled on it when they sought entry. It was attached to a small string of bells further up the beard, and they tinkled whenever the beard was pulled. It was said that a caller had better have serious business with the old curmudgeon because he was crusty, and he disliked having his beard pulled even though it was the system of his own creation. Widdlework's age was placed at somewhere between 100 and 1000. He spoke to the stones around the mountain and told them dirty stories, and the stones in turn did him small favors, like hammering nails and things, because the stones were lonely and bored, having nobody to banter with. Old Grandfather Widdlework crafted nothing of practical value; he laughed at any who came looking for a chair or a really nice dinette set. His objects were strange, bent, crooked things that contained powers even he didn't understand: staffs that cried tears that became steel arrow-heads to make any arrow true, boxes with no door and no hinges, a wooden hand that caused any who touched it fall in love with its holder. As they neared the remote mountain hut, a magical blizzard full of shimmering sparkly things overtook them. The path became unclear. Finally, the snow stopped, and the sun peeked through, cold and distant. Old Grandfather Widdlework's hut appeared in front of them and they pulled on it three times. "Who is it? What do you want?" came the irritated reply. "We are pilgrims from Centaurland. We're having a problem with something," they shouted up to the window. "Well, what's the deal?" "It's sensitive, "said Werna. "Can we talk about it in private?" "No," said Widdlework. "State your business or get lost." "Do you want to tell him or should I?" Bylon said in a hushed whisper. "Maybe you should. I'm sort of shy." "Fuck...," said Bylon. "Alright. I'll try." "Old Grandfather," he said. "We seek a magic penis for our boy child. You see, he was born with a bifurcated, human-sized flesh arrow." "Ah! A human penis! Yeeeeeeeeees, I have seen one before. It was written in the secret sacred scroll that there would come one such as him. He will know great torment and pain unless..." "Unless?" "Unless, what do you think, stupid! Unless I build him a magical centaur-sized fat fucking cock dick." "Will you do it?" the anxious parents asked. "I shall. It will be the largest lady-jabbing javelin a centaur has ever known. It will be harder than Mount Mii. It will be as rigid as the ice covering Lake Glopherglot. It will feel more keenly than the Lips of the Jaggeron." "Oh thank the gods," cried the worried parents. "Fortune again smiles on our boy's procreative organ." "However...it comes with price," said the old one. "The child will grow into a randy lad, as all lads are apt to do, and when he does...he may never touch it except to go to the bathroom. If he ever knows the pleasure of self-stimulation, or if he ever burrows betwixt a lady maiden's unctuous orifice—his magic wonder pole will instantly revert to its present state once his seed bursts forth. Only in his twenty-fifth year may he know these pleasures." "Alas," said Bylon. "This is too much. All centaurs lose their innocence by age eighteen. How will he ever cope?" Erton's parents struggled with the momentous decision. They decided that even with these crushing restrictions, the boy would never be a man without a centaur-sized cock rocket. "You must make your choice because time is running out." "Is it? Why?" "Because I'm tired and I want to take a nap." "Very well," they agreed. "We must." After this conversation, Old Grandfather invited the parents to take a seat in his dumpy waiting room. There, they ignored weathered copies of Centaur Today magazine and pressed their faces to a window into the factory floor of Widdlework's workshop. They gazed with awe at a small army of stubby wooden creatures with muscular arms and legs and heads resembling pine trees labored under the direction of the Old Grandfather. They watched the creatures roll a stout oak onto a giant stone table. Old Grandfather bent low and waved a candle over the oak, which then became soft, and began to breathe. The creatures rolled it back and forth between their tiny, pale fingers until it became smooth sided, and a mushroom head poked through the end. They ran their oiled hands up and down the shaft until it pulsed to life. Widdlework looked up at Bylon and Werner and gave a wink. Finally, a door opened in the side of the mountain from the underground factory. Widdlework made flapping motions with his arms and the penis grew wings larger than the mighty honey hamhawk. They beat the ground until the hut shook. In an instant, the penis took flight off of the mountain, and they all watched it soar through the air, parting a flock of birds, not otherwise specified, until