Medication, Part 9 (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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Over the next few days, Tristan made a keen effort to regain his strength as quickly as he could. He ate and drank until he felt sick, and he forced himself to walk every day, even if just dragging himself. He added more time on each day, grateful that he had been involved in an endurance sport throughout his college career. Despite his achy weariness, he found himself growing more independent since he had fallen ill.

Of course, it had taken him two weeks just to get to that point.

Tristan would cup the curve of his belly, with the uneasy knowledge that if he gave birth again, he would be back at square one, feeble and helpless.

The indigenous tribe continued to find him fascinating, not seeming at all deterred by his new spontaneous pregnancy. They saw him as some sort of auspicious idol rather than the oddity he actually was.

Tristan knew he had to leave.

The idea still terrified him.

He would be alone, and pregnant, in the middle of a forest with three newborn infants during a two-week trip to the retrieval site. He wouldn’t have much time, and he would have no one to help him if he went into labor. He and the babies could be at the mercy of the surrounding wildlife.

But he had no choice but to go. No one was going to come for him. Even if they somehow could, the tribal lands would likely be the last place they’d look.

Tristan had to leave because he knew if he gave birth one more time, he would almost certainly be stuck there with the babies, and enduring constant monthly pregnancies for the rest of his days with no way to support them all.

So that second week of the month, Tristan knew he couldn’t put off his journey any longer. He had to time things so that he didn’t give birth on the tribal lands or alone in the forest. Being that he was almost midway though his pregnancy, he only had two weeks and some days to spare. And it was a two-week journey.

He was already showing, noticeably, his belly again protruding more than he would have expected for his stage. Tristan tried to ignore it.

That night, he packed up what few things he could, as discreetly as he could manage. He would say no goodbyes, at the risk of the tribe not taking it well. Even though he couldn’t imagine the tribespeople protesting his departure, he wasn’t willing to risk it.

He had made a makeshift harness for the three babies over the past couple of nights, so that two were strapped to his chest, and one to his back. As Tristan gently set them in place, the twins began to cry. Tristan opened the top of his shirt. The harness gave the babies perfect access to his breasts, and he got them to suckle, while praying that the infant on his back didn’t start to make noise as well.

Tristan snuck off, not looking back, just walking as rapidly and steadily as he could, even with his fatigue from juggling three newborns the past few weeks, what with changings, soothing, and late night feedings. One was always hungry, and he found himself pausing frequently in the forest to catch his breath, or to shift one baby for its turn to nurse. It was scary to try to navigate with them in the darkness, and he was continually phobic that some creature would swoop down and try to take them from him. He did his best to work beneath the moonlight when it managed to peek down through the trees.

When he felt that he was a good enough distance away from the tribe, Tristan settled down on the grass, too fatigued to even think about putting together a camp fire. The babies were exhausted, and making it known by whimpering against his skin. He kept them as close and as warm as he could.

He must have dozed, because when he awoke, he was relieved to see that the sun was out. Tristan sighed and started about the task of feedings, and changing the makeshift diapers he had made the infants out of cloth.

Days went on, and Tristan continued to move at a sluggish place, doing his best to negotiate the forest without the assistance of a guide. He had to ration his supplies of food and water scrupulously, yet his belly continued to surge with growth. As his mound grew, so did his three fretful newborns, increasing his load and decreasing the pace that he moved.

His breasts were larger than they had ever gotten before. Then again, he had never had to nourish this number of children at once. His milk was keeping up with the demand, filling his breasts until they resembled plump D-cups, and were constantly hot and tingling, nipples leaking. Yet another heavy weight to contend with.

His back was sore. He looked at term with child, even though he knew he had another week of walking to go—if not longer. He was certain he was days behind, with his horrible pace. He tried not to panic, or to just keep that panic internal.

It was just so much. The babies were constantly fretful, flushed and exhausted, always whining against him. He was worried about them, and he took as many rest breaks as he dared. The baby inside of him would squirm and kick constantly, as though as restless as its three siblings.

He was running low on supplies. He hadn’t been able to carry much at all, with three babies already strapped against his body, and a fourth taking residence in his abdomen. Food was the first thing he ran out of, and then water. The babies began to struggle with nursing and cry in hunger. He wasn’t producing the amount of milk that he needed to.

His hips ached. His back was in agony. Soon he was waddling though the woods, and had to stop at least every hour to cool his flushed skin and catch his breath.

Sometimes he would slump back at the base of a tree, his three infants laid out on the grass. He would shift and groan as he ran his hands over his massive mound, currently straining against the ragged tunic he was wearing. He was huge and round, looking overdue or with—with twins again. He gulped. It was like the curse was exacerbating with every time it ravaged his body.

But he couldn’t give up. He had to keep pushing forward, otherwise he would be stuck in the forest with another baby (or more), which would only result in a multiplication of his problems.

