LeoMuscleHarem

The stillness of the room is suffocating. For a split second, the panic is sharp and primitive...the sudden, violent lack of air forcing you awake, your chest heaving against a vacuum. The CPAP mask strapped to your face is dead weight, a plastic chokehold now that the power is gone. Then the thunder rolls outside, a sound that shakes the windowpanes, and the reality of the blackout sinks in along with the cold sweat forming on your forehead.

But the air in the room isn't just heavy from the storm.

There’s a shift in the dark. A massive, undeniable displacement of space right at the foot of your bed. Even without your eyes adjusting, you can feel the sheer mass of him—a dense, towering gravity that makes the rest of the bedroom feel incredibly small.

"Good, you're ok. I knew once the power went out I would need to check on you."

The voice cuts through the dark, low and entirely devoid of sympathy. It’s the tone of an owner assessing an asset.

"It's so funny. You've grown so much, and yet you've never been weaker."

A beat of heavy silence passes, underscored by the distant, rhythmic drumming of the rain. You try to shift, your own massive bulk feeling suddenly sluggish and trapped without the machine's assistance.

"You're such a prisoner to your body," the voice continues, dripping with a cold, clinical satisfaction. "With each passing month, so much functionality lost just to continue growing. And look at you... rock hard as I speak the truth to you, as always."

Your eyes dart down. In the absolute black, you hadn't even registered the sudden, heavy throb between your thighs until he called it out. A flush of heat hits your face, your pulse hammering in your throat. He shouldn't be able to see anything in this pitch.

"It puts off its own heat. That's how."

The casual accuracy of it freezes you. He reads the room—and your mind—without trying. There’s the faint, crisp rustle of heavy fabric as he shifts his weight, the sheer presence of him looming over the bed like a physical weight pressuring your chest.

A sharp click breaks the silence. The tiny, pale green luminescence of a watch face illuminates the massive, blocky silhouette of his wrist, casting a dim, eerie glow upward against the sharp angles of his jaw.

"I'm going to turn on the backup generator. Get some rest." He drops his arm, swallowing the room back into total darkness. "It's half past three, and your first workout is in two hours."

The heavy, deliberate footsteps begin to move toward the door, each one vibrating through the floorboards.

"You won't be excused."

Hey there! Okay, that's fair.😂

In my defense, I swear I love them! But I also love making them suffer. The bigger they get, and the more they struggle, the happier my writer brain becomes. That's why a lot of what I write focuses on the men literally struggling with regular life. Sometimes, I don't go that big into developing plots because what I love the most is imagining a man, literally on the verge of bursting, groaning, sweating, almost immobilized by his belly, tits, and ass. Man, that gets me going!

Nihat Kaya

uh oh, looks like crow's shirt is getting a little tight!

Never skip leg day

In the soft lantern glow of Kyoto’s Pontochō district, Hiroshi Tanaka moved like a whisper through his small kaiseki restaurant. At 26, the delicate Japanese chef embodied wabi-sabi: elegant, minimalist, with sharp cheekbones, raven hair falling in a neat curtain over one eye, and a quiet grace that made every plate feel like poetry. His bisexual heart had known fleeting connections, but nothing prepared him for the mountain of a man who walked in one rainy spring evening.

Jack Callahan was 42, a hairy, muscular American bear with a thick salt-and-pepper beard, broad chest straining against a worn leather jacket, and a deep, rumbling laugh that filled the intimate eight-seat counter. In Kyoto for a cultural exchange program pairing American artisans with local chefs, the leather-daddy aesthetic bear had expected green tea and polite conversation. He hadn’t expected to fall hard for the quiet chef who served him a course of delicate sashimi that somehow tasted like home.

Their first real conversation happened after closing. Jack, direct as always, leaned on the counter. “That meal… damn, kid. You put your soul in it. I’ve never tasted anything that felt so personal.” Hiroshi blushed, eyes downcast in classic Japanese restraint, murmuring, “Food is how I speak when words feel… too loud.”

The hookup was inevitable. One late night after a program dinner, sake loosened inhibitions. Jack’s straightforward passion met Hiroshi’s gentle intensity in a tangle of contrasts—strong hands and soft skin, American bluntness melting into tender whispers. “I want you,” Jack had said plainly. Hiroshi answered not with words but with touch, letting actions bridge their worlds.