it was seen no more. "Go now," said the old man. "The magic penis will find the boy, and become small enough to fit him, but remain large enough to stun even the most skeptical and exacting of maidens. Go, go and revel in it, but remember! Let no one touch it, not even the lad himself!" The people all looked up at the sky as the winged penis descended like an avian torpedo, shooting like an arrow toward the genitalia of one lucky boy. No one quite saw where it went as it landed, for Old Grandfather endowed his magic dick with an amnesiac ambrosia that shrouded gawkers in mist and confusion. The boy, Ertron, grew up, and as he did, his package grew ever larger. The people remarked on it, telling his parents they should be proud. The other lads stared on in jealously at the waterlogged chunk of wood. The girl centaurs stopped to smell it and take pictures of it with their phones. Bylon and Werna warned their lad daily that dire unspecified consequences awaited him if he touched himself. "Come now, mother," he said, "Everyone knows there's no such thing as a magic dick with stipulations." "Don't say that," said Bylon. "You have no idea what will happen to you if you disobey us, and you must never ask us." More and more often, Ertron was ostracized rather than adored. Those who didn't fear his dick, wanted it for themselves. And with a thing that big, no one could understand why Ertron was eighteen and still hadn't put his tool in a fine lasses' tool shed like every other lad had been doing for years already. He heard their stories and wept. "I want to know the love of a girl, but I never will because of what? Because my parents are religious? Why, why do they bid me wait?" His parents had no ready explanation, and they weren't Christians, so all they could tell their ridiculously well-endowed boy: "just wait a few more years." Ertron went to school where young men were trained to assume their adult stations as warriors and athletes, and girls were trained to oil down the men, shine their armor, and prepare their weapons—and bear their offspring. His current course load consisted of Bone Crushology, Plunder & Pillage for Fun and Profit, Advanced Village Burning Methodology, and Intermediate Applied Slaying. And for his centaur culture classes he was taking Line Drawing Using the Blood of Your Foes, and War Ballad Choir. Most of the centaur lads loved their weapons and killing classes, especially the field trips to the war zone where they became the adept slaughterers their society expected them to be. The girls watched them with awe, and fought over the chance to mate with the most fearsome, gruesome, and aggressive of the lot. Human beings, ever the loyal subjects of the centaurs, lived on the margins of centaur society, performing menial labor tasks, the most successful among them rising slightly above their low station to become successful members of the mercantile class. Only recently had the more progressive-minded centaur leaders managed to gain hard-won rights for humans. Because of these changes, human beings were now allowed to attend centaur schools, a few even fighting alongside centaurs in the front-ranks as respected but expendable warriors. While humans were grudgingly tolerated, their blood was deemed inferior to their "older brothers," and while human and centaur marriage was officially accepted, it was considered loathsome by the rules of society. The human race was intended to supply drudges and peons, not weaken the strong blood that coursed through the veins of the champions. It was here at school that Ertron, by dint of his intimidating but untried cock, was disrespected by the boys no matter that he was their equal in combat training. Unable to engage in the pursuits of a respectable warrior, he immersed himself in the degrading occupation of alt country singing and songwriting. His odes were so unconventional that he alienated his War Ballad Choir professor, even though his sonorous tenor enchanted even the harshest of critics. One day, while walking alone in the rocky, moss and fern-covered glade in the wild surrounds of his school, he plied the strings of his long and rigid eight-string yoloan (a sort of centaur guitar) as he composed an ode: "Like the river onward rushing, my lips are pressed and almost crushing...no, no that can't be right. Her love is like a soft baked apple. Her hands are gentle, soft and supple. I'll crack my spear but not the shaft, even whilst they call me daft. For her my resolve shall bend but will not break, luke warm things in the oven baked. Yes, yes! I think I've got it!" There was a cough and a rustling from behind a spray of ferns. "Is someone there?" said Ertron, throwing down his yoloan, mortified with shame. A tall, fair, pale human walked forward. Ertron