The Parasite, Part 3 - Male Version (Patreon)

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Summary: Following infection by an alien parasite, Charles begins to hear a commanding voice in his head that demands him to stuff his face with food, massage various body parts, insert edibles into his orifices, and partake in other unusual activities. Charles’s belly grows and grows as the parasite swells in consequence. Charles’s efforts to balance his busy work life with the frightening voice of the parasite proves to be disastrous. Contains: Belly expansion, breast expansion, possible egg-laying and more.

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Rub…

Charles’s eyes snapped open. He looked around the room, slightly disoriented. He could tell it was morning, though it was still dark out.

Rub… The voice’s vocabulary seemed to be increasing.

What? was all Charles could think in his confusion, still trying to blink away the remnants of slumber. He rubbed his hands together, but the voice only became more insistent.

Rub…rub…

Charles tried rubbing his hands over his arms. And then, slightly disgusted with himself, he approached his torso, starting with his shoulders, fingers kneading into the thin layer of recent weight gain.

Lower…

Lips thinning, Charles rubbed his hands over his chest. He groaned as his fingers glided over his nipples, which had grown larger, and more sensitive in recent days. At present, they were erect and sore, so he was quick to move his hands down to his bloated belly.

Mmmm…

Charles continued to mechanically rub his stomach, oblivious of the logic behind the arbitrary instructions. But he knew that if he followed them, there was no screaming in his head, and no pain or coldness. So he continued to do as he was told. It was hardly a sacrifice.

He rubbed his hands over the plump mound of fat that had become of his belly, the voice falling silent, but a contented humming filling his head. For some reason, he glided his fingers under his shirt, and up his chest. He gently fondled it again. The voice didn’t complain. Charles grunted slightly as he carefully stroked his hard, swollen nipples, deriving pleasure this time rather than pain.

Squeeze… said the voice.

Charles reddened slightly, but cupped the flesh gently. He applied pressure, squeezing it in his grasp. Then he continued to rub them, and took his nipples between his fingers. He tentatively pressed, causing a sharp gasp to escape his throat.

His chest had gotten yet plumper. They could probably qualify as A-cups by then, if not worse. Charles had taken to wearing layers, hoping to hide the two embarrassing mounds on his chest.

He climbed out of bed once the voice seemed satisfied with his compliance. He grabbed up his towel and headed to the bathroom to get washed.

Over the next few days, he continued to eat in increasing amounts. And he continued to—be forced—to push food into his anus. He didn’t know how it was even possible to consume food in such a way, or why it was somehow necessary. He just knew that when he pushed food into his hole, and it disappeared inside of him, he was rewarded with the same sensation of fullness that he got when he swallowed food down his throat—perhaps even greater.

The commands were keen and relentless, and Charles found himself pushing meat balls, chocolate bars, sausages, and chunks of bread into himself. On one occasion, he even jammed an entire roll of cookie dough into himself. It was disgusting, and slightly nauseating, as his belly tightened and the voice hummed in delight.

“I would like to make a deposit,” said his first customer that morning.

Charles offered a weary smile and slid over a deposit slip.

Feed… the voice ordered, causing Charles to furrow his brows. It was still so early.

As the customer continued to fill out a deposit slip, Charles discreetly reached into his shoulder bag beneath the counter, and slid his hand into a box of donut holes he had picked up from a bakery that morning. He quickly stuffed one into his mouth, and gulped it down just before the client looked back up at him.

“Thank you,” he said, accepting the slip and the check, and depositing it into the account. “And here is your receipt.”

Feed! The voice was impatient.

The client tottered off, and thankfully, no others followed. Charles threw a quick glance around the bank, but none of his coworkers were paying attention to him. Jittery by then, he stuffed several more donut holes into his mouth, and chomped them down.

Lower.

Charles nearly groaned. He pushed his chair back and grabbed his shoulder bag, intending to head to the bathroom.

“Taking a break already?” said his boss, Sue, who was passing. She stopped and raised her brow at him. “Everything alright, Charles? You’ve been stepping out a lot lately.” Her eyes flickered to his rounded belly.

“No, erm…” Charles returned to his seat. “I was just making sure I had enough receipt paper.” He opened a drawer and pretended to fumble around.

Still giving him an intent look, Sue nodded, and walked off.

