MPREG STROIES

Good Boy flipped on his stream, his 9-month pregnant belly massively swollen and hanging heavy. He was naked from the waist up, sweatpants pulled low under the huge, taut gut.

“Watch me rub the belly you all paid to breed,” he moaned to the camera. He poured oil over the shiny, stretched skin and rubbed hard—both hands groping, squeezing, and stroking the massive dome. His fingers dug into the sensitive underside, lifting the heavy weight and letting it slap down as he leaked pre-cum in his pants. Chat exploded with tips while he jerked his hips, moaning louder each time he slapped and rubbed his bloated, cum-filled belly.

He waddled through the park with his belly fully exposed under a tiny crop top. Strangers stared as he stopped, arched his back, and rubbed slow, filthy circles over the taut skin, teasing his navel and groping the heavy lower curve. One guy watched openly while Good Boy smirked and gave his belly a possessive squeeze.

Downtown at dusk, belly completely bare. He paused at a busy corner, legs spread, and openly masturbated his pregnant gut—hands sliding up and down, fingers pressing deep as he moaned softly. A small crowd stared while he rocked his hips, loving every filthy glance on his bred body.

The client—some wealthy regular who paid $15,000 for the exclusive session—sat on the other end of the video call. Good Boy had the camera set up in his bedroom again, but this time it was intimate. He was completely naked, oil glistening on his enormous belly.

“Ready for me?” he purred, stepping close to the lens.

He poured more oil over the top of his belly and let it drip down the curve. Then he started rubbing—slow, thorough, erotic strokes that made the shiny skin shine even brighter under the lights. He lifted the heavy belly with both arms, showing how low and full it hung, before letting it drop and moaning at the sensation. His hands worked every inch: circling the navel, stroking the underside, pressing in to feel the movement inside.

The client typed rapidly: Fuck, you’re so huge. Rub it for me. Show me what I paid for.

Good Boy obeyed with a needy whimper, getting on all fours on the bed so his massive belly hung down heavily between his arms. He reached underneath and rubbed it from below, rocking gently while moaning louder. “This is all yours… you put it here. Look how big you made your good boy…”

He kept rubbing, faster now, lost in the sensation and the client’s generous tips pinging through, until both of them were breathing hard and the session stretched deep into the night.

Jamie was a shameless twink slut, the kind who lived for cock and cum. He showed up to the Sigma Nu frat party dressed like pure trouble: tiny shorts riding up his smooth ass and a crop top that read “Free Use.” Within an hour he was on his knees in the basement, choking down frat dick while the rest of the guys formed a circle around him, stroking.

By midnight he was bent over the pool table, shorts yanked down, getting bred one after another. No condoms. No pulling out. They fucked him raw and pumped load after thick load deep into his guts while he moaned like a bitch in heat.

“Fill me up, breed your little cumdump,” he begged between thrusts. Eight different guys took their turn that night, flooding his hole until cum was running down his thighs.

The next morning Jamie woke up alone in a stranger’s bed, belly slightly swollen and sloshing with all the leftover seed. He stood in front of the mirror, lifted his shirt, and snapped a picture of the subtle bulge. Then he sent it to the group chat full of the guys who had used him.

Jamie: Good morning, daddies 😈

One of you knocked me up last night. Look what you did to my belly. I’m carrying a frat baby now.

The chat blew up. Laughs, shocked emojis, and fresh dick pics flooded in. Jamie just smirked and rubbed his cum-filled tummy.

Over the next nine months he turned his fake pregnancy into the ultimate slut performance.

Week 8: First “bump” pic, belly already pushing out a little. Caption: “It’s growing so fast… which one of you has the potent load?”

Month 3: Shirt pulled up in the mirror, hand cradling the clear round swell while wearing only a jockstrap. Posted to his new dedicated account: “Frat boys really knocked this twink up. Getting bigger every day.”

Month 5: Daily content. Oiled-up belly rubs, side profiles showing the growing dome, riding a dildo while his bump bounced. The original guys kept commenting, some offering to come over and “feel the baby.”

Month 7: His belly was huge now, heavy and low on his slim frame. He wore tight tanks in public, loving the stares. In one video he jiggled the swollen globe for the camera: “Still can’t believe you guys turned me into this pregnant cumwhore. Who’s the real daddy?”

Month 9: Fully overdue and glowing. His belly was massive, stretched tight and shiny, navel popped. He went live from the frat house, completely naked except for “Property of Sigma Nu” written across the enormous curve in black marker. Several of the guys who had bred him were there watching, cocks out.

Jamie rubbed slow, loving circles over the taut skin, moaning into the camera.

“Look what you did to me… One of you pumped a baby into this slutty hole and I loved every drop. I’m so full and heavy for you.” He arched his back, letting the massive belly hang and sway. “Ready to push it out… so you can all breed me pregnant again.”

The dining room glowed with warm lamplight as Leo leaned back in his chair with a deep, satisfied groan. His olive-green t-shirt had ridden up over the massive, round swell of his pregnant belly, the fabric stretched tight across the enormous curve. At eight months, Leo was carrying big — really big — and tonight’s feast had pushed him to his absolute limit.

“Fuck… I’m so full,” he murmured, eyes half-closed in bliss. Both of his strong hands rested on the taut, heavy dome of his belly, slowly rubbing wide circles over the stretched skin.

Alex, his husband of three years, sat beside him with a soft, adoring smile. The handsome man in the blue shirt had spent the last hour lovingly feeding Leo plate after plate of homemade Italian food — rich spaghetti with meatballs, creamy risotto, garlic bread, and all the sides Leo had been craving for weeks.

“You look so damn happy like this,” Alex said, chuckling as he twirled another forkful of pasta and brought it to Leo’s lips. “One more bite, baby. You’ve earned it.”

Leo laughed, the sound deep and warm, before opening his mouth and accepting the bite. Sauce dotted his lips as he chewed, and Alex gently wiped it away with his thumb. As Leo swallowed, his belly visibly tightened and rounded out even more. A soft kick fluttered under his palm.

“Feel that?” Leo whispered, taking Alex’s hand and pressing it firmly against the side of his massive gut. “Our little one is loving this as much as I am.”

Alex’s eyes sparkled with affection. He rubbed slow, soothing strokes across the warm, tight skin, feeling every shift and movement inside. “You’re glowing, you know that?” he said softly. “I love seeing you like this. So full, so round, so perfectly pregnant.”

Leo let his head fall back with a contented sigh, one hand still lazily caressing the underside of his belly while Alex continued to rub the top. The table was a glorious mess of empty plates and bowls — evidence of how thoroughly Leo had been fed. His belly sat heavy and round on his lap, the skin shiny and stretched, the outline of his navel clearly visible through the thin shirt.

“I swear I’m going to pop,” Leo groaned happily, though there was no real complaint in his voice. “But it feels so good… especially when you feed me like that.”

Alex leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to the side of Leo’s neck, then lower, brushing his lips against the taut curve of his pregnant belly. “Good,” he murmured against the warm skin. “Because I love taking care of you. Both of you.”

Leo’s hand found Alex’s hair, fingers threading through it gently as another contented moan escaped him. The two of them stayed like that for a long while — laughing softly, trading sweet kisses, and rubbing Leo’s enormous, food-stuffed belly together while the baby moved lazily inside.

In that moment, surrounded by the remnants of their feast, Leo had never felt more loved, more full, or more beautiful.

Victor “The Titan” Kane was a legend. At 42 years old, 6’5” and 385 pounds of dense, battle-hardened muscle, he had won every major title twice over. His pecs were thicker than most men’s backs, his arms measured 28 inches cold, and his quads could crush watermelons. But Victor had grown bored with the limits of natural—or even enhanced—bodybuilding. He wanted to break the human frame itself.

After watching Alex and Tyler transform into obscene, pregnant muscle gods through HyperBreed, Victor finally gave in to the craving that had been gnawing at him for months. He bought the vial from Coach Harlan, locked himself in the private training room, and slammed 3cc straight into his glute. The burn was instant, glorious. He hit the iron harder than ever that night, feeling his body swell with fresh mass even as he trained.

Two weeks later, the real test came.

It was a quiet Thursday evening at the gym. Victor was finishing a brutal shoulder session when he noticed him: an adorable twink named Leo. 5’6”, slim, smooth, with bright blue eyes, messy blond hair, and a shy smile that made something stir deep in Victor’s chest. Leo was new, struggling with light dumbbells, and clearly starstruck by the massive veteran. When their eyes met in the mirror, Leo blushed crimson.

Victor couldn’t resist. After his workout he approached, voice low and rumbling. “Need a spot, kid?”

One thing led to another. They ended up at Victor’s sprawling loft overlooking the city. The moment the door closed, the tension snapped. Victor lifted Leo effortlessly, pinning the smaller man against the wall as their mouths crashed together. Leo’s hands roamed over Victor’s granite-hard chest, fingers tracing the deep striations and thick veins.

“Fuck… you’re huge,” Leo whispered, voice trembling with awe.

Victor growled, stripping them both in seconds. He carried Leo to the king-sized bed and laid him down like something precious. What followed was pure, steamy ecstasy.

Victor started slow, worshipping Leo’s lithe body with his mouth—kissing down the smooth chest, sucking on sensitive nipples until Leo was whimpering. Then he flipped the twink onto his stomach, spreading those pert cheeks and burying his face between them, tongue working deep while Leo moaned into the pillow. When Victor finally pushed inside—thick, throbbing, and relentless—Leo cried out in pleasure. Victor fucked him with controlled power at first, then harder, deeper, his massive frame looming over the smaller man like a god claiming his prize.

Every thrust made something shift inside Victor’s core. That familiar molten heat from the HyperBreed spread outward, his body opening, welcoming, rewriting itself. He felt his belly flutter, his nipples tingle, and a deep, fertile hunger bloom. When he finally came—roaring loud enough to shake the windows—he flooded Leo with pulse after pulse, holding the twink tight against his chest as they both trembled through the aftershocks.

They fucked three more times that night: Leo riding Victor reverse-cowgirl, small hands braced on the swelling curve that was already starting to push out Victor’s abs; Victor taking him from behind again while spooning, one huge arm wrapped around Leo’s waist and the other cradling his own changing belly; and finally, slow and intimate in the shower, water cascading over Victor’s mountainous back as Leo kissed every new inch of growth.

