PREGGOMAN

He remembered the first sparks between them, how Chris’s eyes had stared at his ass for too long, and how he had thought about Chris’s bulge way too many times. He remembered the shock when he saw Chris’s monster cock in full glory, then the impossible stretch as that massive thickness entered him, how it stole his breath and then gave it back in a shuddering rush. He remembered his moans as Chris went so deep into him that he had thought it was impossible to take another inch, but he did. Then, he remembered the wave of cum filling his guts, the warmth flooding him so intensely that he had felt bloated for days after.

The memory made him gasp in delight as he felt his cock stir, thickening against his thigh even before he realized he was reacting at all. To his surprise, the corner of his mouth lifted. For one breath, he let himself think not about the cheating, not about the upset faces at his dining table, but about this impossible outcome: six lives growing inside him because of a moment that had felt reckless but necessary. The thought of Chris’s kids growing inside him was terrifying, complicated, and wrong in some ways, but it softened something in his chest.

He started the engine because doing something felt better than sitting in a parking lot. He drove home on autopilot, with one hand steady on the wheel and the other resting at his rounded belly, counting from one to six over and over. He tried to make out a plan and find the words to tell Tammy about the pregnancy. He wondered how to tell Chris that he had—somehow—put six kids into him. And the most complicated part was explaining it all to Josh and Jeremy because men weren’t supposed to carry kids.

So, over the next few days, Ryan frequently lost himself in thought. His mind would drift during commercials, during the pause between one job site and the next, and during breakfast when Jeremy insisted he wanted his toast cut like stars. He’d find his hand moving in slow circles at his middle at the sink, in the driver’s seat, while hauling a box of screws. It was an absentminded, protective gesture out of pure instinct.

Once, at the dinner table, Josh looked at his dad over his chicken nuggets. “Dad, your hand is on your tummy again. Does it hurt?”

Ryan jolted, blushed, and laughed nervously as Jeremy and Tammy turned to look at him. “Caught me. I must’ve eaten too many sweets at lunch. Rowdy stomach.”

Jeremy stared for a second, got off his chair, and stood beside Ryan to put his small hand on Ryan’s middle like he was soothing a pet. “Be nice, tummy,” he told it, very seriously.

Tammy furrowed her brows in curiosity as she watched the scene. The look she gave Ryan wasn’t unkind but sharpened with something like certainty. “Maybe your ‘rowdy stomach’ wants you to slow down and stop pretending you’re fine,” she teased, with a devilish little smirk tugging one corner of her mouth.

Ryan huffed a laugh. “I’m fine. Some mild sickness won’t kill me,” he said, changing the subject to homework folders, but the red blush on his face betrayed his nervousness.

Across the street, Chris and Renee walked on eggshells that had finally stopped cracking with every step. He still slept on the couch, and she still moved around him like he was a piece of furniture she hadn’t decided where to put. But the hard edges began to round with time, especially when she saw him with Rory. He narrated diaper changes like courtroom arguments to make the baby giggle; he sang off‑key lullabies and made faces that would have been absurd in any other room. He was a perfect dad, and she knew it.

One night, after the dishes, she came out of the kitchen and froze as soon as she saw the scene in the living room. Chris had dozed off shirtless on the couch—his bed of the last few weeks—with one arm draped protectively over the almost seven‑month‑old baby who was sleeping sprawled on his chest. Rory’s cheek rose and fell with Chris’s breathing, and his tiny hands opened and closed against a light dusting of chest hair.

It was objectively adorable—picture‑book adorable—and some stubborn, angry place inside her sighed and let go a fraction. She stepped closer to lift Rory and hesitated when the lamplight and the angle showcased the subtle curve of Chris’s abdomen. She’d been doing such a good job not seeing him that she hadn’t noticed how rounder he’d gotten, how his belly didn’t fall flat the way it used to. She scanned the scene for a moment before sliding Rory carefully into her arms so as not to wake either of her boys. She tugged a blanket over Chris, watched his hand move reflexively toward his middle even asleep, and went upstairs without a word.

*

A few days later, Thanksgiving arrived, bringing some peace to the families. At the Dorchester house, Tammy cooked as if feeding a small town and claimed it was because “construction guys burn a million calories,” and she kept piling Ryan’s plate during dinner like she remembered every time he’d said “I’m still hungry” this month.