had not had much contact with human beings. The contours of her body puzzled him for a moment, until he realized humans wore clothes. "You are a female?" he said. "Why are you out here?" She smiled a broad grin, casually perched on a rock with her knees up, and shook her long, auburn tresses out of a bun. He stared at her without moving. "Why are you here?" was all he could manage. "I heard music. I came to listen." "You...heard?" "Do you speak English?" she asked. "You seem quite befuddled." "I am...I do...I'm sorry. I've never met a human...female before. You're very interesting." "You know, apple does not rhyme with supple." "Well, but apples and hands can be supple, you know." "If they're baked?" She winked. "You mock me." "I like baking too, just in a different way." "Girl Human, you're very confusing. Do you hate my words? Do you mark me for a mere dilettante?" "No...I find your words pleasing. Rhyme often sounds forced. I find what you write—consonance—easier on the ear." "You are a grammarian, then? Ha! I know of no others like that. And my voice? And the way I finger my strings?" "Shush! I will not divulge all of my opinions of either your merits or your flaws in one interview. I have enjoyed your music so far, but I will need to hear more before I decide about you." "Before you decide to become my friend, you mean?" His eyes were like those of a deer, discovering something new. "You are innocent," she said half to herself. "You are unlike the other man-horses I've seen, all cocksure, chest thumping, skull crushing rogues. I very much wish to be your friend." "I am like them. I am just as much a warrior. I have just as much spirit, Human Girl." She stood up from her rock, walked closer to him and placed her hand on his flank, staring up into his eyes. "I have offended you. I meant you have a refined spirit, something I have never seen in a centaur. I entertain no doubts that you are a man by any measure. Your culture as well as mine rewards aggression as a so-called manly quality. I don't doubt that hurling a pike has its merits, but holding a sharpened stick in one's hand and waving it about is but one means of self-expression." Ertron started backwards. Her touched thrilled him, frightened him. He'd never been touched by anyone, expect with stabbing weapons during combat training. "I must go." "May we part friends?" "Affirmative," Ertron stated, his face and tone betraying no emotion. "I find your friendship acceptable." "My lips are pressed, my face is flushing," she said. His face began to flush. "Pardon?" he said. "What was that?" "I changed your song," she said, with a coquettishly raised eyebrow. "I like flushing better than crushing, but I understand: it's your upbringing." "Wait a minute. Grammarian pixie! You can't just alter my verses. They're mine." "I just did, centaur. They're not yours anymore." "Whose are they then?" "Ours." There was a sound of thumping and brush parting as a group of centaur huntsmen arrived in the clearing. The girl dove behind the rock she'd appeared behind, and was gone. A Fork in the Road "Girl Human, wait." The centaurs gathered around Ertron, and asked if he'd seen any galumps around. These were the monopod, furry beasts that tried to hop away on one leg. They were perfectly round, had one eye and a pig nose. They tried to cuddle with anything warm they met in the woods. They tried so hard, but always fell over. The centaurs laughed when they killed the poor galumps, who did not stand a chance. No one mentioned the girl, but they saw the yoloan and demanded he sing them a war ballad about their victorious hunt. They tamed the one-footed, fearsome beast They spilled its blood, its breathing ceased. Ten skewered on spears ten times as tall Kabobs for their cook pits or trophies for their wall? "We said, an ode! Not this belittling limerick that questions our manhood! You'll not get off that easy, you little ponce." They pranced around him brandishing their weapons until one of them snatched his yoloan and used it to club the head of a baby galump that was still breathing. He threw the smashed instrument back at Ertron. "There, now your music serves a real purpose." "Piss off then, mighty warriors! Mighty wankers is more like it! Fucking gits, the lot of you! Bugger your spoils of war, slayers of the single-footed scourge! Sodding public school leftenents..." Ertron left his broken instrument behind, but soon after his angry ranting abated and his smarting pride began to heal, he thought only of the strange girl human he'd met. He wondered if they were all like that, and although he was too proud to think it, he hoped they would meet again. As the weeks passed, Ertron became the target of conquest of all the centauresses, who all wanted to bed him despite the