While I am a firm supporter of chubby Shane Hollander, I do also love the thought of chubby Ilya because yeah, of course, it makes sense.
Post retirement Ilya loving the fact that he can relax and eat whatever he wants, skip workouts with no consequences, and doesn't have to maintain his speed and agility anymore. He develops a dad bod real quick, even before the eventual adoption of their two children goes through.
Shane may love it more than Ilya. While Ilya has softened up and rounded out, Shane has gotten lean and toned. He's taken up long-distance running and stayed on the ice as a special assistant to both Ottawa's MHL and PWHL teams. He doesn't feel the need to stay in shape specifically for his public image, but it certainly helps Shane accept the invites he still receives for brand deals and appearances.
Because of their differing retirement choices, Ilya looks even bigger next to his husband. Shane eats up the size difference, almost obsessed with the way Ilya's much heavier weight feels on top of him now. He likes how Ilya's clothes almost look oversized on him, and he finds himself happily staring when Ilya wears an older shirt that clings to his softer middle.
And if Shane purposefully orders more food than he knows he can finish whenever they go out to eat so he can hand it off to his husband, that's between him and the hockey gods who gave him the joy of chubby, content Ilya Rozanov.
And if I said Shane bulked up intentionally during his teen years after being bullied for his small stature and ‘feminine’ features which never made sense to him yet there was always at least one asshole saying it and so he started with a small bulk and cut to put on muscle mass until it becomes more of a bulk and maintain a few times over which results in him loving his new size despite comments he receives about it because he can throw his weight around really well and is now even more dominant on the ice but it was also surprisingly gender and identity affirming for him to feel more confident in his body plus he can and will be his own enforcer now when idiots still do run their mouths about other bullshit, oh and did he mention that when Rozanov’s hands grip his plush waist tight enough to leave marks the phrase love handles finally makes sense to him
Her soft white skin, her shrinking blue eyes, and her weak frame are all signals of her desirability and need to be impregnated. Her nature is that of a woman despite her male anatomy. She longs for the day that her husband's potent sperm fertilizes her egg and makes her tummy swell irreversibly with his baby.
I stepped out of the club and fired up my phone. It felt good to trade pumping music and the sweaty, heaving mass of men for post-midnight silence and some cool night breezes.
Don’t get me wrong: I had fun inside. Dancing, flirting, my body pressed up against other bodies. But none of it was a real connection. I was just another body in a sea of bodies: gay men liquored up, drugged up, indifferent to who was pressed up against them in this moment, barely noticing the replacement, the substitution, when the crowd shifted. I love being gay, but tonight I was tired of being dispensable. It was fucking depressing.
And so I was going home alone. Early. At least, earlier than the rest of the crowd. Sure, it would have been fun to find someone special, to be going home together for a fumble in the sheets. Adjusting to a body on the other side of the bed, maybe waking each other up with some little jokes and a blow job. Cooking eggs together in the kitchen. I wanted at least that level of connection, some purpose in my relationships. But I suppose a gay club is the wrong place to look for it.
So is Uber, I said to myself, but that didn’t stop me from rejecting the first two proposed rides. I knew my rating was going to take a hit as I cancelled on a schlubby middle aged guy and then some twenty-year old with a flat face. Gotta accept the next one, I told myself. But even so I hoped for a nicer face to end my night.
Ping! Ride booked.
Sayeed, arriving in 3 minutes. Twenty-something. Handsome with curly black hair and even darker black eyes. Intense eyes. No smile. Beautiful and dangerous looking, with a scraggly black beard.
Doesn’t shave, probably for religious reasons, I guessed. Super devout, probably. Oh well, I sighed. It was too much to hope for a hot, gay Uber driver, who would somehow magically want to hold me all night. Not gay (pretty sure), not going to hold me (even more certain)—but at least he was handsome.
“Hello!” I said cheerfully when he pulled up. He grunted and scowled as I got in, then offered a tepid, accented, “Good evening.” Arab pop music played softy on the stereo. The car smelled of cedar and a cologne. A tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror explained the cedar. His Middle Eastern background explained the cologne. I had been in this type of taxi before.
