Anything You Wish
465.6 it's not common but id love to see some het mpreg. give me an alpha woman taking care of her super preggers omega bf. Lol.
Mark’s groaning could be heard from across the house, all the way in the kitchen where Mariah was working on-- yet another-- ridiculous meal. Poutine and fish sticks and pickled banana peppers and a brownie sundae. Pregnancy cravings, they were the worst.
“I’m coming, baby,” she called back, sucking a bit of chocolate fudge off her finger. There was no point in waiting to make the dessert. Her husband would be done with the entrees before she could scoop the ice cream.
The groaning came again, long and tortured, like the lowing of a cow.
“They’re sooo hungry.” It was almost a plea for mercy. “God, and they’re moving so much!”
An escalation in the crying, the volume increasing and the pitch rising, told Mariah that the babies were having one of their increasingly frequent spasms. Kicking storms he had called them. There were so many of them and they’d grown so large already that she didn’t blame Mark one bit for all the noise.
Whipped creamed hissed out of the nozzle, rising above the mountain of ice cream in a frothy tower. She tapped on a handful of sprinkles, and a few cherries. Mark loved sprinkles, and the babies loved cherries.
Lifting the platter of dishes was challenging enough that Mariah grunted a little when she did it. It was no replacement for her time at the gym, but it was getting there.
The closer she got to their open bedroom door, the louder the moaning became. The lengthy wails of discomfort were punctuated by the occasional oh god and oh fuck. This whole scene was becoming more common now. She had expected it ramp up but didn’t know it would happen this quickly. It just came with the territory of being so massively, preposterously pregnant.
“I’m right here, baby,” she cooed as she entered the doorway and laid eyes upon her husband.
It was impossible to see his face with how high his belly rose above him. The naked mass towered over him, so large that had he been sitting it would have gone past the point of his knees. Though it had once been round as all pregnant bellies are, his had long since deformed due to the load he was carrying; first it had stretched into a distended oblong, then the sides had protruded, so convex that they curved out wider than his flank, and finally his poor abdomen could not take anymore and merely clung to the growing bodies of the children inside him, their individual shapes making irregular bulges and indents all across the surface of his belly.
Stuffed. This man was stuffed. And he wasn’t even done yet.
Mark’s head rolled back and forth on the pillow. His eyes were closed, his hands helplessly clutching the sides of his womb as though all he could do was endure the sensations of his pregnancy. The surface of his belly rippled, arms and legs roiling inside him, and a call of discomfort simmered in his throat.
“They’re so hungry,” he repeated, almost delirious. His face was sticky with sweat and clammy as though from fever.
Stabbing the pile of poutine with a fork and guiding it to her husband’s mouth, Mariah answered, “I know, sweetie. I’ve got you right here. Open up for me.”
He opened his mouth weakly and took in the food, humming in pleasure as the taste exploded in his mouth. Food tasted better when you were pregnant, and mind-altering when you were having septuplets.
Mariah fed him a few more mouthfuls, her hips hanging half off the edge of the bed due to how much space her man took up. This was especially true now that his belly was so wide. It looked as if her husband was smuggling a small boulder beneath his skin. The tortured flesh was marred with red stretch marks, some as thick as the width of her finger and some like cat scratches. The thin ones spiraled out from his shallow navel, the button ready to pop out at any second, and the deeper ones cut across his hips and lower belly like a strike from a tiger. The babies churned in response to the food and his belly wobbled visibly in his hands, the mass seeming to come alive on his lap. Mark broke into a moan, which Mariah silenced with a particularly hearty forkful of fries and gravy.
“You are doing so good, baby,” she encouraged, taking a moment to wipe the greasy from his mouth. “I’m so proud of you. And in just 8 weeks, we’re going to have a whole boatload of babies to meet.”
The mention of it made Mark whine again, his head turning away from his wife.
He whimpered, “I..I can’t. I can’t do another 8 weeks, Mariah. I need to be induced.”
Setting the fork and plate down, his wife took his hand between hers. Beside them, his womb churned with the continuous movements of their seven children.
“Listen to me,” she said, firm but tender. “You can do this. It’s not that long. You’ve done 32 weeks with these babies already. You’re on the home stretch.”
With his free hand, her husband gingerly caressed the side of his belly, touching its aching surface as gently as he could. The skin was hot, practically radiating heat, and the mound was so fully packed with babies that there was no give to it, every inch of him stuffed to the brim with children.
His voice was audible trembling as he said, “They’re getting...they’re so big now. So fast. It feels like they’re ripping me.”
“They’re not ripping you,” his wife assured him. “This is really normal, that’s what the doctor said. The babies do the most growing in the third trimester and you’re in the thick of it. I will make sure you do not pop.”
She handed him the plate of fish sticks, at least two boxes worth and a measuring cup full of tartar sauce, and squirted a thick pile of lotion onto her palms from the bottle on the bedside table. Her husband shoveled the battered pieces into his mouth, his shame and decency coming far behind his need to feed.
Mariah placed her palms on the wall of his belly, spreading the lotion around his mound. Mark nearly moaned at the feeling of the cool cream on his hot skin. Now that he was eating and he had vocalized his fears, his emotions seemed to be descending back to a neutral plane.
“Sorry for getting so riled up,” he said meekly, watching the mountain of his belly shift softly above his gaze. “It’s the hormones.”
His wife chuckled. “You have nothing to be sorry about.”