general loathing of him because of his love of inappropriate, non-centaur squishy things. Just as the male centaurs jockeyed for the highest rank amongst each other, the centauresses did so as well. Eventually, one lass by the name of Gyros stood at the head of the pack. She flattered and patronized Ertron, but only regarding the thing between his legs rather than the thing betwixt his ears. Through her aggressive courtship, she finally managed to secure a date with Ertron. He has misgivings, but she was beautiful by centaur standards. Her overtures were a potent narcotic to a lad who had only known scorn from his peers. "I find your tool to be the apex of form," she told him as they sat together in the coliseum watching the centaur blood sports games. Most centaurs adored the games, and watched them for hours. All Gyros wanted to do was talk about sports with him, that and her designs on his cock. Ertron found them dull, and understood their rules as much as he understood the bottom of the sea. "Thank you, "he said. "It's the biggest, but I have other qualities as well. You've never asked me to sing you an ode. May I share one with you?" "Yes, but please hurry. The next match will begin soon." As he sang, her eyes were transfixed on his man stalk. She'd never been so close to it before. She saw every vein, every subtle movement. It twitched as he sang, another involuntary means of self-expression. "Do you ever sing about it, your beautiful fifth leg? You know, you could stick it in and play me better than you play the yoloan." "I cannot. I can't use it until five and twenty years of my life have passed. I know not why, but I've been told something terrible will happen if I don't." "That's the voice of your conservative, puritanical parents. All centaurs have got their nut by now, all but you." "It's hard for me," he said. "But I'm trying to avoid any curse that might befall me." "The only curse is the reality that you will gain no entry from any others but me, because of their tight holes. Only I am wide enough to receive you. Only I am woman enough for you." "Is it only for the love of holes that a man wants a woman? "It doesn't matter," she said. All this time, Ertron had been meeting in the glen with the strange, girl human, who had not revealed her name. Their conversations took him out of himself and his worried thoughts. He felt safe around her. He also felt stirrings of his heart, and stirrings from beneath himself. Their meetings were never arranged, yet she always found him. She seemed to come to him from another world where a person could look down on all happenings and people from on high, and see everything with the acuity and perspicacity of a hawk. Finally, one day Gyros and Ertron began making out. He'd been bored with their conversation up to that point, and when she kissed him, it took his mind off of her one-dimensional prattle, and excited his physical passions to heights he'd not heretofore experienced. Soon, she grabbed him from below and began to pull on his stiffened spear. He sighed and moved in closer. "No," he said. "Please stop. I can't." "You can. You will." "Stop," he said. "I don't want to do this." She tightened her grip and pulled faster. Ertron grabbed her hands to pull them off of him, she was stronger. "Don't resist me, freak. This is what you need." "You care nothing for me. Take your hands away." Just at that moment, the Girl Human appeared. She saw them, right at the moment Ertron broke free. Her face contorted into a mask of anger and sadness. She turned and ran. Ertron chased her, but after a few steps she was gone. "Human lover, freak!" seethed Gyros. "You are nothing to me, you and your pathetic odes." She turned and walked away, leaving Ertron alone and despondent in the clearing of the glade where he'd only known happiness and peace. "They say it's my only gift," he thought. "But really, it's my only curse." He searched far and wide for the human female, but she was as fey as vapor. His despair was bottomless. His chest pained him. He now knew that she was the only kindred spirit he'd ever met. He went back to the glade every day, the only place where the other centaurs ceased harassing him. He waited, but she never came. His voice was as mute as his broken yoloan. He hadn't penned a new song in weeks. Heartache was new to him, because being with her was the only time he'd known joy and peace in greater portion than misery. Now his heart plumbed the depths of that black place further than ever before. At last moved by what he'd lost, he was now inspired enough to write and sing again, a song of mourning. My inner chamber she penetrated, breached Closed to all but by her reached Her saucy tongue, acerbic wit Derailed me, but I'm too large to fit Girl human, nameless, incorporeal