Sayeed’s face was partly reflected in his rear view mirror and I studied it for clues. Who was he at heart? Crazy fundamentalist? Probably not. He was in Western clothes, workout wear, looked like he came from the gym. Arab peacock? No, he wasn’t one of those guys you see at the bar in black jeans and a too tight shirt with five buttons undone. He was somewhere in between, I guessed. Or some other type of Arab. I didn’t know that many. I had few archetypes to work from.
His checked the rear view mirror for traffic and caught my stare. I quickly looked away. Busted! I gazed out the window, focusing on the buildings whizzing by.
I counted a full minute before I allowed myself another look at him in the mirror, feeling sure his eyes would be back on the road. They weren’t. He stared back at me.
Nervously, I spoke. I wanted to break the silence and to normalize things, try to cover it up with some regular conversation.
“I noticed your accent. So where are you from?” I asked him.
“Syria.”
“Wow.” Syria was a mess, had been in a civil war for years. Was he there during the fighting, or…?
“I have been here almost two years now.”
“You left…because of the war?”
“Yes. My father was against the regime. Eventually it became no longer safe for us. He stayed to fight and ordered me to bring my mother and sisters out, to safety. I take care of them.”
“That’s good of you.”
He shrugged. “It’s a man’s duty to care for his family.”
“How do you like it here?”
“It is nice. It’s good to live without fear. But I also miss my country.”
“Understandable. Hard to get good Muhammarah here.”
“Muhammarah? How do you know this? Muhammarah.” I was proud of this detail, glad I had the right term.
“They have it at my favorite favorite felafel joint. Or did, until it closed. The owner was Syrian, he said. I loved that sauce…I begged for a bottle to take home. I wanted to put it on everything.”
“It is very good,” he agreed. “What else did you eat there? Did they make a Jez mez?”
“So good when I’m hung over!” He laughed at this. White teeth flashed against his dark complexion. He had a nice smile, actually. When he let it break through.
He continued talking about his favorite dishes, describing things his grandmother made—old, old recipes that could not be found in any restaurant. Big family dinners that gathered generations around the table, where they would talk and laugh for hours. It reminded me of my own grandmother and the family meals she hosted when I was small. I told him I missed those days. We were both feeling nostalgic and wistful now.
He sighed. “I miss the food. My mother cooks the traditional dishes but they don’t taste the same here. She says it is hard to get the right peppers, the right spices. And even when she does, they taste different. Maybe it’s the oil here, or the water, the air. I don’t know.”
“Yes. Food is so much tied to place. You can make the same thing anywhere, but it’s won’t stay the same. My Polish grandmother always said that in a new place everything is adapted, is forced to become something new.” He nodded at this and went quiet. Then his eyes flashed back at me in the rearview mirror.
“That place you were at…”
“The club?”
“Yes. It is for…” he trailed off. Like he didn’t know how to say it. Or didn’t want to. “For men,” he finally offered.
“It’s mixed on weekends. People just like to dance. But yeah, it’s mostly gay, I guess.”
“And you go there for that reason? To be with those men?”
What was he getting at here? I swallowed. “Yes.”
“Then you are…”
“I’m gay.”
“I see.”
“Why do you ask?”
“It continues to be surprising to me. We do not have that in Syria. And we do not believe in that here. We Muslims, that is.”
“What do you mean? There are gay men everywhere. Even Syria. What is there to believe or not believe?”
“We don’t believe that…identity. There is no gay identity. Only gay behavior.”
I thought about what he said for a moment. “Well, you may have a point. The pool of people engaging in gay behavior has always been wider than those who will claim a gay identity.”
“Many people struggle to do what God calls them to do.” I guess that was agreement. But where was he going with this? I searched his reflection in the rearview mirror for a sense of what he was thinking. His dark eyes glared back, still holding their secrets.
“Very true, my friend. I’ve sucked enough ‘straight’ cocks in my time to know that’s the case.” Sayeed bristled at my remark. Fuck, that pushed a button.
It was disprectful, maybe. Culturally insensitive perhaps. But I was still tipsy from the club and anyway, what the hell did I care? This was a 25 minute Uber ride home and then I’d never see him again. What’s the worst that would happen, he’d give me one star? “So what’s the Koran say about that?”