He thought the attention was odd, but then he stopped thinking and ate like there was no tomorrow. He devoured plate after plate of turkey, potatoes, stuffing, green beans, rolls, and pie. By the second slice of pie, he leaned back with a groan that was half complaint, half relief, like someone who’s eaten past reason. His belly pushed forward under the fabric, straining the bottom button so hard the thread looked ready to surrender. Each breath pushed the shirt tighter, and the cotton stretched to a glossy sheen over the roundness beneath.

Finally, with another helpless groan, he slipped a thumb under the button and popped it open. The sound was soft but decisive, and the relief that followed made his head fall back for a moment. The released fabric parted instantly, revealing his distended, shiny‑taut belly, flushed from heat and pressure, rising high and firm in his lap. His grin looked dazed with how good it felt to give his overstuffed stomach room to breathe.

“Need room for more belly?” Tammy teased him, and her eyes sparkled as the boys erupted into laughter without fully knowing why.

“Apparently,” he said, blushing as his hand smoothed over the tautness that now pushed his shirt apart. “I think I overdid myself,” he said, trying to act casual about it.

However, Ryan knew the fullness wasn’t only dinner because that curve was there every second of his days. For the first time, he saw his future through a physical fact. If his belly was this size at three months with six babies, he wondered how much room his belly would demand in the coming months. He couldn’t move his hand off his belly as he imagined carving extra notches in his belt, buying bigger shirts, or having to waddle like a penguin.

The Wilkinson Thanksgiving was smaller but warmer than it had been in weeks. Renee roasted a chicken instead of a turkey for two people and a baby, mashed the potatoes with extra butter and a guilty amount of cheese, baked a strawberry pie—Chris’s favorite—and set the table with the fancy napkins just because. Chris started eating in silence, and couldn’t help but moan in delight when he took the first bite of potatoes, making Renee laugh.

“I added more cheese,” she said, looking up at her husband straight into the eyes for the first time in weeks. “I know you love it that way. You always say they’re better when they’re cheesy. I knew you would enjoy them.”

“They’re perfect,” he said, meaning the potatoes and the moment, and how Renee’s mouth softened into a slight smile. “Everything is perfect.”

For the first time in what felt like ages, they ate like a couple again, having a careful, light conversation and sharing glances that didn’t carry accusations. It was enough to loosen the weight in Chris’s chest. Which, in the next heartbeat, felt heavier again with the truth Renee didn’t know yet—the positive pregnancy tests. He smiled through it despite the pressure and guilt and asked about her day, watching his wife watch him.

Over the next few days, Chris carried his secret like glass. Every time he thought about setting it down, he imagined it shattering and cutting them both, so he rehearsed sentences in the shower. He forgot them halfway through and dried off with nothing but steam and dread.

Meanwhile, Ryan fought a losing battle. Shirts in his largest stack fit as if they belonged to someone a size smaller. Pants that had been roomy now required persuasion. He knew too much about the growing belly to ignore the fact that every day it felt bigger and heavier, pushing forward so much that whenever he looked down, all he saw was roundness.

Tammy still teased him, but showed some concerns about his growing body and the struggles Ryan faced. “You’re pale again,” she said. “Sit down.” “You’re sweating through your tee from going upstairs. You need rest.”

So, then, on December 6, Ryan gave up on the notion that there was a better time to ruin and repair a life. He asked Tammy to sit on their bed. He couldn’t join her, so he crossed the room twice instead, adjusted the blinds that didn’t need adjusting, and picked up a stray sock—groaning at the motion—as if it had been waiting for this moment.

When Ryan finally turned, his hands were open at his sides. “I need you to listen all the way through before you decide anything,” he said. “I love you. I’m sorry. And I think the world’s about to get weirder than either of us ever planned for.”

He told her everything—haltingly at first, then in a rush, pacing in front of her like a man teetering on the edge of a cliff. “I took some pregnancy tests,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I did it several times. I couldn’t believe it,” he continued, and Tammy’s brows inched upward as she stayed quiet. “And then I went to the doctor. Bloodwork. Hormone panels. You know how that is. When the results came back, he thought it was a mistake. He said my levels were impossible.” His voice cracked on the last word. “But they weren’t wrong. And then—” He swallowed hard. “Then he did an ultrasound.”

