Medication, Part 8 (Patreon)

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Summary: All his life, Tristan’s mother forced him to take a daily medication, but never really told him why. After Tristan goes off to college, he starts skipping doses, and finally realizes just what the medication is for. Monthly mpreg. Contains: Male: belly expansion, breast expansion, butt expansion.

Previous Chapter

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Tristan felt so weak most of the time. He came in and out of consciousness on a continuous basis, and every time, his belly was a little bigger. The disease had completely drained his energy reserves, and it was a struggle to regain his strength. The stress of the pregnancy didn’t help. It was a while before he could manage to stay awake for even a few hours at a time, but it was worth it. Soon he was able to hold his baby for a full hour, and even nurse little—though this, too, drained him. With his body, grew his feelings of uneasiness. The language barrier between Tristan and the tribe was a huge problem, and he couldn’t even tell how long he had been there. He used his growth to estimate how much time had passed. It seemed he was nearing a full month in the forest, judging by how large he was getting. Huge, really. It left him uneasy and worried. If it was taking him this long to regain his strength, what was he going to do if he fell pregnant again? After another pregnancy, he would have more babies than he could physically carry out of the forest with him.

He didn’t know what he was going to do. This was the largest pregnancy he had ever carried. He realized that the day that he was helped to his feet. He felt unbalanced, his massive belly bulging out of the canvas shirt that had been strewn over him. Just the thought of his impending birth made him wince.

Tristan was baffled, still, by his growth. Malnourished as he had become, the baby should have been small, not large. He was relieved that his baby was a healthy, if extraordinary, size. But that relief would be short-lived if he couldn’t push it out of him. What if he needed surgical intervention? What would happen to them?

A sob shuddered though his throat before he even realized it, and he was overcome by a wave of dizziness. The hands on either side of him, aiding him in standing upright, helped guide him back down to his bed. Tristan was appreciative, because he didn’t think he legs would have supported him for much longer.

In another day, Tristan was able to walk, with assistance. He had been clothed in a long, soft animal skin, that he suspected to be a dress, and embarrassed him to no end. The tribespeople didn’t seem to understand him, yet they were heartbreakingly welcome, and helpful. They were fascinated by him, and had drawn odd clay symbols on his belly. Tristan hadn’t had the heart to wipe if off. The tribespeople had facilitated the slow process of his recovery, and he couldn’t have been more grateful.

Tristan was still growing. The dress was stretched tight against his abdomen. He suspected it was a maternity gown, yet it was still too small.

By then Tristan experienced small twinges in his gut, but nothing substantial. He still hadn’t gone into active labor, and he was starting to panic. He grew rapidly with every passing day, and he didn’t think he could afford to grow any bit larger. The tribespeople watched him in fascination as he panted and waddled beneath the weight of it all.

He felt doomed in a way, but he tried to stay ambitious. He just needed a little more time. He would regain his strength, give birth, then make the long trek back to the retrieval site, and he would worry about the rest later. He just had to get home.

Tristan was guided to a chair, and though he was incredibly weary, it felt good to be upright for once, seated normally. The weight of his gut shifted against his pelvis and sat on his lap, rather than leaning on his aching back as it often did when he was lying down.

He stared at himself, absently running his fingers over his mound. He couldn’t believe how fucking huge he was getting.

The old woman he had met on his first day there brought him a hot cup of stew. Tristan still wrinkled his nose at the taste, but he had learned to gulp it down.

His month-old child was brought over, but by then, Tristan couldn’t even hold him, not at his size. He gave a sad smile and simply stroked his fine hair as one of the girls held and rocked the child, who whimpered as though in protest of the separation. It made Tristan’s heart clench and his milk seep into his clothing, but he didn’t even have the energy to be embarrassed about it.

Another girl game over. She gave him a wide, smooth piece of tree bark. There were clay marks on it. For a while Tristan studied it, not understanding what it meant. There were several individual marks lining it—slashes. He counted them, and came to the number twenty-eight.

“I don’t under…” he trailed off, and looked up at the girl. She smiled at him encouragingly. He felt his heart sink.

Unless he was mistaken, the slashes signified…the number of days that had passed since his arrival. Twenty-eight meant that he had been there less than a month. He wasn’t even necessarily due to give birth yet. All this time he had suspected he was overdue, but it seemed that his baby still had more growing to do.

Occupied with his anxieties, Tristan went back to his tent to lie down. The next two days were largely spent in bed, as his body tightened and tensed, and he tried to mentally prepare himself for the coming labor. The size and weight of the baby was a lot on his thin body. He was still malnourished from the brunt of the disease. His mound felt tight and suffocating, outgrowing his flanks, heaving as though it wanted to burst away from his insufficient frame.

Finally the pain came, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. He shook and sobbed as contractions violently barreled through him, the pain made more intense and exhausting by his weakened state.