His shoulders stayed rigid. “It says men should not be with men in that fashion.”
“This is the modern era. Do you believe that?”
“It doesn’t matter what I believe. It’s what God commands us.”
“Not every Muslim believes in living like its the 7th century.”
“True.”
“I mean, you’re wearing a track suit, for fuck’s sake.”
“We can wear Western dress, embrace some aspects of modernity, while keeping our morals and ethics traditional.”
“Is that what you do then? Keep things traditional when it counts? No sex then?”
“I didn’t say that. Men may have sex. They have to be prepared for marriage. They must know how to please a woman.”
“So you are experienced.”
“Yes. And you too, I’d expect.”
“Oh hell yes.” I paused and tried to check myself. Camping it up was not going to make for a smooth ride home. “Sorry, was that too much.”
Silence. And then I thought, Why was I apologizing to him? Really, what did I care?
“When you are with the men,” he asked. “Are you the man or the woman?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Just answer the question.” Sheesh. So demanding.
“I do both. Depends on the person, I guess, but—“
“I see.”
“Why?’
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I understand needing release, and I understand a man penetrating a woman. Or perhaps another man. The penetrator remains a man. But to receive—“
“Feels pretty fucking great.” I was drunk. I shouldn’t be saying this. Egging him on.
“You love it. Even when a man sticks his cock in you.”
“One hundred percent. I love cock. Whether it’s mine plowing some dude, or it’s another guy whipping it out and letting me to go to town…hell, sign me up for that party.”
“So if I pulled it out. Mine. You would want to suck it.”
“Well, I don’t actually know. I mean I just met you….” I trailed off. Unsure why was I getting all shy now? He seemed to be opening a door; I should step through it. “But yeah. Yeah. I probably would.”
“Probably.”
“Definitely.”
“Definitely. That’s better.” I didn’t know what to say to that and he did not speak again. We continued on the road a bit in silence. A few minutes later he pulled into an off-ramp.
“Hey, I think you’re getting off course here”
“No,” Sayeed replied. “We talked about it.” He signaled to turn right, and within a minute he pulled into the empty parking lot of a park. “I am following through. Now it’s your turn.”
My turn. To what? He couldn’t have meant to suck his cock? Not really.
But yeah, I guess so…I mean what else could this be?
And aso, why not? Sayeed was a little weird, a little intense, but it wasn’t like I was going to marry the guy. So why not taste his cock? See what it’s like?
He put on the parking brake and turned off the engine. We both just sat there. Then, “Should I…?” I really didn’t know what to say to him.
“Get out and come to me.” I nodded and unbuckled my belt. Exited the car and then came back inside, to the passenger’s seat.
I looked over. His eyes faced forward. He unzipped and pushed his briefs down.
His large brown cock, still limp but very long, flopped onto his thigh.
“Jesus,” I exclaimed at its length. Sayeed shot me a sharp look. “My God,” I corrected myself. “If it’s that big when it’s soft—“
“Yes, it is very big. Arab men are much larger than you Americans.” I knew this, of course. Every gay man has seen those charts of cock size around the world. I always joked that it should influence my vacation plans. Now I understood that I really should book a trip to the Middle East.
Sayeed began to stroke himself, and his cock stiffened, bobbing up at half mast. “What are you waiting for? Suck it,” he commanded.
I dropped my head to his lap and buried my nose in his bush and balls. I like to smell a guy before sucking him. Sayeed was sweat, cedar, musk.
I flicked my tongue out to tickle his balls but felt Sayeed’s hand on the back of my head. “My cock,” he stated.
Weird. Dude was getting his first (I assumed his first) cocksucker blowjob, putting himself in the hands of a real expert, yet he was trying to direct the proceedings. Fine, it was his loss. I’d leave the balls for now.
I ran my tongue up his impossibly long shaft, making sure I hit the tender backside where the skin comes together. I thought I heard him murmur or maybe moan a little, but it was difficult to tell. He was a quiet guy.
When I reached the top, I let my tongue dive into his piss slit, licking, pushing. My mouth opened up to form a circle and I wrapped it around his cockhead. I moved back and forth a few times, sucking just the head, that seat of power.