He stopped pacing. His hands trembled as he reached into his jacket pocket and drew out his phone as if it weighed a hundred pounds. “I need you to look. The doctor sent me the capture,” he said, opening the gallery and holding the phone out to her, unable to release it for a moment. “Please. I—I can’t say it without you seeing it.”

Tammy stared at the screen, scanning the glossy black‑and‑white picture. Ryan saw her expression change—not shock, not comprehension, but something slow and searching. She lowered her eyes to the image, taking her time to process the shapes. The room went so still that even the hum of the heat vent sounded loud. Her shoulders stiffened, and Ryan watched her eyes track the annotations one by one. A. B. C. D. E. F. She traced a fingertip over one of the tiny labeled circles, as if making sure it was really there.

“T-Tammy?” he whispered. “Say something. Please.”

She didn’t answer. She kept staring at the image, zooming in to check closely on each of the shapes as though the story might change if she zoomed in enough times. Then, she lifted her head, parting her lips, but no sound came out. For a heartbeat, Ryan braced himself for anger, disbelief, tears, or screams, but Tammy laughed. It wasn’t a mocking or cruel laugh, but a short, stunned burst of sound that broke into a disbelieving smile, as her eyes went wide with an expression Ryan couldn’t read at first.

“Ryan,” she breathed, shaking her head with a soft huff. “I knew it.”

“You what?” Ryan said, now more confused than ever.

“We had our suspicions,” Tammy said, emphasizing the “we.” “Renee and I compared notes long before Chris’s confession. The nausea, the smells, the bloat, how you both looked like you were fighting the same invisible battle. I never thought I’d say the word out loud, but it fit better than anything else.” She handed the phone back, standing up and stepping close, pressing her flat midsection to his rounded one so their centers met. “You, mister Dorchester,” she whispered, sliding her hands beneath his shirt and caressing the firm gut, “are going to need practice. Real practice. I’m not responsible for these six babies, so you’re about to spend so much time being very, very maternal.” Her tone was syrupy‑sweet, but there was an edge to it, something assessing beneath the teasing. “They aren’t ours, which means—strictly speaking—not my responsibility. So all the fun little duties, the late‑night feedings, the spit‑up, the diaper disasters.” She tilted her head, giving him a smile that was half soft affection, half sharp warning. “Those are all yours, babe.”

Ryan blinked, swallowing hard again, and didn’t argue. He barely breathed.

“Look at you,” she whispered, as her fingertips moved around Ryan’s sensitive navel, “already showing so much. And you’re only going to get bigger. Enormous.” Her voice dropped, almost warm but firm enough to sound like a warning. “Six babies, Ryan. Six. You’re going to be huge.” She pressed in closer, caressing him so lovingly that it contradicted every mock-scolding word. “But don’t worry,” she added, brushing a kiss against his jaw, “I’m still your wife. I’ll take good care of you.” Then, with a wicked glint: “But you’ll be handling diaper duty, laundry, and every 3 AM meltdown. Consider it a learning opportunity.”

Ryan swallowed hard, and heat crawled up his neck as her hands roamed over the stretched curve that would only grow heavier. He tensed again, softly groaning at the sensation, and she smiled against his skin.

“It’ll be fun to see you waddling around, big guy,” she teased him again.

*

A few days later, things across the street took a dramatic turn once again. On December 10, Chris came home to find Renee holding a handful of plastic wands like a bouquet with bad timing. Five of them, and he recognized them immediately—his pregnancy tests. His stomach dropped through the floor and then bounced back up into his throat. She didn’t yell or even speak at first. She only looked from the tests to him, to his belly, and back to the tests.

“I looked into your car this morning while you were in the bathroom,” she said, almost shaking. “Tammy came by yesterday to tell me Ryan is pregnant. She didn’t say much else, but it was enough to make me check. Explain this, Chris.”

His face flushed hot, and his fingers reached, then dropped. “They’re mine,” he said, barely audible at first. “They’re mine, and they were all positive. I didn’t know how to tell you about it. I know I should have, but I was scared. I’m still scared. But I think—no, I know—I’m pregnant. And well, I know Ryan is the father, and I know I’m the father of his babies.” The last sentence nearly knocked his knees out from under him.