By morning, Victor’s once-chiseled eight-pack had softened into a firm, rounded pooch. A pregnancy test confirmed what he already knew: positive. He looked down at his still-massive 400-pound frame, the slight swell of his lower belly, and grinned with raw, animal hunger.

“Now the fun really begins.”

The cravings hit like a freight train.

Victor had always been disciplined with his diet—precise macros, timed meals. HyperBreed shattered that. Suddenly he was ravenous 24/7. He’d wake up at 3 a.m. and raid the fridge, devouring entire rotisserie chickens, family-sized bags of chips, gallons of milk, and boxes of cereal in one sitting. At the gym he no longer trained fasted. He brought coolers packed with food and ate between every set: shoving protein bars into his mouth mid-deadlift, chugging weight-gainer shakes while resting on the bench, even eating whole pizzas slice by slice during leg day while his pregnant belly rested on his quads.

He loved it. The constant stuffing made him feel even more massive, more fertile, more alive. His belly swelled faster because of it—rounding out into a heavy, taut dome that forced his shorts lower and made his cock look even thicker resting against the underside. By month three he was 465 pounds, muscles still exploding with size while the pregnancy pushed his gut outward in an obscene, powerful sphere. His nipples had darkened and begun leaking rich, sweet milk that he’d catch on his fingers and lick off with a moan.

Leo became his constant companion and feeder. The adorable twink would bring trays of food to the gym—burgers, pasta, cakes—and watch in wide-eyed arousal as Victor devoured everything, belly growing visibly rounder with each meal. At night Leo would rub oil into the massive swell, kiss the stretch marks that only made Victor look more powerful, and then ride him slowly while Victor kept eating, crumbs falling onto his chest and pregnant gut.

Month six: 530 pounds. Victor’s back was a ridiculous landscape of traps and lats, shoulders so wide he had to angle through doors. His arms peaked at 30 inches, quads bigger than Leo’s waist. The belly was monstrous now—low, heavy, perfectly round, and always stuffed full. He trained heavier than ever: 1,000-pound deadlifts with the baby kicking against the bar, squats where his gut brushed the floor. He’d grunt through reps while shoving donuts into his mouth, milk leaking from his pecs, sweat and food mixing on his skin.

Month nine: Victor tipped the scales at 610 pounds of pure, obscene muscle and pregnancy. His body was a hyper-masculine fertility god—veins everywhere, skin stretched tight over boulders of muscle and that enormous, drum-tight belly. He ate constantly, even during labor prep. On the night he went into labor he was in the middle of a marathon feeding session: sitting on the reinforced bench at home, shirtless, belly resting on his thighs, devouring a second family-sized lasagna while Leo fed him bites of cheesecake between contractions.

Victor pushed out a healthy baby boy with a deep, satisfied roar, muscles barely softening, body already gearing up for more.

Six weeks later he was back in the gym at 645 pounds, already pregnant again, belly rounding out beautifully. Leo sat on the bench beside him, eyes sparkling with adoration, handing him a massive protein shake and a tray of pastries.

Victor flexed one monstrous arm, rubbed his swelling gut with the other, and grinned down at his adorable twink.

“More food, baby. Daddy’s still growing.”

He slammed another vial of HyperBreed into his glute, groaned in bliss as the fire spread, and loaded the bar for another set—stuffing his face between reps, loving every single pound of the monstrous, unstoppable size that kept coming.

The night didn’t begin with urgency.

It unfolded—slow, deliberate—as if both of them understood that rushing it would somehow make it end sooner.

Tyler lingered close, orbiting Jake in small, quiet ways. A hand brushing his arm when he passed. Fingers catching the fabric of his shirt, not quite pulling him back, but asking. Always asking.

Jake answered every time.

There was something unspoken in the way they moved together—less like desire, more like recognition. Like memorising. Every glance held a fraction longer. Every touch pressed just a little deeper, as if trying to leave an imprint beneath the skin.

“Stay,” Tyler murmured at one point, though neither of them needed to hear it. The word lived already in the space between them.

Jake didn’t reply. He just drew him closer.

—————————————————————

Week three of the trip

Tyler: Babe… I took three tests this morning. All positive. That last night before you left… the way you fucked me so deep and raw… it happened. Look at this tiny bump already starting 🥺 Miss you like crazy.

Jake: Holy shit Tyler… you’re pregnant? With our kid? That night was insane, you were so tight and begging for it. You look so fucking cute already. I’m counting the days till I’m home. Send more pics, I need to see every change. Love you so much.

Tyler: I will… every day if you want. Come home soon, daddy.

Week five of the trip

Tyler: It’s growing so fast already… I can feel it when I move. Rubbed lotion on it thinking about your hands instead. Still can’t believe that one night knocked me up like this 😩

Jake: Fuck, look at that bump on you. My twink with a belly… hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I keep replaying how I came so deep inside you that last night. You okay? Any morning sickness?

Tyler: A little, but it’s worth it. Wish you were here to feel it.

Week seven of the trip

Tyler: Babe it’s popping so much this week. Clothes are already getting tight. I stood in front of the mirror for like twenty minutes just staring… it’s all because of how hard you fucked me before you left.

Jake: Jesus Christ Tyler, it’s actually getting big. That little belly is killing me. I’m so turned on and so far away. You still feeling okay with how fast it’s growing?

Tyler: Yeah… it’s weirdly hot. Makes me horny thinking about you seeing it in person.

Week nine of the trip

Tyler: Two months down… and look at me. I had to buy new pants already. It’s getting heavy when I walk. That passionate night really did a number on me huh?

Jake: Tyler… that belly is no joke now. You look so pregnant and it’s only been two months. I’m equal parts worried and so fucking hard. You sure everything’s okay?

Tyler: Doctor says it’s healthy but growing faster than normal. I like it though… makes me feel full of you.

Week eleven of the trip

Tyler: It’s so big now I have to hold it when I walk. People are staring in public… I just tell them it’s from one insane night with my man. Miss your cock so bad.

Jake: Tyler… holy fuck. That belly is HUGE. I’m actually a little worried it’s growing too fast but damn you look incredible. Only two more weeks and I’m on a plane.

Tyler: Good. Because I don’t know how much bigger I can get before you’re back 😭

Week twelve of the trip

Tyler: Three months exactly… and look at what you did to me that last night. I can’t even wear normal shirts anymore. It’s so big it’s actually kind of scary… but I love feeling our baby move.

Jake: Baby… that belly is insane. You look like you’re overdue with how huge it is. I’m packing my bag right now. I can’t believe how much you’ve grown. You okay? Really?

Tyler: I’m okay… just really full and heavy. Need my man home to rub it and fuck me gently.

The final week of the trip

Tyler: It won’t stop growing even though you’re almost home… I had to sleep sitting up last night. Still can’t believe one night of you pounding me raw turned me into this.

Jake: Tyler I’m on the plane tomorrow. That belly is fucking enormous… I’m in awe. You’re the sexiest pregnant twink on the planet. Hang in there baby.

Tyler: I will… but hurry. I need you to see it in person and tell me it’s gonna be okay.

The night before Jake’s return

Tyler: Last pic before you’re home… it’s alarmingly big now, isn’t it? I can barely move. But every inch of it is because of how passionately you fucked me that final night. I can’t wait for you to come home and feel your son kicking against your hands… and then fuck me again.

Jake: Tyler… I’m landing in the morning. That belly is the most beautiful and insane thing I’ve ever seen. I love you so much. Get ready… I’m coming home to worship every inch of my pregnant twink. See you so soon, daddy’s on his way. ❤️

—————————————————————

They come back together not with urgency, but with a quiet gravity—as if the space between them has been carrying weight for months. Tyler folds into Jake’s arms like he remembers the shape instinctively, his body softer now, fuller, changed in ways neither of them can quite name out loud. Jake holds him tighter than before, one hand resting low, almost reverent, as if trying to understand what time has done in his absence. There’s heat beneath the stillness, a slow-burning recognition that this is not the same moment they left behind—it’s deeper, heavier, threaded with something unspoken. Tyler tilts his face up, searching Jake’s eyes, and in that closeness there’s a quiet kind of hunger—not rushed, not frantic, but lingering, as if they are learning each other all over again, piece by piece, breath by breath.

After that night, Alex knew he was fucked—in the best possible way. The sex had been feral: hours of raw, sweat-drenched pounding where his partner had filled him deep and often, both of them lost in the kind of orgasm that left him shaking and leaking. Two weeks later the test confirmed it. Quadruplets. Four. His body, still recovering from the triplets, was about to be pushed to limits he’d only fantasized about.

It hit harder and faster this time. By week six his stomach was already rounding out, the four embryos claiming space with aggressive hunger. His once-carved abs softened and pushed forward into a firm, tight dome that made his tanks ride up. Hormones slammed him like a freight train—his cock stayed half-hard constantly, nipples turned hypersensitive and puffy, and his ass felt plush and needy.

Cravings struck at 3 a.m. Alex would stagger to the kitchen, shirtless, his thickening belly already brushing the fridge door. He’d stand there in nothing but boxers, stuffing his face: cold pizza, peanut butter straight from the jar, entire cartons of ice cream shoveled in while his free hand rubbed slow circles over the growing swell. Each bite made him moan softly. The fullness in his gut mirrored the growing ache in his balls. He’d get so worked up he’d fuck himself on the kitchen counter right there, belly pressed against the cool granite, jerking his throbbing cock until he painted the cabinets. “Fuck… already so full and it’s only the beginning,” he’d growl, cum still dripping as he reached for more food.

His belly surged. What used to be rock-solid muscle was now a heavy, rounded paunch that forced his pants low under the shelf of his gut. By month four it was unmistakably massive—quads meant faster, bigger growth. His obliques vanished under smooth, stretched skin. Pec muscles swelled into full, milky tits that leaked when he flexed too hard.

Gym sessions became obscene rituals. Every squat made the heavy belly rest on his thickening thighs, the weight of four babies pressing down on his prostate and turning pain into white-hot pleasure. He’d waddle between sets, shirt lifted, openly admiring how his once-chiseled midsection had become this greedy, protruding orb. Cravings turned him into an animal: midnight fridge raids where he’d stand barefoot, belly hanging out, devouring leftovers and takeout with both hands while his cock strained and leaked against the cold metal door. The act of stuffing himself made him desperately horny. More than once he came untouched just from the pressure of an overstuffed stomach combined with the kicks starting inside.