Yet more substantive than the finest meal She was a stone bridge across the void Soft earth, and air, and stream, and wind alloyed. Upon finishing his song, he watered the glen with bitter man tears. All the iron in his bones ground to dust. Without warning, he heard a familiar rustling. A fair face appeared, and entered the clearing. It was her. "I knew you would sing again, one day," she said. "I waited. I wanted to hear your feelings about me, directly from inside you, unfiltered." He stared at her, speechless. "We are kindred spirts. I always felt that. But when I found you here with her, I knew that I was only a human, and I could never offer you what another centaur can." "I never wanted what she had," he said. "The contents of her mind were repulsive to you. I knew it even when I saw you together, but I took you for a superficial rake, whose greater mind was between his legs, and his lesser mind on his shoulders. Slowly, I realized what a hypocrite I'd been, because I knew that I wanted what she wanted. Yet it was just a fraction of what I saw in you, felt for you. You thought you lost me, but I was always yours, even before I saw you. Your songs drew me toward you. They do so even still." "I am cursed," he said. "I could never fit you, and the world will never approve." "I know, darling," she said, moving toward him. "I am cursed as well. I too, am the laughingstock of my race." "Because you pursued me." "And for other reasons...but I don't care." Without meaning to, they both moved closer together with each word they spoke. "It can never work. I can never fit. I'll never satisfy you." "But you do already. We fit. I fear it. I feel it. We have come to a fork in the road. We must choose a path. Let our streams run together." He put his arms around her. Their kiss filled every space. Their hands moved everywhere, even to the forbidden zones. Soon, her hands entwined his leafless tree trunk. He couldn't will himself to tell her to stop. He leaned in for more. He moved a trembling hand over hers and pulled it up and down to signal her to go faster. His other hand searched for her swollen flower petals. She twisted away, but he gently pulled her back. He was so lost in ecstasy that he thought he felt not one, but two well springs within her, each bubbling over with sweet nectar. "So this is how it feels," he thought, his only thought. She was lost too. Their breathing came in gasps. His heart pounded in his chest. "My name is Darlonomie," she whispered. "Darlonomie, I love you." His eyelids fluttered, his frame shook, and only the whites of his eyes could be seen. His flesh canon exploded in an agonized, convulsive burst, like the lone, wild cry of a timber wolf. His seed scattered, fireflies on the wind, pelting her neck, her breasts, her arms, running down her in tiny rivulets and waterfalls. It sent her reeling backwards. A light shone from underneath him, so bright that Darlonomie dropped to her knees and shielded her eyes. They both watched in awe as his penis detached from his body and grew in size until it was as large as the oak that spawned it. A pair of titanic, sparkling, multi-hued wings appeared from either side as the beast stood erect and held its proud head skyward to the gods. Somewhere far away, atop Mount Mii, a wizened old man held out his hand and beckoned to the empty void. "It is time," he said. "Come home." The mystic penis beat its wings so hard that they stretched and strained. The earth trembled. Ertron patted it reverently. "I understand now. You were never mine. Goodbye, my friend. You are free now. Go in peace." Then, it uttered a shrill cry like the fabled honey hamhawk. It lifted off into the sky, and disappeared over the horizon, the strangest and most horrifying penis ever known. When it was gone, Ertron prepared himself for the reality that he no longer had genitalia. He knew he must become a monk. Darlonomie's mouth was open wide, and she pointed to where his junk had been with a shaking finger. Ertron touched himself and found something alien. It was a human-sized, bifurcated penis. He shook his head sadly. He at least had something but he was even more a freak than ever before. Darlonomie sobbed and covered her face. "You see," he said. "I can never fulfill you. I will always be estranged from the world of normal genetalia. Goodbye, my love. Your name will always be dear to me." "Wait!" She stood up and took a step forward, beaming. Her tears were tears of joy. She lifted the folds of her skirt. "It's true," he thought. "I felt it." What she revealed when she spread her creamy thighs was not two flower petals, but two sets of flower petals. Twins! "Oh, my darling Darlonomie," he sighed, lifting her up in a tight embrace. "Yes, my love, I know, I know. WE FIT."