It was night, but the streetlights ringing the park gave me enough visibility to see what I was working on. Sayeed’s cock had an amazing shape. The shaft was not particularly thick—just regular girth I guess—but it was very long. Long and dark brown, until you reached the top where it turned much lighter. That length and the color difference made the cockhead prominent; it really stood out. A bulbous mushroom head, two flaring halves coming together into a deep strong slit. A cock is cock, and all cocks are good, but this one was rare, beautiful.
I loved the feel of popping his head into and out of my mouth. I could feel him trying not to squirm as I did it. Damn. I could probably happily mouth-fuck just the head until he blew.
But I knew he would want more than that. So reluctantly I left that magnificent cock-cap and worked my tongue along the shaft, lubing him up so I could try to take the whole of him in my mouth. I moved my hand to his pole to better spread around the spit.
He slapped the back of my head. “No hand,” he hissed. “Don’t touch.” I complied and removed my hand. But really? If he was going to limit me like this, he would miss out on my best work.
But he would still get a good blow job. I knew that. I had been sucking cock since I was 13 and I was a fucking expert. All cocks, all conditions, I knew I could make a man blow.
“Get to work,” he told me.
Sayeed would blow too. He seemed to know just what he wanted from it, from me, as he supervised my head moving up and down his lengthy cock.
It was an awkward fit when I first swallowed him to the root. I felt the pop of his flared head hit my tonsils and then punch through to wind its way down my throat. Surely it was hitting my stomach now. It felt like it went that deep.
But I am a practiced cocksucker and I can take anything. So I relaxed my jaw and chased that cock down its full length, swallowing and releasing him, building up a good rhythm.
That’s when he took over. Hands on either side of my head. Pushing and pulling me along his cock at just the rhythm and pace he desired.
You can’t fight these things; I knew. I relaxed enough to follow his lead. He pushed and pulled me onto his cock even as he thrust his hips and committed himself to the act.
I loved this. Not the skull fucking per se. Given a choice, I prefer to control the pace and timing of a blowjob. But I liked that he had moved from passive receipt of my mouth to taking me into his own hands, using me as he needed. Pushing himself into me.
I moaned at his fucking and realized he was making noise too. Low, guttural grunting. Talking? I dunno. I couldn’t make it out, it wasn’t English. I wasn’t even sure it was directed at me.
But as he held my head and pounded his cock into it, his low voice speaking (chanting?) I was transfixed. I was in a trance. I existed only to be a mouth for him, a vessel for his cock, a receptacle for his seed.
He would spill it soon, wouldn’t he? His breath grew ragged under the talking. His skin felt so much warmer now; the heat was radiating back up at me. His hips bucked at me ever faster.
He thrust forward and stiffened, holding them there. Words, Arabic, tumbled rapid-fire from his mouth as his cock swole up inside and he began to unload.
I sucked eagerly, greedily. I wanted to get it all down. I was afraid of his reaction if I let any semen escape, if it stained the seats of his car.
What were the words? They turned softer now, but they were still coming as Sayeed’s panting slowed and his voice normalized. His hips sank back into the seat. My mouth was still wrapped around his long cock, still sucking to ensure everything stayed inside me, that it all went down.
Minutes later I was sure I had it all but I dared not release his cock. I remained there, on it, with him in me, waiting for a sign. Sayeed just lay there, head back, relaxing, still speaking, whispering to himself.
Eventually some English broke through. “Head up,” he told me with a pat. I released him from my mouth. He had started to soften, but only a little and his cock bobbed and swung in the low light. He pulled his briefs up around it but it did not fully fit. The head and first few inches stretched his briefs and stayed out, even with him only half hard. He left it that way, jeans unbuttoned. I sat up.
“Get in the back,” he told me. Could he see the surprised look on my face? I didn’t expect a kiss or a hug from him. I knew this was about getting off for him, not intimacy. But still, I expected different words following all that. Thank you. That was great. Something.
I opened the door and got out, returning to the backseat while he further adjusted his pants. Had his cock gone down enough to close his jeans? I was sad I could no longer see.
Still in silence, he started the engine and put on his seatbelt. He pulled out and began to drive.