Now the real distortion began. His belly exploded outward and downward, a vast, heavy dome that measured over 55 inches around and hung low enough to rest on his cock when he sat. Stretch marks raced across the taut skin like battle scars. His navel popped early and thick. Shoulders and arms stayed impressively muscular, but everything was framed by this obscene gut that swayed and sloshed with every step. His ass had ballooned—thick, juicy cheeks that jiggled when he walked.

He lived in a constant state of arousal. Morning workouts left him drenched and leaking milk from his swollen pecs. Evenings were dedicated to bingeing: standing at the open fridge in the dark, belly pressed against the shelves, cramming in calories while moaning. The more he ate, the hornier he got. He’d rub the underside of his massive gut, feeling the four strong babies tumble and kick, then drop to his knees right there on the kitchen floor to stroke his thick, pregnant cock until he roared through shattering orgasms. Sex was nonstop. His partner couldn’t keep up with how badly Alex needed to be fucked and filled while his belly rested between them like a living monument.

At eight months Alex was a walking fertility freak show. The quadruplet belly was monstrous—nearly 70 inches of tight, veined, overstretched skin, hanging so low it forced his legs permanently apart. It dwarfed every other muscle. His powerful chest and arms looked almost small next to the sheer scale of his gut. Deep cravings hit like cravings for air; he’d wake up ravenous, waddle straight to the fridge, and gorge until his already enormous belly was drum-tight and shiny. The pressure felt orgasmic.

Training was slower but intensely erotic. Every rep made the massive gut bounce and sway, grinding against his cock. He’d finish sessions by oiling the entire surface in the mirror, worshipping the way it moved, then jerking off while cradling its weight. “Look what you did to me,” he’d whisper to his reflection, voice thick with lust. “Turned my abs into this… this fucking huge breeding gut.” He leaked milk and pre-cum constantly. The kicks were so strong they visibly distorted the surface, often pushing him over the edge into hands-free climaxes.

He stepped on stage anyway. Nine months pregnant with quadruplets, belly so enormous it entered the room before he did. Custom posing trunks disappeared under the overhang of his gut. His muscles—still impressive, still shredded where they could be seen—were completely overpowered by the colossal, stretched sphere dominating his frame. It hung heavily, skin glossy under the lights, constantly shifting with four active lives inside.

He hit every pose with raw power and raw sexuality: most muscular making the belly jut even further, side chest with his milky pecs resting on the upper curve, rear lat spread showing his thick ass and the impossible hang of his pregnant gut between his legs. The crowd lost their minds. Backstage he barely made it to a private area before the pressure and arousal combined into the most intense orgasm of his life, belly pressed against the wall, moaning loud enough for security to check on him.

The quadruplets arrived healthy a week later. Alex was already planning the next one before he even left the hospital—bigger, heavier, more extreme.

The gym lights hummed overhead as Alex gripped the barbell, veins popping along his thick forearms and boulder-like shoulders. At 32, he was a beast—six-foot-two, 260 pounds of shredded muscle, carved abs, and quads that could crush steel. Nine months out from the biggest competition of his career, he was in peak form, pushing heavier than ever. Then the nausea hit. The tests came back positive. Triplets. His body, engineered for perfection, was now a vessel for three growing lives.

He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. The pregnancy made him ravenous in every way.

At first, it was subtle. His abs, once a rigid eight-pack, softened just enough to cradle the tiny swells. Hormones flooded him—testosterone still high from his cycle, now mixed with waves of progesterone that made his skin glow and his cock twitch at the slightest touch. Every workout left him drenched in sweat and aching with need. He’d grind out sets of deadlifts, feeling the first flutters low in his gut, and by the time he hit the locker room, he was rock-hard. Pregnancy turned him into a furnace. He’d stroke himself furiously in the shower, one hand on his still-flat stomach, imagining the life inside making him fuller, heavier, sexier.

“Fuck… it’s already changing me,” he’d groan, coming so hard his legs shook. His diet shifted—more calories, more protein—but the hunger was deeper. He craved the stretch, the fullness. Nights were spent rubbing lotion into his skin, teasing his sensitive nipples that had begun to darken and pebble at the lightest brush.

By the end of the first trimester, his belly had popped. A firm, round dome pushed out from between his obliques, stretching his tank tops tight. His pecs swelled too, heavy with early milk production, nipples constantly erect and begging. The gym rats stared as he waddled—there was no other word—through his routines. Squats made his massive thighs flex while his pregnant gut rested on them, the weight of the triplets pressing down and making his cock strain against his shorts. Every rep sent jolts of pleasure through him. The hormones had him leaking pre-cum during lifts, horny as hell from the constant pressure inside.

He’d pose in the mirror after sessions, shirt pulled up, hands worshipping the curve. “Look at you… so fucking big already,” he’d murmur, voice husky. Sex became obsessive. He’d fuck his partner for hours, belly bouncing between them, moaning as the babies shifted and kicked against his throbbing dick.

The fullness made every orgasm deeper, longer. He competed in a small local show at four months, his posing trunks barely containing his erection as he flexed, the spotlight gleaming off his stretched, shiny skin. Judges whispered, but the crowd cheered the raw power mixed with raw fertility.

Now the real growth hit. Triplets meant his belly surged forward like an overinflated basketball, skin taut and veined, navel popped out like a thick button. His obliques were gone, replaced by a massive, low-hanging sphere that forced his stance wide. Muscles still rippled—biceps peaking at 22 inches, lats flaring—but they framed the main event: that enormous, pregnant belly that swayed and sloshed with every step. His ass had plumped too, round and juicy, and his chest had ballooned into full, sensitive pecs that leaked if squeezed too hard.

Workouts were erotic marathons. Bench presses made his belly brush the bar, sending shivers straight to his groin. He’d finish a session soaked, rush home, and ride a dildo while massaging oil into the taut flesh, whispering filthy praises to himself. “God, I’m so pregnant… so heavy… fuck, it makes me want to come nonstop.” The kicks from the triplets would press against his bladder and prostate, turning discomfort into constant, low-grade arousal. He leaked milk and pre-cum daily. Posing practice became masturbation: he’d oil up, hit a most-muscular pose, and watch his belly distort with the flex, cock pulsing untouched until he exploded.

Eight months in, Alex was a fertility god. His belly was obscene—massive, stretched to the limit, measuring over 60 inches around, hanging low and heavy with three active babies. Stretch marks like lightning framed the curve, his skin shiny and hypersensitive. Muscles strained to contain it all: thick arms, carved delts, tree-trunk legs—but the belly dominated everything. It dwarfed his frame, forcing him to arch his back, waddle with a permanent lordosis that made his ass jut out invitingly. Walking the gym floor drew crowds; people wanted to touch, to feel the kicks. He’d let them sometimes, biting his lip as the contact made him throb.

Training was slower, sexier. Light weights, high reps, every movement a caress against his insides. He’d cum hands-free during long walks on the treadmill, the sway of his gut rubbing his cock just right through his shorts. Horny didn’t cover it—he was insatiable. Multiple loads a day, belly play, nipple sucking, the works. “Being this pregnant makes me such a slut for it,” he’d confess, rubbing the underside where the skin was thinnest, feeling the babies move while jerking his thick shaft. He still hit the stage for guest posing at seven months, trunks stretched obscenely over his bulge and under his monumental belly, muscles flexing in contrast to the fertile swell. The audience went wild.

Competition day. Nine months pregnant with triplets, due any moment. Alex stepped on stage under blazing lights, the crowd roaring. His posing trunks were custom, barely holding back his heavy cock and balls, pushed forward by the lowest part of his gut. His body was a masterpiece of contradictions: ripped arms locked in a double biceps, traps and delts carved like stone, quads sweeping wide—but all of it framed, no, overpowered by the colossal, stretched belly. It protruded impossibly far, round and tight, skin glistening with oil, moving with the vigorous kicks of three babies. Veins traced across it. His navel was fully out. Every breath made it rise and fall like a living thing.

He hit his routine—side chest, where his pecs bounced full and milky against the upper curve; rear lat spread, ass flexed but belly hanging between his legs; most muscular, where the sheer mass of his pregnant form made the pose look primal, dominant, fertile. The pressure was insane. Each flex ground the babies against his prostate. He was rock-hard the entire time, leaking, horny beyond belief. Sweat mixed with a hint of milk. “This is me,” he thought, turning for the audience, hands cradling the massive dome. “Maxed out muscle and maximum pregnancy. Fuck, I love how heavy it makes me… how slutty and powerful.”

He didn’t win—not against the non-pregnant competitors—but he stole the show. Backstage, he barely made it to the changing area before cumming hard, belly pressed against the wall, moaning as contractions teased but didn’t start. The triplets came two days later, healthy and strong. Alex was back in the gym within weeks, already planning the next cycle—muscles and belly, bigger than ever.

Rafe was a walking wet dream at Iron Haven Gym. Six-foot-two, 245 pounds of shredded, competition-ready muscle, with a tiny waist, flaring lats, and an ass so round and firm it made grown men weak. His smooth, tanned skin was always pumped and glistening after workouts. Everyone knew his reputation: the moment he disappeared upstairs to the private showers after closing, he was rarely alone.

He loved it. Loved dropping to his knees on the wet tiles, sucking off whatever hot guy followed him up. Loved getting bent over, pinned against the slick wall, and bred deep and raw by strangers who groaned his name while pumping load after load into him. Rafe never asked for names, never used condoms. He craved the thrill of being filled, used, claimed. “Breed me like you mean it,” he’d moan every time, arching his back and pushing that perfect bubble ass back onto thick cock after thick cock.

One humid Thursday night, it was different. The guy was new—tall, thick-muscled, with a deep voice and a cock that stretched Rafe in all the right ways. They fucked for over an hour under the steaming water. The stranger took his time, slamming into Rafe with powerful strokes, gripping those muscular hips hard enough to leave marks. Rafe came twice just from being fucked, moaning like a whore as the man finally buried himself to the hilt and unloaded. Hot, thick ropes flooded him—three, four, five heavy pulses that left Rafe’s hole dripping and his belly slightly bloated from the sheer volume.

“Fuck… fill me up,” Rafe gasped, pushing back to milk every drop. The man stayed inside him long after, kissing the back of his neck. When he finally pulled out, Rafe felt it: warmer, heavier, deeper than usual.