He panted, mumbled curses, and fidgeted ceaselessly. Sometimes he sat up to shift the pressure from his back, but it never helped with the pain, it just changed it, or moved it. He held his flushed face. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” He needed medical attention. He needed surgery or—something. The pain was crippling. The baby was too big. There was something wrong with it.

The old woman tipped fluid into his mouth, the scarce times he would accept it. He pulled his shirt over his belly, rubbing his hands over the flushed, throbbing mound, as it jutted and jerked. He was soaked it sweat, his heart pounding, and his throat burning. “Please, just, nnghhh…ooohhh,” he groaned, arching, crying, pleading with his body and his baby in his desperate, delirious state.

But the baby would have none of that.

It sat low on his body, his pelvis aching as ass tensing as it slowly, painstakingly, worked its way through whatever birth canal his unusual body had to facilitate the pregnancies. He couldn’t believe his poor fortune in life, being a male who developed continuous pregnancies even when abstinent. It sucked. It was torture. “Fuhh-fuckk,” he groaned, hugging himself, hunched over and whimpering.

It was coming now, but it was unfamiliar. Nothing about this felt right to him. His nipples ached and seeped. This was so fucking hard. The baby sat low now, pushing, stretching, and he felt like he might pass out. He couldn’t do this. It was too hard. The urge to push came but he whined in protest. His trembling hand clutched his ass.

Bronzed limbs reached down for him. He had hardly even noticed the spectators to his struggles. He fought against them. “Mmmghh…nooo…” he groaned, as he was contorted, pushed onto his knees, his face shoved down into the blankets beneath him.

The burning pain was secondary to how arduous this was. The babies crowning, his huge gut shoving against his thighs. “Ngghh…” His body seemed to push automatically, an instinct it couldn’t resist. It went on for what felt like hours, by which point he was aching and wheezing, his vision blurring in and out. He hardly knew who he was or where he was anymore. Just the stretching and the pain. Finally pushing through.

When it was over, any celebratory grimace or doze was cut short before it could even start, because he was still pain, his stomach still clenching painfully.

By then, his attendants had laid his newest born on his chest, not realizing something was wrong. It began to nurse, but Tristan cried out, shuddering through yet another wave of tension.

There was a yammering of voices. Someone was gesturing. Tristan could hardly register what was going on, feeling locked in his own head by then, and the sheer brutality of his existence.

“Fuuhhh…” he wheezed as the pain radiated down his back and to his thighs. He didn’t know what was wrong with him. Maybe he had been sicker than he’d realized. Maybe the birth had been too much. It felt almost as though he was—

He was still having contractions.

He cried and resisted, but those aiding him pushed him along. That, and the baby inside of him. Far more rapidly than her twin had been delivered, Tristan gave birth to the newest infant.

When it was over, he was sprawled back with both babies suckling. His month-old had been laid across his stomach at some point when he laid there dazed, going in and out of consciousness. Feeding them was draining, but it hardly made a difference. He was limp. Boneless. He couldn’t have lifted a finger had he wanted to.

Someone was stroking his hair, almost in a…motherly fashion. He lifted his gaze to the older woman who had personally taken charge of him.

“Thank you,” he rasped. He knew that she didn’t understand his words but hoped the sentiment would reach her somehow.

She continued to stroke his head and murmur to him.

As she did, he drifted off.

-

Tristan stared up at the tent ceiling loosely holding the twins against his chest.

It was his first time in a week of full consciousness, of feeling alert enough to contemplate.

He was still stunned that he had given birth to twins. It had never happened before. And of all the times it could have happened, it had to be this one. With him lost in the middle of a forest thousands of miles from home, and relying on the kindness of a reclusive tribe he should not have been in contact with in the first place.

He was unnerved by the vicious cycle of his incapacity. Just as he had begun to recuperate from the disease, his pregnancy had left him drained, weak, and dependent all over again. Why had he had twins anyway? Would it happen again? God, he hoped not. But then, that aspect was entirely arbitrary, wasn’t it?

He couldn’t just lay there and keep having babies. Soon he would have more than he could take care of. More than he could travel with. He wasn’t exactly in a place where he could pick up a triple-stroller. And asking the tribespeople to help him transport them was out of the question. Who knew what sort of viruses or bacteria he may have already unwittingly exposed them to just being there.

The following day, Tristan heaved himself out of bed, swaying slightly, but remaining balanced. He forced himself to eat and drink despite the feelings of nausea sitting deep in his throat. He managed to sit upright for a full hour, and every day, he pushed himself a little more.

His belly was already beginning to firm up, push out. He was pregnant again, but he tried not to think about it, because when he did, he became panicked and distressed, which served as a distraction. He had to stay focused. He was going to get out of there before his condition impeded his mobility. He was going to walk about back to the pick-up site, and take his babies home. He was going to see his mother and tell her he was already.

And more importantly than anything else, he needed to get back on his medication.