By then, pulses of coldness were rolling down Charles’s spine, and the voice’s commands had increased in intensity.

Feed…lower…feed…FEED…

Another customer arrived. “I would like to withdraw…” she rambled on, though Charles could hardly seem to hear her.

“Right,” said Charles, trembling. His head was pounding. With one hand, he typed on his computer, though he couldn’t say he was certain what he was doing. With his other hand, he reached back into his shoulder bag, now withdrawing a stick of string cheese from a large package.

Thankfully, the counter offered a decent overhang to his lap, and no one was paying close attention to him anyway. Though it wouldn’t have made much of a difference. Charles was feeling faint.

As he continued to pretend to observe his computer screen, pressing buttons and mumbling something about an “error message,” Charles single-handedly undid his belt. He leaned back and lifted his hips, discreetly sliding his arm into his waistband. He was hardly able to withhold a groan as the cool stick of cheese made contact with his hole.

He was already sore from the daily abuse from the varied foods he was forced to cram inside of him. His face flushed as the cheese stick slipped easily into his body.

“Sir…” the customer was speaking, perhaps repeating herself after saying it several times already. “Sir? Are you alright?”

Charles straightened in his seat, feeling only slightly more lucid. “Uhm…yes. Yes, fine, thanks,” he said politely, giving the customer a peculiar look, as though she was the odd one. He quickly opened the client’s account on his console and withdrew $200 from it. He placed it into an envelope and passed it over, praying it was the correct amount.

The customer didn’t even check. She was still looking strangely at him, like somehow she knew what he had been up to under the counter. Charles’s cheeks darkened and the customer walked off, pocketing the money, still not bothering to count it.

More…more… the voice pressed.

Charles withdrew two more cheese sticks from his shoulder bag. He spread his thighs and pressed them into him, one at a time. As a grunt managed to escape his throat, his colleague, Sam, sent a glare from the next window. Charles could hardly care. The stabbing coldness slipped away from his spine, as did the sharpness of the voice on his temple. He rubbed it, despite himself, as he retrieved another two cheese sticks from his shoulder bag. And so the day proceeded.

By the time Charles got home that evening, he was full and exhausted. His boss seemed especially wary of him, which had severely imposed on his ability to sneak off for extra breaks. The voice was more persistent than ever, and Charles had found himself consistently fumbling in his slacks to stuff more food into his anus. By the end of the day, he had gone through the donut holes, the rest of the cheese sticks, and half a dozen hot dogs as well.

He groaned in discomfort as his fingers made contact with his skin-tight button-down. He felt full and bloated, and even a little nauseous. He cringed as the voice returned, more potent than ever:

Feed…feed me…more…more…

Me? Charles wondered, as he dragged himself to the kitchen. Not for the first time, he wondered whether the voice was symptomatic of mental illness, or if it was somehow—apart from him. Though the “me” it implied must have been himself, his own commands, which seemed indicative of the former, and Charles tried not to think about it.

Either prospect was unpleasant, and he couldn’t deal with them right now. Instead, Charles flung his fridge open, and immediately cursed under his breath.

He had forgotten to go grocery shopping. He had been decidedly distracted. The only food he could spot was some old pasta, globs of mozzarella, some sticks of butter, and another roll of cookie dough.

Charles impatiently loaded the cheese, butter, and dough into his arms and puttered off to his bedroom, before the voice could get too severe. He dropped himself on his bed, wrinkling his nose as his belly jiggled seconds after his body had stilled, as did the small mounds on his chest. Shamelessly jerking down his pants and spreading his legs wide, Charles reached down and fingered himself for several minutes, his face reddening as he loosened his hole. He then grabbed up the stick of butter, unwrapped it, and with a frustrated moan, began to shove it into his opening, his belly heaving, and legs trembling as the butter started to melt as it slid its way through.

It took only moments for him to work through the three other butter sticks, and the roll of cookie dough. By the time he had stuffed them into him, he was sore, and the voice had stopped its griping, so he ate the mozzarella by mouth.

When he was finished, he laid there panting heavily, chest rising and falling, mounds wiggling. Diamonds of skin had begun to appear in his shirt buttons. Fingers trembling slightly, Charles opened them one by one, allowing his rounded gut to surge through, plump and pressurized as it was.

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