Three weeks later, Rafe noticed the changes. His abs, usually diamond-cut, looked a little softer. His nipples were sensitive. And he was hornier than ever. A home test confirmed it: pregnant. The shower breeding had taken.

At first, he kept it quiet. Loose tanks hid the subtle swell. But by month four, there was no hiding it. His once-chiseled midsection had rounded out into a firm, prominent pregnant belly that jutted proudly from his muscular frame. The skin was tight and smooth, his navel beginning to pop. His pecs had grown fuller and heavier, and his ass had gotten even plumper.

And Rafe? He fucking loved it.

Now, at six months, Rafe sauntered through Iron Haven like he owned the place. His tight stringer tank barely contained his swollen chest and only reached the top of his belly, leaving the full, round curve completely exposed. The shiny, stretched skin gleamed under the gym lights as he walked—slow, deliberate, hips rolling with that signature slutty swagger. His pregnant belly led the way, big and beautiful, bouncing slightly with each step. Heads turned. Whispers followed. He soaked up every stare.

After his lighter workout (he still trained hard, but smarter now), he headed upstairs to the showers like always. But this time it was different. He didn’t drop to his knees right away.

Instead, Rafe stood under the hot spray, hands lovingly cradling his massive belly. The water cascaded over the taut dome, making it glisten. He was alone at first, gently rubbing slow circles over the curve, feeling the strong kicks from within. A soft, sultry moan escaped his lips.

“God, look at what they did to me…” he whispered, voice husky. He turned sideways in the mirror, admiring how far his belly protruded, how round and heavy it had become. His free hand slid down, stroking his half-hard cock as he admired himself.

The door opened. Two regulars stepped in—guys who had bred him many times before. Their eyes widened at the sight of the very pregnant, very slutty bodybuilder standing there shamelessly showing off.

“Holy shit, Rafe… that’s yours?” one of them breathed.

Rafe smiled, slow and wicked-sweet. He turned toward them, arching his back to push his belly out even more. “All mine now. One of you knocked me up that night… and I’ve never been hotter.” He ran both hands under his belly, lifting it slightly so they could see how full and tight it was. “Want to feel?”

They did. Hands were on him in seconds—worshipping, caressing, squeezing the firm globe of his pregnant gut. Rafe moaned sweetly, leaning back against the tiles as they kissed and licked the stretched skin. One of them dropped to his knees, pressing his face into the underside of the belly while stroking Rafe’s cock.

“Still so fucking slutty,” the other growled, pinching a sensitive nipple.

“Even more now,” Rafe purred, voice dripping with lust and genuine affection. “I love being like this. Big. Round. Full of life because some hot stud couldn’t stop breeding me.” He guided one hand lower, between his legs. “I’m still horny all the time… still love getting touched.”

They didn’t fuck him that night—they made love to his pregnant body instead. Gentle but intense, hands never leaving his belly, lips kissing every inch of the swollen curve while Rafe came with shaky, blissful cries. When they finally finished, he stood there glowing, water running over his muscular, heavily pregnant form, belly red from all the touching and kissing.

Rafe kept training. Kept showing off. As the months went on and his belly grew even bigger—massive, low-hanging, and impossible to ignore—he became a gym legend in the best way. The slutty bodybuilder who got bred and owned it completely. He’d rub oil into his belly between sets, let admirers touch it, and moan softly when the baby kicked hard against their palms.

But underneath the sultry exhibitionism was something sweeter. Late at night, alone in his apartment, Rafe would lie back, shirt off, and talk softly to his belly. He’d trace the curve with tender fingers, smiling every time he felt movement.

“You were made from the best fuck of my life,” he’d whisper, voice warm. “And I wouldn’t change a single second.”

Rafe had always loved his body.

Now, heavy and pregnant and glowing, he loved it even more.

His belly was just a soft little swell under the sheets. He lay on his back, legs spread, already leaking pre-cum as his boyfriend fed him warm chocolate croissants straight from his fingers.
“More… I’m so fucking hungry,” he moaned, sucking melted chocolate off his boyfriend’s thumb. Every bite made his cock twitch harder. By the sixth croissant his hips were rolling, begging without words. His boyfriend smirked, sliding a hand down to stroke him slowly while pushing another flaky pastry into his mouth. “Look at you… already so horny from eating for our baby.” He came hard before the plate was empty, cum splattering his tiny bump.

Belly now round and firm, he was propped up on pillows, completely naked. His boyfriend brought a tray of warm cinnamon rolls dripping with icing.
He devoured them greedily, icing smearing across his lips and chin. “Feed me faster,” he gasped between bites, one hand rubbing his swelling belly while the other stroked his aching cock. The sugar rush hit hard—his nipples tightened, hole clenching with need. His boyfriend leaned in, licking icing from his pregnant belly before sliding two sticky fingers inside him. He came moaning around the last bite, body shaking with lust.

His belly had popped dramatically. Lying on his side, he begged for tacos—extra spicy. His boyfriend sat beside him, feeding him one after another, sauce dripping onto his heavy bump.
The heat spread everywhere. “Fuck… it’s making me so wet,” he whimpered, grinding against the sheets. Every bite made his cock throb and his hole flutter. Halfway through the sixth taco his boyfriend reached between his thighs, fingering him deep while he kept eating. The combination of spice and fingers had him crying out, cumming untouched as sauce ran down his chin.

Belly huge and tight, he lay back with his legs wide open, rubbing his bump in slow circles. His boyfriend brought warm mac and cheese with extra cream.
Spoon after spoon disappeared into his hungry mouth, cheese stretching from his lips. “I’m so full… but I need more,” he moaned, voice thick with lust. The rich cream made him feel heavy and slutty. His boyfriend drizzled warm cheese sauce over his swollen belly and licked it off while slowly fucking him with a thick dildo. He came twice—once from the feeding, once from being stuffed at both ends.

His massive belly rested on the mattress as he lay on his side, panting with hunger. Boyfriend brought a huge bowl of vanilla ice cream and a jar of pickles.
The weird combo had him moaning with every bite—sweet, salty, cold, crunchy. “Don’t stop feeding me,” he begged, one hand desperately stroking his leaking cock. The contrast drove him wild. His boyfriend fed him alternating bites while rubbing his belly and teasing his hole with slick fingers. By the time the bowl was empty he was shaking, squirting cum all over his enormous pregnant belly.

Belly so big it barely fit between his spread thighs, he was flushed and desperate. His boyfriend brought double cheeseburgers straight from the late-night diner.
Grease and juice ran down his chin as he devoured them. “I’m such a hungry pregnant slut,” he whimpered between massive bites. Each burger made his cock harder and his hole ache to be filled. His boyfriend fed him while slowly thrusting inside him—slow, deep strokes that matched every bite. He came hard around his boyfriend’s cock, belly jiggling, begging for another burger even as he was still pulsing with orgasm.

His belly was enormous, skin stretched tight and shiny, navel popped out. He lay exhausted but ravenously horny on a mountain of pillows. Boyfriend brought his ultimate craving: warm chocolate lava cake, whipped cream, and strawberries.
“Feed your pregnant boy,” he pleaded, voice husky. Every spoonful of molten chocolate made him whimper with lust. His boyfriend fed him slowly, one hand gently rubbing the massive belly while the other stroked his oversensitive cock. “You’re so full of our baby… and soon you’ll be full of my cum again.” He came spectacularly—shuddering, moaning, cum mixing with whipped cream on his belly—as his boyfriend whispered how beautiful and sexy he looked stuffed and bred.

The morning light filtered through the half-closed blinds of the small apartment, casting striped shadows across the rumpled sheets.

Marcus groaned as consciousness hit him like a missed deadlift. His massive frame—six-foot-four, thick with powerlifting muscle built from years of squatting, benching, and deadlifting heavy—took up most of the bed. His broad chest rose and fell heavily, tattoos snaking over his pecs and shoulders. Next to him, smaller and slimmer, lay Kai: his boyfriend of only three weeks, a lean, smooth-skinned guy with sharp cheekbones and a lithe build that contrasted sharply with Marcus’s bulk.

They had woken up naked, bodies still tangled from the night before. The air smelled of sweat, sex, and regret.

“Fuck,” Marcus muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. His voice was deep and rough from sleep. He stared at the ceiling, jaw tight. “We really did that.”

Kai shifted beside him, pulling the sheet up over his narrow hips. His face was flushed, eyes avoiding Marcus’s. “Yeah… we did.” His voice was quieter, laced with the same heavy mix of shame and heat. Last night had started innocently enough—a casual hangout at Marcus’s place after a long training session. A couple of beers. Then flirting. Then hands on each other. Then clothes hitting the floor in a frenzy.

The sex had been raw, intense, and stupidly hot. Marcus’s powerful body pinning Kai down, strong hands gripping slim hips, deep thrusts that left them both gasping and moaning. Kai had ridden him later, hands braced on that rock-hard chest, taking every inch while Marcus growled encouragement. They’d gone at it for hours—sweaty, loud, unrestrained. No condoms. No talk about pulling out. Just pure, reckless lust.

Now, in the cold light of morning, the reality crashed in.

Marcus sat up slowly, the bed creaking under his weight. His thick thighs flexed as he swung his legs over the side. “We’re idiots,” he said flatly. “I’m supposed to be focused on my next meet. You’ve got that big project at work. We said we’d keep things casual… and then we go and raw-dog it like animals.”

Kai let out a shaky laugh, sitting up too. His smaller frame looked even more delicate next to Marcus’s. There were faint marks on his neck and hips from Marcus’s grip. “I know. I remember saying ‘just this once’ like five times. And then I begged you not to stop.” He ran a hand through his messy hair. “God, it felt so fucking good though.”

Marcus glanced over, eyes darkening for a second at the memory—Kai’s tight heat around him, the way his slim body arched and trembled, the sounds he made when Marcus hit that perfect spot. He felt himself twitch despite the regret. “Yeah. Too good.”

They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of what they’d done settling between them.

Then Kai spoke the words they both already knew. “We have no choice now, do we?”

Marcus exhaled slowly, his massive shoulders slumping just a fraction. “No. We don’t.”

Because last night hadn’t just been a one-night stand. It had been the night everything changed. They both felt it in their gut—the raw, unprotected sex carried consequences neither had planned for. In their world, male pregnancies were rare but very real, especially when biology and timing aligned like this. The intense, repeated creampies Marcus had pumped into Kai, the way Kai had milked him dry again and again… it was more than enough.