I knew we would be at my house soon, and I’d get out and never see him again. So I had to ask.
“Sayeed?”
“Yes.”
What were those words?”
“I was saying a prayer.”
“You were praying for yourself?” ”For both of us.” I didn’t know what to say to that, so I remained silent the rest of the drive. He pulled into my driveway and I opened the door.
“Thank you, that was—“
“Good night,” Sayeed said, cutting me off. It was clear enough I should not press it. OK then.
I opened the door and began to step put, then sat back down.
“What,” he said.
“Did you stop the ride when we stopped?”
“No.”
“So you got a blowjob and I paid extra for the privilege?”
“Isn’t that appropriate? I’m working and my time is valuable.”
“Jesus,” I said, no longer caring what he thought of my swearing. “How are you so damn cocky?”
He threw back his head and laughed. The first laugh, the first lightness I had seen from him. “Cocky? No. I am merely confident of my place in the world.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. I stepped out again.
“And of yours,” he added as I shut the door.
“Now that’s cocky.” I know he heard it because I saw his smirk through the glass. And then he drove off into the night.
What the hell? What a strange guy. And yet, despite the strangeness, just seconds after getting inside my apartment, my hand went to my cock. Hard. I was still hard. I unzipped and stroked and quickly shot right there in the hallway, not even taking the 10 steps to my bedroom.
I had to see him again. I knew there was unfinished business.
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She didn't take her boyfriend seriously when he said he would knock her up. She thought it was just sexy talk meant to get them off. Her face was bleak when the third pregnancy test came out positive and she realized that this wasn't roleplay anymore. In nine months should would be moaning in pain and pleasure as her body bore the burden of bringing their baby into the world. He is very conservative so there is no way he would let her have an abortion. This is just the first of many pregnancies to come.
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.
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 chat flooded with cum tributes and promises. Jamie just smiled, belly glistening under the lights, already planning the after-party the second he was empty.
Jeff used to love hitting the drinks with the boys and rolling home at 4 in the morning. His dad wanted him to start getting serious about things, so booked him into a breeding summer camp. A few months, and a few hundred fucks later, and he’s feeling tired by 9 o’clock as his body devotes it’s energies to making his dad a grandson or two
I should’ve feel bad, but I don’t: Daddy says I don’t need to.
Every second day I tell my girlfriend I’m off to see my dad, and I am. It’s just not that dad. At 38, and 18 years my elder, he could definitely be.
The way he touches me, and caress the muscle that he helped me to put on is an instant turn on. I love his touch.
Recently, he’s been working on my pecs and nipples. Today he made me cum, just through playing with my chest, and teasing my nipples. It felt so good when he sucked them, kissing me. He laughed when he noticed the wet patch of cum around my cock, showing clearly through my white underwear. We both knew what it meant.
“Look at the Boy. Told you I could get you ovulating. Now, what do you say?”
“Thank you, Daddy.” I mumbled.
“And?” He prompted me.
“And I’d like to carry your baby.” I said, shocking myself with the ease with which I spoke them.
Three months later, and my girlfriend finally noticed that my “extra weight” was kicking against my skin.
We all knew that my step-dad was the Sigma around the house. Ever since getting with my mum two years ago, he’s had a baby growing her womb. Ive now got two half-brothers, with a third on the way. He even fucked a baby into my first girlfriend, not that anyone else knows that - i was the only other person in the room at the time.
He takes me to the gym with him all the time, to help spot him, so ive got pretty strong too. For my 19th he took me to the doctors and got me loaded up with breastfeeding hormones. Now i can look after my growing amounts of siblings while he fucks mum.
The fraternity is well known … to the right people … for the himbos it forms out of its pledges, roughly once a semester. While many of the boys get to join in on the alpha energy, one of the boys that joins… gets to be the one to provide service to his new brothers. The boys all have a special camaraderie with each other. They all like to whip out their dicks, but they don’t like to put it in each other … until the gang bang has been going for a while. Some extra touching is just inevitable. The recipient is a poor boy they have already confirmed will glance at a man. He’s the perfect type to strip and use and put to work. He, like the seemingly mindless naked himbo that brought him his harness after the boys stripped him, would do basically everything for the boys, lifting and running and pushing and sweating. Slowly, after accepting he belonged to them, he dieted as they directed and his body transformed as his mind did also, beefing up and dumbing down. Eventually, employees of the Company will collect him and he will be auctioned to Clients — as good a Product as any. The boys continue school, continue working the himbos they have, continue picking up a new one every few months.