Mark’s womb was so tight around their babies that his skin merely slid over it as Mariah massaged it. She could feel each of their seven children inside him just by rubbing him, their limbs and heads jutting out of him with how large they had become inside his body. His stretch marks were particularly sore, and ached dully as her petite hands swiped over them.
He sucked down at least 7 pieces of fish before he spoke again.
“Feel like I’m gonna pop,” he said, his voice muffled slightly by the food in his cheeks. “But I can’t stop eating. It’s like they’re controlling me from the inside. Do we have any more of these?”
Mariah hummed, allowing herself to vocalize her enjoyment this time. Seeing her husband like this was the ultimate pleasure. She would never have subjected herself to the submission of pregnancy, but her husband was always the type to let her take the lead. He didn’t even protest when she suggested he be the one to give them a family. Neither of them could have known he was this fertile, however. But when she promised she’d take care of him and all the babies, he agreed to continue with the pregnancy.
That was when they thought there were five. Turns out with this higher order pregnancies there can be so many babies they can hide behind each other. They found number 6 at a subsequent ultrasound. Then 7 at another. By then, he was too far along and couldn’t have backed out if he wanted to. He was locked in for the ride. And she was going to make sure he gave her the biggest, strongest, healthiest babies possible.
“Eat what I gave you and then you can have more,” she instructed, her hands moving to the underside of his womb. She could really feel the weight of his litter there. 7 huge babies, measuring past the 95th percentile, all pressing down on her hands. She could only imagine how he felt. Mariah clawed her fingers, her long acrylic nails pointing towards him, and scratched them across his tender skin.
Mark, who had cleared his plate and had turned towards his sundae, leaned his head back and moaned.
“Jesus, that feels good.” He cut into the whipped cream, the ice cream, and the brownie with his spoon, shoveling the mixture into his mouth. “I’m so itchy and I can’t reach most of it anymore.”
“I’m sure,” she said, her voice darkening with desire. She loved how pregnant he was, how fucking huge and useless he had become. Her husband had been on bed rest for months, not even ordered by the doctor but out of necessity: he was too heavy to move, too overly packed with all her babies. Stretch marks streaked up his towering gut from his pelvis to his navel, his poor skin giving way due to all the massive fetuses he was growing for her.
Above him, Mark’s belly loomed like a stone monument. He hadn’t seen his feet in months. His pelvis creaked, the bones widening to make room for the fertile load inside him. His weight soared, fat piling around his hips and thighs, his ass pillowing out beneath him like a couch cushion. Even after these babies were born, he was never going to look how he did before. At first it bothered him, but not anymore. The hunger was too intense. He just kept eating, and Mariah kept feeding him.
His womb was a steel dome between them, so large they could not see one another as she knelt between his legs at the underside of his belly. Mark gorged on his meal, enough to feed three people but for him comprising but a fraction of the calories he’d have to consume that day, while his wife lotioned and scratched at him, admiring what all her hard work had done to her beloved him.
A few babies churned inside him, the entire mass shaking. It bulged slowly to the left, then to the right, as the fetuses adjusted their positions in the cramped interior. Mark moaned even as he ate, so hungry that he could not stop filling himself even as his insides were pummeled by the litter he carried.
“So fuckin strong…” he muttered through a mouth of dessert.
Her tongue flicking across her lower lip, serpentine, his wife echoed, “Yes, so strong.”
She placed her palms on the great expanse of his gut, the weight of all their children palpable on her wrists and arms, and pushed against it, a single thrust at first but then again, and again. She could feel their babies, barely separated by the thinness of his flesh, feel the contours of their elbows, the press of their backs, as she shook his massive, gravid belly.
Immediately, the babies began to squirm. Just a wriggling of their limbs at first, but then their curled torsos, their legs stretching out, each one of the seven children fighting for their own space inside their father.
Mark dropped the sundae, the dish and spoon clattering to the floor, his hands flying up to clutch at his womb as if afraid it was going to split open on his lap.
“OH, GOD, THEY’RE FUCKING MOVING!” he bellowed, his eyes bugging. “THESE KIDS ARE GONNA TEAR ME APART!”
Rounded bulges distended grotesquely from his belly where heads were pushing out of him. His flesh rippled, deforming, protruding in some places and sinking in others, his entire abdomen shifting like waves in the ocean. Mark was screaming, his palms grasping frantically, aimlessly, trying to reach the places where his babies were pushing out so that he could try desperately to press them back into his body.
Mariah held his womb, leaning in to kiss it, to stiffen her tongue and lick the rolling, undulating mass attached to her husband.
The babies churned, the movements so rough that Mark thought for sure his water would break, but it didn’t. Eventually, like always, his litter slowed its rioting to a stop and his belly became still again, except for a few periodic bumps and squirms here and there.
Panting heavily, Mark fell back onto his pillow.
“Jesus Christ, Mariah...I thought you said you weren’t gonna pop me?”
Coming back up to the head of the bed, she chuckled, “And I didn’t. You’re still here, aren’t you? All eight of you.”
Mark placed his hands on the expansive upper shelf of his womb, his downturned palms resting right below his sternum.
“Yeah,” he answered. “For now. Can we order pizza? The babies want pizza.”
Brushing his head behind his ear, his devoted wife asked, “And what else?”
“And breadsticks, and wings...and one-- no two corned beef sandwiches, with fries.”
“Anything you wish,” she said.
FIN.