They weren’t just fuck buddies anymore. They were tied together now, whether they wanted it or not. The seed had been planted. Deep.

Marcus turned to look at Kai, his usual stoic powerlifter demeanor cracking. “You scared?”

Kai met his eyes, a small, nervous smile tugging at his lips despite everything. “Terrified. But… part of me doesn’t regret how hot it was.” He reached out, hesitantly placing a hand on Marcus’s thick thigh. “We’re stuck with each other now. Literally.”

Marcus covered Kai’s smaller hand with his own, calloused from years of gripping barbells. The touch was surprisingly gentle for such a strong man. “Then we figure it out. Together. No more pretending it’s casual.”

Kai nodded, scooting closer until his lean body pressed against Marcus’s solid side. The regret still lingered, but so did the heat from last night—the memory of being manhandled so perfectly, filled so completely. His free hand drifted unconsciously to his own flat stomach, as if already imagining what was to come.

Marcus noticed and placed his large palm over Kai’s, pressing lightly. “Guess we’re doing this,” he rumbled, voice low and serious.

“Yeah,” Kai whispered, leaning his head against the powerlifter’s broad shoulder. “We’re doing this.”

Outside, the city woke up. Inside, two men who had crossed a line they couldn’t uncross lay together, bodies still humming with the afterglow of their reckless night, knowing their lives were now permanently intertwined—starting with the new life already beginning inside the smaller man.

A few months had passed since that reckless, heated night.

Kai’s body had changed dramatically. What started as subtle fatigue and a missed period had turned into a very real, very advanced pregnancy. At six months along, the once-slender twink was carrying big—his belly had swollen into a massive, tight, rounded dome that dominated his smaller frame. The skin was smooth and stretched taut, his navel popped outward, and the weight of it made even simple movements a challenge. His slim hips had widened slightly, his chest felt tender, and his usual energetic stride had slowed to a careful waddle. Marcus, the hulking powerlifter, had gone from regretful hookup to fiercely protective partner almost overnight.

It was a quiet Tuesday evening at the downtown gym. Marcus had just finished a heavy deadlift session—his thick back and traps pumped, veins standing out on his forearms as he racked the bar with a heavy clang. Sweat glistened across his broad chest and shoulders. He wiped his face with a towel and glanced toward the lighter weights area where Kai was attempting some gentle seated dumbbell presses.

Kai sat on the bench, legs spread wide to accommodate his enormous belly. The tight tank top he wore had ridden up, exposing a wide strip of pale, stretched skin. The massive orb rested heavily on his thighs, shifting slightly with every breath. Even at six months, he looked closer to full-term—round, full, and impossible to ignore. A few gym regulars stole glances, but most knew better than to stare too long with Marcus nearby.

“Easy, babe,” Marcus called out, walking over with that powerful, grounded stride. He dropped into a squat beside the bench, his massive quads flexing. One large hand immediately went to Kai’s belly, palm spreading wide over the taut curve. “Don’t push it. Just breathe and control the movement.”

Kai let out a soft huff, lowering the light dumbbells. “I know, I know… but I feel like a whale. Everything’s so heavy now.” He glanced down at his own gut, cheeks flushing. The baby gave a strong kick right under Marcus’s hand, making the skin visibly bulge outward for a second.

Marcus’s expression softened, thumb stroking slow circles over the stretched surface. “You look fucking incredible, though. Carrying our kid like a champ.” His voice dropped lower, just for Kai. “Still gets me going, seeing you like this. All big and round because of me.”

Kai bit his lip, a spark of the old heat flickering despite the discomfort. “Yeah? Even when I waddle around the gym like this?” He shifted on the bench, the heavy belly swaying. Marcus helped him stand, one strong arm wrapping around his lower back for support while the other stayed on the belly, feeling another kick.

“Especially then,” Marcus rumbled, guiding him toward the exit. “C’mon. Let’s get you home before you overdo it.”

Back at their apartment, the real help began.

Marcus had turned into the perfect caretaker. Kai’s belly had grown so large that everyday tasks were exhausting. As soon as they walked through the door, Marcus kicked off his shoes and went straight into support mode.

“Sit,” he ordered gently, steering Kai toward the couch. Kai lowered himself with a grateful sigh, the massive dome settling between his spread thighs. His lower back ached constantly now from the weight.

Marcus disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a tall glass of water and a protein smoothie he’d prepped earlier. “Drink this. You barely ate before the gym.” He knelt in front of Kai, large hands once again finding the pregnant belly. He rubbed it firmly but carefully, working out the tightness while Kai sipped.

“You don’t have to do everything for me,” Kai protested weakly, though he leaned into the touch.

“I want to,” Marcus replied simply. His calloused palms glided over the taut skin in wide, soothing strokes—from the underside up to the top, then around the sides. He could feel the baby moving strongly inside, pressing against his hands. “You’re carrying enough already. Least I can do is make sure you’re comfortable.”

Later, when Kai needed to shower, Marcus helped him undress. The tank top came off first, revealing the full glory of that enormous, glistening belly. Marcus’s eyes darkened with a mix of pride and desire as he traced the stretch marks that had started to form lightly on the lower curve.

In the bathroom, Marcus adjusted the water temperature, then stood behind Kai under the spray. His powerful arms wrapped around from behind, one hand supporting the heavy belly from below while the other gently soaped the stretched skin. Kai leaned back against the solid wall of muscle, moaning softly as the warm water and Marcus’s touch eased the day’s aches.

“Fuck, it’s so big now,” Kai whispered, looking down at the way his belly jutted out dramatically, water cascading over the curve. “I can barely reach my own feet anymore.”

Marcus kissed the side of his neck, voice low and husky. “That’s why I’m here. I like helping… and I like seeing you like this.” His hand slid lower, cupping the underside of the massive gut and lifting it slightly to relieve the pressure on Kai’s back. “You’re mine. Both of you.”

After the shower, Marcus dried him off carefully, then carried Kai to bed—effortlessly, as if the added weight of the pregnancy was nothing to his powerlifter strength. He propped pillows behind Kai’s back and under his knees, then lay beside him, one thick arm draped protectively over the huge belly.

Kai placed his smaller hand over Marcus’s. “I still can’t believe that one night turned into… this,” he said, rubbing the taut dome.

Marcus smiled against his shoulder, feeling another strong kick. “No regrets anymore. Just you, me, and our kid.”

His fingers traced lazy patterns on the stretched skin as they settled in for the night, the gym forgotten and the house quiet except for the occasional movement from within Kai’s massive pregnant belly.

The powerlifter had never felt stronger than when he was taking care of his very pregnant boyfriend. And Kai, despite the size and the changes, had never felt more loved.

Alex had always been a beast in the gym—six-foot-three, thick slabs of muscle carved from years of heavy lifting, veins popping across his boulder shoulders and tree-trunk quads. At 32, he was the kind of guy who turned heads even in the biggest bodybuilding circles. Then came the impossible: a rare experimental treatment gone sideways during a hormone study, leaving him pregnant. Very pregnant. Eight months in, his once-chiseled eight-pack had surrendered completely to a massive, stretched dome of a belly that jutted out dramatically, heavy with life and impossible to hide.

The cravings hit hardest right after workouts. Alex would finish a brutal session—pumping iron until his muscles burned and sweat soaked through his tank—and the second he stepped out of the gym, his body betrayed him. He couldn’t help himself. Drive-thrus, grocery runs, late-night deliveries… anything edible became fair game. His boyfriend, Liam, a slender 24-year-old twink with smooth skin, messy dark hair, and an eager, almost worshipful energy, had noticed the pattern immediately. And he loved it.

Tonight was one of those nights. Alex had just come home from deadlifting personal records, his broad back and arms still pumped and glistening. But the second he walked through the door, the hunger took over. His massive belly growled audibly, the taut skin stretching tighter as the baby shifted inside.

“Fuck… I need to eat,” Alex muttered, already heading to the kitchen, one hand instinctively cradling the underside of his enormous gut. The belly swayed heavily with each step, round and full, the navel popped out like a cork on a barrel.

Liam was waiting on the couch, eyes lighting up the moment he saw his boyfriend. “Rough session?” he asked softly, but there was that familiar hunger in his voice—not for food, but for what came after. He stood up, smaller frame dwarfed by Alex’s sheer size, and followed him into the kitchen.

Alex didn’t even bother with a plate. He raided the fridge and pantry, piling the counter with everything he could reach: two family-sized pizzas, a whole rotisserie chicken, a tub of protein ice cream (ironic, he thought), a loaf of garlic bread, and a six-pack of chocolate protein shakes he’d already started chugging. His free hand rubbed slow circles over the crest of his belly, feeling the tight, drum-like firmness mixed with the soft give where the pregnancy weight had softened him.

Liam slid up behind him, arms wrapping around as far as they could—which wasn’t far anymore. His palms pressed flat against the warm, stretched skin of Alex’s belly. “God, look at you,” Liam whispered, voice thick with obsession. “It’s even bigger than yesterday.”

Alex grunted, tearing into the first pizza with his hands, barely chewing as slice after slice disappeared. Crumbs and sauce dotted his chest. “Can’t… stop. The baby wants it all.” Another deep bite, his jaw working furiously. The belly gurgled loudly as more food packed in, visibly swelling outward, the skin growing shinier and tighter with every swallow.

Liam’s fingers traced the curve, gentle at first, then firmer—pressing, kneading, feeling the way the massive dome pushed back against his touch. He rested his cheek against the side of it, listening to the deep rumbles and occasional kicks from within. “You’re so full already… but you keep going. I love how you can’t help it.”

Alex switched to the chicken, ripping off chunks and washing them down with shakes. His breathing grew heavier, belly expanding noticeably now, rounding out even more as the gorging continued. The waistband of his sweatpants had long since given up, rolled low under the overhang of his gut. “Mmmph—fuck, it feels good when it stretches like this,” he admitted between bites, voice muffled.

Liam couldn’t resist anymore. He dropped to his knees in front of Alex, hands roaming greedily over the bloated, food-stuffed pregnancy belly. He kissed the taut skin, nuzzled into the warm curve, fingers sinking in where it was softest from the rapid gain. “So heavy… so massive,” he murmured, almost reverently. One hand slipped under the belly, supporting its weight while the other stroked the stretched surface in wide, possessive circles. Every time Alex took another huge bite, Liam felt the belly surge forward against his face, growing fuller, rounder, more impossibly distended.