There are as many as six or more himbos in the house. While the himbos and the boys are on a different path, sometimes one of the boys switches to join them. Sometimes he becomes curious and subjects himself next to a new himbo and whether he likes it or not is swept into place with the rest of the himbos. Sometimes it happens when the extra sex starts to happen during a gang bang of one of the himbos. Brothers come and go during those, so sometimes … when a room is full of naked dudes… if one of the boys starts sucking a dick and positions himself so his ass is free, another of the boys is likely to spit on it and force him open. His mouth will be full of cock and when he protests, the brothers inside him will keep him in line. He’ll end up as mindlessly filled with cum as the himbos he used to fuck. When the boys are cleaning up the himbos, the next day, one of them might realize what happened to one of their brothers… but even if he does, that usually just means they clear out his room and throw all his belongings away, so he can sleep naked with the other himbos. A lot of times, it’s one of his closer buddies and when he finds out he missed the chance to put a load in his friend, he’ll get to it right then. When that happens, it invariably means the boy is getting a gang bang all for him.
He spends that very next day getting mindlessly fucked all over again. A second day of being powerless to cock and spunk and cum? When he finally wakes up on the third day, he finds himself in the room with the rest of the himbos. What this means is his tired and taxed mind will see a cock within the first few moments and his recent conditioning will put his mouth around it before he really thinks about it. The first brother that walks by the doorway to the himbo room will absolutely see the suckling himbo’s open ass and use it. Thus, his third day of training begins. The cock pressing into his ass does something to his mind as he swallows cock to the root again; his eyes blink and things come into focus just a bit. He might reach a hand around to hold his ass cheeks open … trying to help … and then the cock pushes his hole open again. The moment arrives quickly — he’s been opened up for two days straight, now — but it also still hits the last nerve of his drained out intelligence. On the second day, the brothers made sure to make cock his breakfast; but this time, he did it to himself. He tries to protest, again, but he’s already got two cocks in him. The himbo in his mouth might be dumb, but he still has a grip on his own dick. The himbo in his mouth might even be a former brother, still tapping the last of his alpha energy but now in a more mindless state. Some of the brothers will of course be interested in the newest himbo’s third day and will arrive to make sure he’s fitting into his new role.
“Wait a second… tell me again how this was going to help you clean up the garage?”
The thrusting, now quick jabs back inside, continued.
“I don’t want you to think about that.”
“You don’t want me to think a—“
“All I want you to think about is my cock.”
“Your cock.”
“That’s right, boy, think about my cock.
Ramming. Jabbing. Piston fucking.
A moan. “Think about your cock.” “Cock” makes an open mouth and he never quite stays the word,just moaning the rising lust.
“Attaboy, open up for me.”
“Think only about cock…”
The words drifted in the air. He didn’t even really understand. He did for a moment, but by the time he said the words, the only thing in his head was the cock in his ass.
“You’re mine, now. You’re my boy.”
“I’m your boy.”
“You are for my cock.”
“I am for cock.”
“Good boy.”
They were once friends, but for some men, the Tools are irresistible.
They usually also aren’t careful with the Tools, and we add them both to our stables.
“For my cock. For my cock. For my cock.”
He’s repeating it as he continues to rape his former friend.
His former friend is no longer unwilling, happily swallowing the cock he was reprogrammed for, using whichever hole he tries to enter.
“For my cock. For my cock…” He no longer means the words. The only one he knows anymore is “cock” as he cums and rests and grabs his friend again and fucks him some more.
The men who arrive in the morning, to pick them up, place a gag in front of his mouth, just big enough to fill his mouth, widen his jaw and flatten his tongue. He stops trying to speak and they both accept the physical directions of the men in suits. When he arrives, naked men happily remove his gag and replace it with the real thing. He has no idea he wasn’t doing this yesterday and gladly swallows cock for the first time, as other men begin to train his ass.
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