Renee inhaled like someone surfacing. “Have you seen a doctor?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“Ryan has,” she said as if accusing him of being extra reckless. “He had an ultrasound.”

Chris blinked. “He—what?”

“Go to the doctor,” she said, ignoring his question. “Stop being stubborn for once in your life.” She turned, took two steps up the stairs, and then paused for a few seconds. When she looked back, her face had changed into something unexpectedly kind. “Grab your things and come back to our room. I’ll allow you into our bed, but it doesn’t mean we’re okay.”

Chris stared in shock. “Wait. Are you sure?”

“I’m not a monster,” she said, and the smallest smile tucked into the corner of her mouth. “If you’re pregnant, you shouldn’t be sleeping on the couch. Not in your condition.” She disappeared up the stairs, and he stood very still, then touched his not‑so‑subtle belly, sighing deeply in a level of relief he hadn’t experienced in weeks.

*

The next morning, Chris texted Ryan to let him know he knew about Ryan’s ultrasound and that Renee had asked him to find a doctor. Ryan replied within the hour with the clinic address and, conspicuously, no details about what he had seen in his ultrasound. Chris only frowned and called to schedule an appointment.

He went to the doctor’s office on December 13, and the receptionist barely had time to write Chris’s name before the doctor himself opened the door and asked him to come in. Chris explained, as evenly as he could, that a friend had been seen here under similar circumstances and had advised him to get an ultrasound.

The doctor nodded. “I know what you mean. Ryan Dorchester called me a few days ago to tell me you would come to see me soon,” he said, staring at Chris’s rounded middle. “Let’s look,” he said, and asked Chris to lie back on the examination table and lift his shirt. 

Chris did as requested, trying not to notice the doctor staring openly at the gut that had replaced the flat plane he used to take for granted. The gel was cold, and Chris instinctively winced. Then, the doctor started moving the wand across the lower curve. The doctor’s eyes widened almost immediately and then narrowed in concentration as he angled, paused, pressed, and adjusted.

Without warning, the doctor reached for the monitor and rotated it toward Chris. “All right,” he said softly. “You need to see this.” He tapped the grainy blur of the ultrasound, outlining the shapes there. “Here,” he said, trying to remain professional as his eyes witnessed another impossibility. “And here.” Two bright flickers pulsed side by side inside the same amniotic space—as impossible as it sounded. “Mr. Wilkinson,” the doctor said, stunned and formal at once, “you are pregnant. And you’re carrying identical twins.”

The words struck harder than the cold gel on his skin. Chris stared at the flashes on the screen, his babies growing inside him. “Twins,” Chris echoed, and the word felt too big and exactly right in his mouth.

The doctor whispered to himself as he saved images, noting measurements and timing, as the faint crease between his brows deepened. “This situation is unprecedented,” he said. “Two neighbors. Two men. Two confirmed pregnancies. I’m going to have to assume there’s a community factor, some environmental trigger. A syndrome of some sort.” He shook his head in disbelief. “At least you’re not having sextuplets like Ryan.”

Chris’s jaw dropped. “What?” His voice cracked. “Sextuplets?”

“Yeah. Ryan’s ultrasound showed six fetuses,” the doctor said matter‑of‑factly, still concentrating on the keyboard. “Healthy flickers in each. And now you are having twins.” He finally looked up and gave a small, stunned laugh. “Remarkable fertility on so many levels.”

The doctor kept talking about how healthy Chris’s twins looked for their stage, but the pregnant man could only think of the numbers, shuttling between them like a pendulum. Two. Six. Two. Six. His twins. Ryan’s sextuplets. Sextuplets. The word stuck in his mind like glue, and he couldn’t help but imagine Ryan in a few months, massive and heavy with six babies, his belly impossibly round and taut, the kind of size that would demand two hands to steady it.

The image made Chris gasp, but his massive cock stirred in his pants, thickening at the memory of Ryan’s body surrendering under him in the tent and how Ryan’s rounded ass had felt against Chris’s hips and around his cock as they conceived every one of those little lives. He tried to keep it cool in front of the doctor, but deep down, he could barely resist the urge to find Ryan and fuck him again and again.