Alex kept eating—pizza gone, bread demolished, ice cream scooped straight from the tub with his fingers. His abs were completely gone now, replaced by this enormous, glistening orb that dominated his frame. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down the curve of his gut. “Keep… touching it,” he growled, voice low and needy. “Feels fucking incredible when you do that while I stuff myself.”

Liam obliged eagerly, both hands now massaging the massive belly in deep, rhythmic strokes. He pressed his entire upper body against it, hugging the warm, taut expanse as Alex continued gorging. The skin was hot and tight, stretched thin over the combination of baby, food, and the bodybuilder’s lingering muscle underneath. Occasional kicks from inside made Liam moan softly, his obsession plain on his face.

By the time the last shake was drained and the counter was empty, Alex’s belly was truly obscene—bloated to its limit, hanging heavy and low, perfectly round and drum-tight. He leaned back against the counter, panting, both hands supporting the underside of his gut as it rested on his thighs.

Liam stayed on his knees, still worshipping, lips brushing the stretched skin again and again. “You’re perfect like this,” he whispered, giving the massive belly one last, slow rub from side to side. “My big, pregnant, greedy bodybuilder… with the most beautiful belly I’ve ever seen.”

Alex and Marcus had been married for three years when the impossible happened. The fertility clinic’s experimental protocol—something about hormone cocktails and gene therapy—actually worked. Alex, the lithe little twink with the narrow hips and smooth, hairless skin, tested positive. Marcus, the towering bodybuilder whose biceps were thicker than Alex’s thighs, dropped to his knees in their kitchen and kissed the flat belly that would soon stretch beyond recognition.

From the very first trimester, Alex’s cravings hit like a freight train. He woke up starving at 2 a.m., whining into Marcus’s thick chest until the bigger man carried him to the kitchen like a bride. “Feed me,” Alex would beg, voice already husky with need. Marcus learned fast. He’d pile the counter with everything Alex demanded: entire family-sized pizzas dripping with grease, gallon tubs of ice cream, towers of donuts, fried chicken buckets, and liters of chocolate milk. Alex would straddle Marcus’s lap in nothing but an oversized tank top that barely covered his swelling gut, and gorge himself while Marcus’s huge hands roamed.

The first real stuffing session happened at week twelve. Alex’s belly had just begun to round out, a soft, taut dome that made his tiny cock twitch every time he touched it. Marcus ordered two extra-large meat-lover’s pizzas, a dozen glazed donuts, and a two-liter bottle of cream soda. He sat on the couch, legs spread wide, and pulled Alex down so the twink’s back pressed against his rock-hard abs. Marcus’s thick cock nestled between Alex’s cheeks, already half-hard.

“Open wide, baby,” Marcus growled, feeding him slice after slice. Alex moaned around the greasy cheese, sauce running down his chin. His belly swelled visibly with every bite, skin stretching tight and shiny. By the time the second pizza was gone, Alex’s gut was a heavy, gurgling orb resting on his own thighs. He was panting, cock leaking against the underside of his belly. Marcus reached around and rubbed slow, worshipful circles over the taut skin, whispering, “Look at you… getting so fucking full for me.”

Alex came untouched that night, just from the pressure of his overstuffed stomach and Marcus’s voice in his ear.

The pregnancy only got more intense. By month five, Alex’s belly was massive—round, heavy, and impossibly stretched, skin marked with silvery stretch marks that Marcus loved to trace with his tongue. His cravings turned feral. He’d wake up humping the mattress, begging Marcus to “fill me up” in every way. Marcus obliged. He’d cook midnight feasts: six burgers stacked with bacon and cheese, three family bags of chips, a whole cheesecake, and pints of heavy cream poured straight down Alex’s throat until his belly ballooned outward like a beach ball.

They fucked constantly. Marcus would lay Alex on his back, the huge pregnant gut rising between them like a glistening mountain. He’d slide his massive cock into Alex’s slick, greedy hole while feeding him at the same time—handfuls of pasta, donuts, milkshakes—until Alex’s stomach was so tight and round it barely jiggled when Marcus thrust. The pressure made everything tighter; Alex’s moans turned into desperate, animalistic cries as his belly gurgled and sloshed with every deep stroke.

“Fuck, you’re so big,” Marcus would groan, palms spreading wide over the dome. “Gonna make you even bigger tonight.” And he did. Alex would cum with his cock trapped under the weight of his own gut, belly so full it hurt in the best way, tears of overstuffed pleasure streaking his flushed cheeks.

The sixth and seventh months were pure indulgence. Alex’s cravings never let up. He ate from morning till night, belly constantly swollen and tight. Marcus installed a feeding chair in their living room—a wide, reinforced seat where Alex could recline while Marcus knelt between his spread thighs and hand-fed him. Sometimes Marcus would edge Alex’s cock with one hand while pouring melted ice cream down his throat with the other, until Alex’s stomach was a shiny, drum-tight sphere and he was sobbing with need. Then Marcus would flip him over—carefully, always carefully—and fuck him from behind, belly hanging low and swaying with every thrust, skin stretched so thin the veins showed blue beneath.

Alex’s nipples darkened and leaked. Marcus sucked them dry while Alex stuffed himself with pastries, the sweet milk mixing with the taste of sugar on his tongue. The bodybuilder’s own cock would throb untouched until he finally buried it inside his pregnant husband again, growling about how perfect Alex looked ruined and full.

The birth was as intense as everything else.

It started at 3 a.m. on a rainy Tuesday. Alex woke with a guttural moan, belly contracting hard around the massive baby he’d been carrying. His stomach was enormous—easily the size of a beach ball, skin shiny and tight, navel popped out like a cork. Marcus woke instantly, scooping Alex into his arms and carrying him to the birthing room they’d prepared: soft lights, a padded bench, and every toy and lube they owned nearby because they both knew this was going to be filthy.

Contractions ripped through Alex in waves. He was naked, legs spread wide, belly heaving and glistening with sweat. Marcus knelt between his thighs, one huge hand rubbing the contracting dome while the other stroked Alex’s leaking cock.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” Marcus murmured, voice rough. “Push for me. Let me see you stretch.”

Alex screamed when the head crowned—loud, raw, and soaked in pleasure-pain. His belly tightened into a rock-hard sphere, every muscle visible under the skin. Marcus leaned in and licked the taut skin, tasting salt and desperation, while Alex bore down again. The baby’s shoulders stretched him impossibly wide; Alex’s hole gaped, slick and fluttering, cock spurting weak ropes of cum onto the underside of his own massive belly.

Marcus’s free hand never stopped feeding him even then—small bites of chocolate, sips of cream—because Alex’s cravings didn’t stop just because he was giving birth. “One more push, love,” Marcus coaxed, eyes dark with lust as he watched his husband’s body perform this obscene, beautiful miracle.

The final contraction hit like a freight train. Alex arched, belly contracting violently, and the baby slid free in a rush of fluid. Marcus caught their son with steady hands, but his eyes stayed locked on Alex—on the way his husband’s spent, still-huge belly slowly deflated, skin loose and marked, hole still twitching and open.

They didn’t wait. The second the baby was cleaned and settled in the bassinet beside them, Marcus was on Alex again. He slid back inside the ruined, slick heat, fucking slow and deep while Alex whimpered and begged for more food. Marcus fed him a entire tub of ice cream right there on the birthing bench, belly still soft and heavy, while he pumped load after load into his husband.

“Mine,” Marcus growled against Alex’s sweat-slick neck. “Fucking ruined you, filled you, watched you birth my kid… and you’re still hungry for more.”

Alex just smiled, dazed and glowing, belly gurgling around the ice cream as another contraction of afterbirth made him clench around Marcus’s cock.

“Always,” he whispered. “Feed me. Fuck me. Keep me like this forever.”

Marcus pinned Alex down on the bed right after the birth, the twink’s belly still soft and heavy from pregnancy, loose skin glistening with sweat. With one thick arm locked around Alex’s thighs, Marcus tilted the gallon jug of heavy cream and poured the thick, cold liquid straight past Alex’s gasping lips. “Drink it all, baby—every fucking drop,” he growled, watching Alex’s throat work frantically as the rich cream flooded his stomach. The soft belly swelled visibly, rounding out tighter and heavier with every swallow, skin stretching shiny and taut again as it sloshed audibly with each breath. Alex whimpered, cock leaking helplessly beneath the growing gut, already fatter and fuller than before as Marcus kept pouring, forcing his husband to balloon even rounder and softer for him.

Charles had always been a god among men in the bodybuilding world. At 6’4” and 285 pounds of pure, competition-ready muscle, he dominated stages across the globe with veins popping under tanned skin stretched tight over pecs like steel plates and quads that could crush walnuts. His abs were a razor-sharp eight-pack, his shoulders broad enough to block out the sun. But one wild night in Miami changed everything.

It was after a big win at the Arnold Classic. Charles hit the club hard—tequila shots flowing like water, bass thumping through his massive frame, and a tall, dark stranger with a cocky grin buying him round after round. They danced, they grinded, they ended up in a VIP bathroom stall where things got raw and reckless. No protection. No names exchanged. Just sweat, moans, and a drunken haze. Charles stumbled home at dawn, laughing it off as just another conquest. Two weeks later, the nausea hit like a freight train during his morning deadlifts.

The pregnancy test—yeah, the one he bought on a dare from his training partner—came back positive. Impossible. But the doctor confirmed it with wide eyes: some freak genetic anomaly, a one-in-a-billion mutation that let his body rewrite the rules. Charles stared at the ultrasound, heart pounding. A tiny flicker of life inside him. He should have panicked. Instead, a slow, deep thrill rolled through his core. He placed a massive hand on his still-flat abs and felt… potential. Growth. The kind that made his cock twitch right there in the exam room.

He kept it secret at first. Told his coach he was “bulking for the off-season.” But Charles loved every second of it. He hit the gym harder than ever—squats, bench presses, deadlifts—his body responding with that familiar pump, but now layered with something deeper. By week eight, the cravings slammed into him like a PR attempt gone wild. One minute he was fine; the next, he was demolishing an entire rotisserie chicken, two family-sized bags of chips, a gallon of chocolate ice cream, and a loaf of garlic bread slathered in butter. He’d eat until his stomach distended, groaning in pleasure as the food stretched him from the inside. “Fuck… more,” he’d mutter, shoving in another fistful, his free hand rubbing the growing swell under his tank top. The fullness made him rock-hard every time.

