Paul shouldn't cook.  He just... well—he just shouldn't.  It's not that he doesn't have the makings of a great chef and it's not that he's not co-ordinated enough to handle it.  I mean, the man's an artist and when he lays paint to a canvas he has a minimum of three brushes—and sometimes more—going simultaneously.  But it's one thing to paint a picture of a couple of boytaurs rassling in a forest clearing under a moonlit sky and quite another to hold a cookbook, peel a zucchini and keep your cream sauce from separating at the same time.  The last time he tried it he got into such a muddle that I had to tell him "Paul, honey, do it like the Normoids do—pretend you have a boring two-armed body and can only do one thing at a time."

"But, what do I do with all my other hands?" he asked.

"Well," I said, nestling up to his backside, "you can always reach behind you and braid my dicks."  Needless to say that was a fiasco.  Before you could say "Alfredo Sauce" my cocks were hard, all of his were hard and we went to bed without dinner that night.  So, about a week ago when I said, "Our anniversary is coming up, how do you want to celebrate?" you can imagine my trepidation when he replied, "I want to make us a special meal."

"Can't we just go out to Spider Joe's for soft-shell crab?" I asked.  Believe me, there is nothing like a soft-shell crab laying on a bed of rice with all those succulent legs sticking up in the air—especially when the owner of the restaurant is an eight-armed, four-legged wonder who is a retired Naval cook!   But Paul was insistent—he wanted to prepare a special dinner.  So I asked him "What do you want to make?"

"I don't know," he said.  "What do you think would be the easiest?"

"Spider Joe's for soft-shell crab."

"Seriously.  I want to do this."  So we came up with all kinds of ideas, most of which promised doom.

Finally I said "Look, why not just make a lasagne.  Get a system going—two hands for sauce, two hands for cheese and two hands for noodles.  That way everyone's busy and you don't have to worry about burning anything."  He loved the idea—on the condition that I stay out of the kitchen and just let him do it.  I said okay and our anniversary dinner was a done deal.

That afternoon he came home from the store carrying in 8 bags of groceries.  I offered to help put away but he said he had secret ingredients and didn't want me to see.  "Now, out!  Out!" he said and putting two hands on my butt he pushed while the other four hands started through the bags.

"All right," I said. "I'm going!  I'm going!"  I went into the bathroom to shower and shave.  Now usually I can shower and shave at the same time but this being our anniversary I wanted to get rid of some extra stubble and I have to be very careful shaving between my dicks.  I tend to do it with only one razor instead of two or three because—well, you understand how sensitive that area is and a cut there can be awkward.  At any rate, I was in the bathroom for quite awhile and when I came out the most incredible smells were issuing from the kitchen.

I mean incredible smells!

I couldn't believe it.  Paul was doing this???  Paul—who can't get that you probably shouldn't use more than two hands to knead bread dough or it ends up looking like a taffy pull?  Paul—who tries to peel three onions at once so that his eyes are full of tears for at least an hour?  Paul—who can't chop vegetables without cutting at least 14 fingers?  Finally I could be proud of having a lover who could manage in the kitchen.  "Can I come in?" I called from around the corner.

"Yes," he said, "You're just in time.  It's ready to come out of the oven."  As I came in he had a pot holder in each of his two middle hands while his top hands opened the oven.  (It was cute to note that his remaining free hands had all his fingers crossed!)  He very—v e r y—gingerly pulled the lasagne out of the oven—all bubbly and smelling way too good!

That's when it happened.

All at once he felt like Rocky.  "I did it!" he shouted and began to sing "Gonna Fly Now!" He doubled his four available fists and suddenly raised them, victoriously, over his head—hitting the lasagne pan on the way up, knocking it out of his hands and onto the floor.  Luckily, no one got hurt.  But his shouts of victory turned into screams of woe!  "Oh, my god! Oh, my god!"  All six hands completely covered his face and head.  Well, I couldn't help myself. I started laughing.  I clutched my gut, slapped my thighs and threw my other hands in the air while I convulsed into gales of laughter.

"What is so fucking funny?"  He asked, all six of his hands dropping from his head.

"You," I said. And between the roars of laughter I managed to get out, "I love you so much."

"Well, if you love me so much help me clean this mess up!"  I reached for the roll of paper towels, tore off six for him and six for me and got down onto the floor to help him wipe up the still hot lasagne.  It didn't take long for him to see the humor in it; we both chuckled and giggled as twelve hands mopped up the floor.

And when we were finished...

Our eyes met.  And we got very quiet.

Have you ever looked at your partner of several years as if you were seeing him for the first time?  I felt a stirring in my dicks and noted the growing bulge behind his fly.   I pulled him toward me and we wrapped our arms around our bodies and made love on the kitchen floor.  Never had my dicks been so aroused or so granite-hard.  Paul's too—they were so solid and so big.  I pulled him up onto his hands and knees and milked him like a cow.  Three hands—one for each dick—squeezing, massaging, coaxing out his spew, my remaining hands cupped underneath to catch every drop of his lickable cream!  It wasn't long. One by one they squirted—oozed—filled my hands with about a half a cup of his spunk.  I smeared it onto my dicks and lapped up the rest from my hands.

Then Paul took his turn.  He masturbated all three while he pulled my face toward his and kissed me deeply.  My cocks lubed with his sperm made them slick and they gave off a delicious sound as his hands massaged them.  Suddenly I drew in my breath and he felt it getting ready to happen.

"Which one?" he asked.  I touched the cock that was preparing to blow.  In one gulp he swalllowed it to the root and I gushed a river down his throat.  I moaned again.  This time he could sense it as my next cock became stiffer.  It, too, disappeared into his mouth and he drank.  But the third one he continued to massage until the cum spurted out and up into a streaming arch.  He wrapped his six arms around me, and I all six of mine around him and we collapsed into an exhausted heap.