They couldn’t survive out here. He had to keep moving.

Tristan gave himself another minute to rest there. As he did, he looked at his newborns, and reflected on their appearances.

Of the three, two had jet black hair, just like their two elder siblings at his mother’s house. The last had wavy, lighter hair like Tristan’s. It was odd, because there were no members of Tristan’s family who had straight black hair that he knew of.

Brushing these thoughts aside, Tristan leaned heavily on the tree trunk behind him, and began to heave himself up.

Strapping the babies back up to his back and chest took a lot of time, energy, and careful maneuvering as he struggled to stay balanced.

He waddled for another hour, until he could barely feel his legs beneath him, except for the pain in his ankles. He came upon a stream. Based on the direction and speed of the water, was able to determine that it was likely safe enough to drink, so he took in as much as he could. He felt hot and flustered, and hoped he wasn’t getting sick again. He didn’t know if he would be able to go on much longer. Yet he couldn’t stop.

His belly had dropped, the simple rope belt on his waist pushed low on his hips to keep his worn pants in place. He found himself clutching his gut continuously as he huffed and waddled, truly struggling through every step he took. He often rubbed his ass, which had gotten tight lately. He knew he was running out of time, and so Tristan moved all the faster.

But he knew that he had reached his time limit the day that contractions began to shudder through his belly.

Trying to contain his grunts of pain, Tristan lowered the babies as carefully as he could, wrapping them up in cloth to protect against insect bites, as his fingers shook, body shuddering.

He then found himself curled up on the forest floor, groaning, sobbing, and hugging himself. He knew that if he birthed them, he wouldn’t be able to carry them, weak and burdened as he was. There was no space left in his arms or on his chest. He would be too weak to build a fire, too malnourished to feed the five of them. And Tristan knew he was carrying twins again. It was evident in the expanse of his girth, in the way his gut churned and twisted in all directions, eight limbs prodding at him in turn.

If he gave birth now, he and the babies were as good as dead. He had been stupid to leave the tribal lands. He should have realized he never would have made it through the forest on his own.

“Ngghhh!” he groaned, rolling, gripping at himself as he wheezed in pain, the pressure inside him shooting downwards. One—no two of the newborns were crying. A third joined in the shrill chorus of hoarse voices. He couldn’t abandon them, not for hours on end as he gave birth and clawed his way through the recovery, growing weaker and hungrier all the while.

Tristan forced himself up, still twitching in pain, hunching down and gripping a tree as another forceful contraction plowed through him, his belly visibly jerking as he struggled to breathe. Tears trailed his cheeks by the time it was over. Somehow he managed to lean down and gather up the babies again, attaching them to him. He let the top of shirt hang open, so the two infants there could try to eat, or just suck for comfort. The baby on his back continued to wail, but Tristan was too stressed to do much about it. They all probably needed changing. And nourishment. And rest. But he couldn’t stop, couldn’t even think about any of that. He just had to keep moving before it was too late.

His belly by then was sticking out from the bottom of his tunic, from his navel onwards. He had been wearing it from his smaller stages, more than two weeks before. He was truly massive now, the weight of the two infants attached to his front not helping with his extreme discomfort there. He staggered slightly but continued to trudge forward, then had to stop at a new forceful contraction.

His back arched, and he tried to suppress his groan of pain as he clutched his gut but remained balanced, the intense pressure shooting down so heavily that fluid began to spill into the back of his pants. His water had broken. Things would only go faster from here.

Releasing wheezy gasps, Tristan continued to move even as his body continued to contract. He felt his ass bloating, preparing to spread. He staggered even as contractions assaulted him. He clenched his ass as hard as he could, keeping the babies inside him.

He could feel the steady pressure in his gut, knew he was still rapidly growing. He felt like he couldn’t contain them anymore, like he was stuffed to bursting. He felt the urgent need to push, yet somehow fought the pain and pressure as he staggered forward for another several hours. He nearly collapsed at times, but managed to grip trees for balance. The sky was rapidly darkening. He knew he was doomed.

Tristan soon did drop to his knees, and found himself barely managing to crawl, his massive gut actually dragging against the twigs and leaves, as he tried to muffle his cries.

The babies strapped to him were giving pathetic whimpers and wails, their faces flushed red from exhaustion. He patted their backs as comfortingly as he could on the occasions that he wasn’t contorted in pain and crying himself.

“Ohhhh…” he grunted at a sharp twist in his gut. He knew he couldn’t hold off the birth any longer. It was too much.

He lifted his head, as if to contemplate his demise, when he saw it. A narrow beam of synthetic light. A window. The cabin. The retrieval site was only yards away. Though the process of doing it made his vision blur in and out, Tristan somehow managed to drag himself up to his feet again.