Week twelve, and the belly had arrived. Not a soft dad-bod paunch—oh no. Charles’s abs were still visible at the top, but below them, a firm, round dome pushed out, heavy with life. He stood naked in front of his full-length mirror after a brutal leg day, oiling up his skin like he did for competitions. The curve was undeniable now, skin tight and shiny over the taut muscle underneath. He flexed his biceps—still peaking at 24 inches—then ran both hands over the bump. It was warm. Alive. Growing. His cock throbbed instantly, thick and veiny against the underside of his belly. “Look at me,” he growled to his reflection, voice husky. “Getting so fucking big.” He jerked off right there, cum splattering across the swell, and kept training. Cardio came next: 45 minutes on the StairMaster, belly bouncing with every step, sweat dripping into the deep navel that had popped out like a cork. The friction of his compression shorts against his hardening shaft nearly made him cum again mid-set.

By the second trimester, weeks 14 to 27, Charles was a beast unleashed. The pregnancy hormones turned his body into a growth machine. His pecs swelled even fuller, nipples darkening and leaking tiny beads of colostrum when he squeezed them too hard during chest day. His ass rounded out into two massive globes that strained every pair of gym shorts, perfect for the squats he refused to skip. But the belly… God, the belly. It ballooned forward, heavy and low, easily the size of a basketball by week 20. He weighed in at 320 pounds now, all muscle and baby and bloat. The cravings got feral. Midnight runs to the 24-hour diner ended with him devouring three double bacon cheeseburgers, two large fries, a milkshake, and an entire apple pie à la mode—washed down with a protein shake for good measure. He’d sit on the edge of his bed afterward, legs spread wide around the massive gut, stuffing his face while one hand worked his cock in slow, lazy strokes. “Yeah… fill me up,” he’d moan around a mouthful of food, belly gurgling and expanding visibly with every bite. The stretch burned so good it made his toes curl. Workouts adapted: he added resistance bands to account for the shifting center of gravity, but he still chased that pump. Deadlifts with the bump brushing his thighs. Cardio on the elliptical, hands cradling the underside of his belly like it was the most precious—and hottest—thing in the world.

Third trimester hit like a storm. Week 28 onward, Charles was enormous. 355 pounds and climbing, his pro bodybuilder frame now dominated by a pendulous, beach-ball belly that hung low and heavy, skin marked with faint stretch marks he traced lovingly in the mirror every morning. It swayed when he walked, kicked visibly when the baby got active, and made his already massive cock look almost modest nestled beneath it. He loved it. Craved it. The arousal was constant now—a low, throbbing heat that peaked during his “feeding sessions.” He’d order DoorDash for an obscene spread: six pizzas, a tray of lasagna, two whole roasted chickens, buckets of mashed potatoes drowning in gravy, and a case of those giant chocolate chip cookies. He’d eat shirtless on the couch, belly resting on his thighs, crumbs falling into the deep crease under the gut. Bite after bite, he’d push himself past full, until his stomach was drum-tight and shiny, veins spiderwebbing across the curve. “Bigger… make me bigger,” he’d gasp, fingers digging into the flesh as he came hands-free from the sheer pressure alone, thick ropes painting the underside of his belly.

He never stopped training. Mornings were heavy lifts—bench pressing 405 while the belly rested on his chest like a weighted vest. Afternoons: cardio, long hikes with a weighted vest strapped over the bump to keep his heart rate up and his quads shredded. The sweat would pool in the folds of his gut, and he’d have to adjust his stance constantly, but the burn? The pump? It mixed with the pregnancy high into something addictive. Nights were for indulgence. He’d waddle into the kitchen at 2 a.m., fridge light glowing on his naked, distended form, and raid it until he was stuffed to the point of immobility—belching, moaning, cock leaking as the baby shifted and his body swelled even more.

By week 38, Charles was a fertility idol carved from muscle and excess. His belly was a massive, low-hanging orb, easily 50 inches around, skin stretched glossy and tight. He could barely lace his own shoes anymore, but he still hit the gym—slow, deliberate movements that made every fiber sing. The final cravings were apocalyptic: he once ate an entire Thanksgiving feast for one, turkey, stuffing, pies and all, then followed it with a gallon of heavy cream just to feel that last, glorious push of expansion. Lying back on his bed that night, hands worshiping the colossal dome, he came three times in a row, whispering filthy praises to his body.

Labor started during a light cardio session—contractions rolling through him like deep ab crunches. He made it to the hospital still in his sweat-soaked tank and shorts, belly leading the way. The birth was intense, primal, but Charles powered through with the same focus he brought to the stage. When it was over, he held his son—healthy, strong, already with the makings of his dad’s build—and felt a quiet satisfaction. The pregnancy was done. But as he looked down at his still-huge, softened midsection, already hinting at the muscle he’d rebuild… he smiled. The growth had been everything. And deep down, he knew he’d chase that feeling again someday.

The bedroom was bathed in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, casting warm shadows across their tangled sheets. Josh straddled Peter’s hips, his pregnant belly resting heavily against his husband’s toned abs. At five months along, the swell was undeniable—round, firm, and impossibly erotic to both of them. Josh’s hands braced on Peter’s broad chest, fingers digging into the hard muscle as he slowly rocked down, taking every thick inch of his builder husband deep inside.

“Fuck… Peter,” Josh moaned, head tipping back, lips parted in bliss. His own cock bobbed against his rounded belly with every roll of his hips. “I needed this so bad today.”

Peter’s large, calloused hands gripped Josh’s thighs, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin as he gazed up with raw hunger. Sweat already glistened on his forehead from the long day on the construction site, but nothing compared to the fire Josh ignited in him. “That’s it, baby. Ride me. Use my cock like you own it.”

Josh bit his lip, circling his hips in a slow, deliberate grind that made Peter’s thick length drag perfectly against his prostate. The pregnancy had made everything more intense—his hole tighter from the extra blood flow, his body hypersensitive, his cravings endless. He loved satisfying his man, but tonight it was Josh who was starving.

“I want your baby,” Josh whispered breathlessly, even as he was already carrying one. The words slipped out like a filthy prayer, his pace quickening. “I want you to knock me up again… fill me so full I’m dripping with you for days.”

Peter groaned deep in his chest, hips bucking up to meet Josh’s downward thrusts. “You’re already pregnant with our kid, you greedy little thing. Look at that belly—swollen because I fucked you raw and bred you deep.”

The dirty talk sent a shiver through Josh. He planted his feet on the mattress and started bouncing harder, the wet slap of skin echoing in the room. His pregnant bump jiggled with every motion, nipples pebbled and aching. Peter reached up, cupping the swell with one hand while the other teased a sensitive nipple, pinching just enough to make Josh cry out.

“Yes—god, yes,” Josh panted, riding faster, chasing that building pleasure. “I love feeling you inside me while our baby’s growing… but I still want more. Want you to breed me again right after this one comes.”

Peter’s eyes darkened with pure lust. He sat up suddenly, wrapping strong arms around Josh’s back and pulling him close so their chests pressed together, the bump trapped warmly between them. Now Josh was grinding down in Peter’s lap, impaled completely, their faces inches apart.

“You want me to put another one in you?” Peter growled against Josh’s lips, thrusting up hard and steady. “Keep you knocked up, belly round and heavy, tits full, always so fucking horny for your husband’s cock?”

Josh nodded frantically, moaning into Peter’s mouth as they kissed—messy, desperate, tongues sliding. “Please… cum inside me. Breed your pregnant husband.”

Peter’s grip tightened, one hand sliding down to squeeze Josh’s ass as he took control from below, pounding up into that slick, welcoming heat. The angle hit Josh perfectly, making stars burst behind his eyelids. His cock rubbed against Peter’s abs with every thrust, the friction driving him wild.

“I’m close—Peter, I’m gonna—”

“Cum for me, baby. Let me feel you squeeze my cock while I fill you up.”

Josh shattered first, crying out as his orgasm crashed through him, painting Peter’s stomach with hot stripes. His hole clenched rhythmically around Peter’s thick shaft, milking him relentlessly. Peter followed with a guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt and pumping rope after thick rope of cum deep inside Josh’s body—breeding him just like he’d begged for.

They collapsed together onto the pillows, still joined, Josh’s pregnant belly pressed sweetly against Peter’s chest. Peter’s hands roamed gently now, stroking the bump with reverence while he pressed soft kisses to Josh’s sweaty forehead.

“Love you so damn much,” Peter murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. “Carrying our baby… riding me like that… you’re everything.”

Josh smiled sleepily, nuzzling into Peter’s neck, feeling the warmth of his husband’s release still inside him. “Then come home early tomorrow. Your pregnant husband is going to need another round… and maybe we can practice for the next one.”

Peter chuckled, holding him tighter. “Deal. I’ll be home before lunch, ready to build our family one steamy ride at a time.”

Coach Harlan had watched Alex’s transformation with hungry eyes. The 480-pound muscle god waddling around the gym with a round, heavy belly, leaking pecs, and a grin that never faded—Harlan knew HyperBreed was the real deal. After Alex delivered a healthy baby and was already knocked up again at 520 pounds and still growing, Harlan made a quiet call to his most promising client.

Tyler was 24, 5’10”, and sitting at a lean 235 pounds of competition-ready physique. He had the genetics, the work ethic, and the ego, but he wanted to be a freak. When Harlan slid the small black vial across the desk and said, “Same protocol Alex used. You’ll get bigger than you ever dreamed,” Tyler didn’t hesitate. He injected 2cc into his glute that same night.

The first week was pure euphoria. Tyler’s shoulders blew up like pumpkins, his chest thickened into striated slabs, and his arms jumped two inches. By day ten he was 275 and obsessed with the mirror. He kept training harder, eating more, and injecting every 72 hours exactly as instructed.

Then came the night he hooked up with his training partner, Jax.

They were in the locker room after hours, sweat still dripping. Jax bent Tyler over the bench and drove in deep. Tyler felt that same molten shift deep inside his core—like something clicking open, hungry, ready. He came untouched, roaring as Jax flooded him.