Weeks turned into stolen mornings and hidden evenings. Jack helped in the kitchen, his big paws fumbling with precise knife work while Hiroshi taught him the patience of dashi broth.

Food became their love language: Jack learned to slow-roast American-style brisket infused with yuzu and miso, while Hiroshi experimented with maple-glazed mochi that carried the warmth of Jack’s Vermont roots. “You feed my heart,” Jack would rumble, pulling Hiroshi close. Hiroshi would reply softly, “And you feed my courage.”

Then came the unexpected.

Hiroshi’s cycle had always been irregular, but the persistent nausea and sudden tenderness couldn’t be ignored. A discreet clinic visit confirmed it: he was pregnant. The news hit like summer rain—shocking, overwhelming, yet strangely right. In a culture where such things were whispered about in private, Hiroshi’s first instinct was quiet panic. How could a delicate chef carry the child of a wandering bear?

Jack’s reaction was pure American directness. He dropped to one knee right there in Hiroshi’s tiny apartment, eyes shining. “We’re doing this. Together. I’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. This little one’s gonna have the best damn dads in two countries.”

The pregnancy transformed them. Hiroshi’s petite frame blossomed with a round, prominent belly that strained his simple aprons. Jack became fiercely protective, massaging aching feet after long kitchen shifts and learning to prepare gentle, nourishing meals—soft rice porridge with pickled plums, hearty bone broths, and American comfort foods lightened with Japanese subtlety.

Their contrasts shone brightest here: Jack’s booming encouragement (“You’re glowing, baby—strongest damn chef I know!”) balanced Hiroshi’s restrained beauty, his elegant fingers tracing the curve of his belly while murmuring haiku-like blessings for the life inside.

Found family bloomed around them. The cultural exchange group—fellow chefs, potters, and tea masters—became aunties and uncles. Jack’s Vermont family sent care packages of maple syrup and flannel baby blankets. Hiroshi’s reserved parents, initially stunned, slowly warmed through shared meals. His mother taught Jack proper bento techniques; his father bonded with the big American over quiet sake and stories of craftsmanship.

Evenings in the restaurant after hours became sacred. Jack would sit at the counter, watching Hiroshi—now moving with careful grace despite the heavy belly—craft dishes that told their story: a fusion of bold American flavors and delicate Kyoto elegance. A seared steak with fermented black bean sauce. Hand-rolled sushi topped with Vermont cheddar crisps. Dessert courses featuring matcha tiramisu that made Jack tear up.

As the due date approached, labor began during cherry blossom season. In their cozy apartment overlooking a small garden, Jack was a rock—rubbing Hiroshi’s back through contractions, speaking softly when restraint gave way to raw need. “Breathe with me, love. I’ve got you.” Hiroshi gripped his hand, finding strength in the bear’s steadiness.

Their daughter arrived healthy and loud, a perfect blend—dark hair like Hiroshi’s, sturdy build hinting at Jack’s. They named her Sakura Callahan-Tanaka, a bridge between worlds.

In the months that followed, the little family settled into a beautiful rhythm. Jack extended his stay indefinitely, opening a small fusion pop-up with Hiroshi. Food remained their love language: Saturday family feasts where Sakura gurgled happily in a sling against Jack’s broad, hairy chest while Hiroshi perfected new recipes. The contrasts that once seemed vast now felt like harmony—American directness teaching bold expression, Japanese restraint offering graceful depth.

In the quiet moments, Jack would wrap his arms around his delicate chef and their growing family, whispering, “Best cultural exchange I ever had.” Hiroshi, smiling with soft wabi-sabi contentment, would reply, “The most beautiful imperfection.”

I’m so turned on right now! The hardest part of being pregnant isn't the weight; it’s the hormones that keep me horny all the time. Imagine walking and feeling my belly bump against my cock, not to mention my tight glutes moving up and down... I’m taking off my boxers in the hope that someone helps me release all this pent-up love. What I love most is doing little jumps and watching how my belly bounces, seeing my chest hit my stomach, and feeling my swollen glutes.