The next morning his lower abs looked softer, bloated. A pregnancy test confirmed it in seconds. Tyler stared at the two pink lines, then at his still-pumped 280-pound frame, and laughed the same manic laugh Alex had.

“Fuck yes. I’m carrying.”

The growth never slowed. HyperBreed kept packing on dense, veiny muscle while Tyler’s belly surged forward. By month three he was 365 pounds—most of it pure beef, the rest a firm, heavy dome that bounced when he walked. His nipples darkened and started leaking sweet milk whenever he flexed too hard. He loved squeezing them in the mirror, watching droplets run down the deep cuts of his abs and over the curve of his pregnant gut.

Coach Harlan came by the gym every day now, eyes wide. Tyler was squatting 700 pounds with the baby pressing against his thighs, grunting with every rep while his belly hung low and proud. “Bigger,” Tyler would growl between sets. “I want to be fucking obscene.”

By month seven he tipped the scales at 445 pounds. His back was a Christmas tree of muscle, lats flaring so wide he had to turn sideways through doorways. His quads were bigger than most guys’ waists, and his pregnant belly was a perfect, taut sphere that made his cock look even thicker resting on top of it. He filmed himself every night: shirtless, oiled, one hand cradling the swell while the other flexed a 25-inch arm. The videos went viral in the underground scene. Comments flooded in: “How is this real?” “I need that shit.” Tyler just smirked and rubbed his belly. “Come get some.”

Jax couldn’t keep his hands off him. Every fuck made Tyler swell bigger. He’d ride Jax reverse-cowgirl style, pregnant gut resting on Jax’s abs, moaning as another inch of muscle packed onto his frame and the baby kicked hard against the thrust.

At nine months Tyler was 495 pounds and still training heavy. He hit a 950-pound deadlift with his massive belly brushing the floor, then felt the first real contraction right there on the platform. He laughed through the pain, racked the bar, and waddled to the locker room phone.

“Coach… tell Alex he’s got competition. I’m about to get even bigger.”

Labor was fast and intense. Tyler pushed out a healthy baby girl while his muscles stayed rock-hard and his body kept pumping out growth. The doctors were stunned silent.

Six weeks later he was back in the gym at 535 pounds, already pregnant again, belly rounding out nicely. Coach Harlan handed him a fresh vial with a wicked grin.

“Ready for round two?”

Tyler slammed the needle in right there on the bench, groaned in pure bliss as the fire spread through his veins

“More,” he growled, belly already swelling, nipples leaking, every muscle fiber screaming for size. “Give me fucking more.”

James signed up for Phil’s nine-month training plan because he was done with the mirror. Thirty-one, desk-bound, and carrying a persistent softness around his middle that no weekend jog could shift. Phil’s ad had been blunt:

James wanted steel. What he got was something heavier, rounder, and infinitely more permanent.

Phil was everything the ad promised—broad shoulders, calm voice, eyes that stayed on you a beat too long. Their first session was all business: deadlifts, planks, measurements. By week three the business had cracks. After a brutal leg day, James was drenched and shaking. Phil handed him a towel, then didn’t let go when their fingers brushed. One beer turned into two, two turned into the couch in Phil’s apartment above the gym, and the couch turned into skin and sweat and the kind of sex that feels like the first honest thing either of them had done in years.

Neither of them mentioned protection. Neither of them thought they needed to.

Six weeks later James sat on the closed toilet lid at 3 a.m., staring at two pink lines on a pregnancy test made for men. He laughed once, a cracked sound, then cried so hard he woke Phil, who had already started staying over most nights.

Phil didn’t freak out. He knelt on the bathroom tiles, pressed his forehead to James’s still-flat stomach, and said, “We’re keeping him.” Simple as that.

The training plan did not survive the news.

Instead of leaning out, James started rounding out. By week twelve the nausea had eased, but the hunger had not. He ate like the baby was a furnace and James was the only fuel source. Phil cooked—mountains of rice, peanut butter by the jar, second breakfasts at midnight. The scale climbed. First five pounds, then ten. James’s old training shirts stretched across a belly that was no longer soft from inactivity; it was full. A gentle curve that became a shelf by month five.

Phil never once suggested they resume the original program. He redesigned it on the fly: prenatal yoga in the empty gym at 7 a.m., slow walks along the river, resistance bands that turned into gentle games of tug-of-war across their bed. Every session ended the same way—Phil on his knees, palms framing the growing belly, whispering to the baby like it could already bench-press.

James watched his body change in the mirror with a mixture of horror and fascination. His chest softened and swelled. His thighs rubbed when he walked. Stretch marks bloomed across the underside of the bump like silver lightning. One night, month seven, he stood naked in front of the full-length mirror and poked the taut skin. “I was supposed to get abs,” he muttered.

Phil came up behind him, shirtless, arms sliding under James’s to cradle the heavy underside of his belly. “You got something better,” he said, voice low. He kissed the side of James’s neck, then lower, following the dark line that now bisected the swell. “You got us.”

Sex changed too. It had to. James was too big to lie on his back by month eight, too sensitive, too constantly aware of the life shifting inside him. Phil learned new angles—spooning, James straddling his lap with the belly resting between them like a warm, living secret. Phil’s hands never stopped moving over the stretched skin, thumbs tracing every new curve, every pound that was no longer “extra” but necessary. He loved the weight of it. Said it felt like James had finally let himself take up space.

The last month was pure gravity. James waddled now. His ankles vanished. He slept propped on every pillow they owned, one hand always on the belly because the baby kicked like he was training for the Olympics. Phil would wake at 2 a.m. to find James standing at the kitchen counter eating cereal straight from the box, shirt rucked up, belly resting on the edge of the counter like it needed the support. Phil would wrap around him from behind, chin on James’s shoulder, and they’d sway there in the dark—trainer and client, lovers, parents—until the cereal was gone and the baby settled.

On a rainy Tuesday in late October, nine months after James had signed the training contract, labor started in the middle of a slow dance in the living room. Phil had put on the same playlist they’d listened to the night they first slept together. James’s water broke between songs.

The birth was messy and loud and perfect. Their son—eight pounds of furious, red-faced determination—arrived screaming at 4:17 a.m. Phil cut the cord with shaking hands. James, sweat-drenched and trembling, laughed through tears when the nurse placed the baby on his still-round, still-soft belly.

Later, in the quiet hospital room, Phil climbed into the narrow bed beside James. The baby slept between them. James’s hand found Phil’s and laced their fingers.

“I never got leaner,” James said, voice hoarse.

Phil kissed his temple, then the stretch-marked curve of belly that hadn’t quite gone down yet. “You got stronger,” he said. “Different kind of strong. The kind that lasts.”

James looked at the two of them—his trainer, his partner, their son—and felt the weight of every unplanned pound settle into something solid and right.

Outside, the city kept moving. Inside, the three of them were already home.

The original nine-month plan had been abandoned months ago.

The gym’s locker room steam hung thick and warm as Ethan stepped into the far shower stall, the one with the busted curtain that never quite closed. The place was mostly empty this late in the afternoon—just the low hiss of water and the distant clang of weights two rooms over.

He tipped his head back, let the scalding spray pound his shoulders, eyes closed. Soap suds slid down the ridges of his abs, tracing the sharp V that disappeared beneath the waistband of his black compression shorts. Routine. Comfortable. Mind already drifting to the protein shake waiting in his bag.

Then it hit.

A sudden, molten heat bloomed low in his pelvis—like someone had poured warm honey straight into his core. His breath caught. He braced one palm against the wet tile, half-laughing at the absurdity. Muscle cramp? Bad lunch? But the heat didn’t fade. It swelled. Deepened. Turned liquid and urgent.

He looked down.

His flat, hard-earned stomach was already rounding. Not subtly. Visibly. The skin stretched smooth and taut, the navel beginning to pop outward as though something insistent was pressing up from inside. He stared, mouth open under the pouring water, cock twitching hard against the soaked fabric.

“What the fuck…”

Another pulse. Stronger. His belly surged forward in a single heartbeat. The sensation wasn’t pain—it was pressure, yes, but the kind that made his thighs shake and his breath hitch in short, needy gasps. Fullness. Stretching. Alive.

He cupped both hands under the curve instinctively, trying to hold it, slow it. Useless. The skin was fever-hot, drum-tight, and still growing. He could feel it—whatever was inside—rolling, shifting, pressing outward with deliberate, rhythmic insistence. Each swell pushed his erection harder against the elastic until the waistband dug into the sensitive underside.

“Jesus—fuck—yes—”

The word slipped out unbidden. He didn’t even try to stop it.

Water cascaded over the impossible dome of his abdomen. It jutted proud now, heavy, unmistakably pregnant—full-term and beyond. Stretch marks bloomed like pale lightning across the sides in real time. He dragged trembling fingers over them, awestruck, dizzy with how sensitive every inch had become. Each brush of his own palm sent sparks straight to his groin.

He was leaking—pre-cum soaking through the front of his shorts in dark streaks—but he couldn’t bring himself to touch his cock yet. Not yet. He needed both hands on this. On the life that had erupted inside him so impossibly fast.

Another powerful roll from within. He moaned—loud, shameless, the sound bouncing off the tiles. His knees buckled; he caught himself against the wall, forehead pressed to cool ceramic while his belly continued its relentless expansion. The skin gleamed under the water, so tight it looked lacquered. He could see the faint outline of movement beneath—elbows, knees, a tiny foot pressing outward, making the surface ripple.

He laughed again, breathless, delirious.

“I’m—fuck—I’m pregnant. I’m so fucking pregnant—”

The words alone nearly tipped him over the edge.

He finally gave in. One hand stayed splayed across the apex of his belly, feeling every kick, every squirm, while the other shoved his shorts down just enough to free his aching cock. The cold air hit wet skin and he hissed. Two strokes—hard, desperate—and he was already trembling on the brink.

Inside him, the pressure built to a crescendo. Not labor. Not yet. Just… arrival. Completion. His entire body sang with it.

He came with a broken shout that probably carried into the locker room. Thick ropes painted the underside of his own swollen belly, mixing with the shower water and sliding down the obscene curve. His knees gave out completely this time. He sank to the floor, back against the wall, legs splayed, water still pounding down, cradling the impossible weight of himself.

Chest heaving. Cock still twitching against the hot, heavy dome that hadn’t stopped moving.