Malcolm, Part 3 (Patreon)

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Summary: Malcolm has a unique ability. Though male pregnancy is so rare most people don't believe in it, Malcolm can impregnate any guy. Not only does Malcolm have this ability, but he quite enjoys using it. Malcolm loves to give unsuspecting men the night of their lives, before he disappears, and leaves them oblivious of the fact that they are pregnant--likely with multiples. Malcolm enjoys watching his victims as they progressively blow up with his babies. He likes targeting men already under stress--college students, athletes, CEOs, engaged men, family men, interns--the list goes on. This is a story about Malcolm watching his various victims as they struggle to conceal or adapt to their conditions. Contains: Male: belly expansion, breast expansion, stuffing, weight gain, butt expansion, pregnancy.

Previous Chapter

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A male pregnancy support group met in the basement of the local library once a week. It was exactly as it was described. A small collection of people who were pregnant men, or their friends or family members, who sat in a circle and sought catharsis to sharing their experiences, regrets, anxieties, and traumas.

“I just don’t know how to tell my girlfriend,” muttered a guy in a hoodie who had introduced himself as ‘Jim.’ “Well — fiancé. We’re engaged now. I don’t think I can hide it for much longer,” he choked up a little, pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “Sorry. Hormones. Fuck, that sounds feminine. I’m all full of baby and fucking—estrogen.” Jim scoffed, now tugging absently at his hoodie. “You make one damn mistake.… God, I just don’t want to lose her.” He put his face in his hands, finally succumbing to his grief.

“It’s okay, Jim,” said the guy seated beside him as he awkwardly patted Jim’s shoulder.

“You have to come clean,” insisted someone else. “Your fiancé’s gotta know something’s up by now.” The group seemed to collectively look at the bulge under Jim’s sweatshirt.

Jim just wept audibly harder. After several moments, someone awkwardly cleared their throat.

“Would someone else like to speak?” suggested Oliver, the pale man who ran the group.

There was a beat of silence before someone across the circle timidly raised their hand.

“Michael, go ahead,” said Oliver.

“Yeah, thanks,” said Brooks nervously. “I’m Michael Brooks.” He looked around at the circle of people, maybe a dozen and a half of them altogether. “I um…I guess I’m going through the same thing that a lot of you are. Just a little farther into it.” His hands absently cupped the huge, beyond-term-looking belly, presently stretching out the T-shirt he was wearing. Brooks didn’t resume speaking. He looked as though he wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

“How have you been feeling?” offered a man with a very small, nearly imperceptible, curve to his torso.

“Good. I — well, I’m fine.”

“Have you thought about what we discussed last week?” said Oliver. “About getting yourself induced.”

Brooks tensed. “N-no, I’m n-not ready,” he stammered.

“Things are only going to get worse,” Oliver warned with a concerned frown. “We can all see that you’re pushing it.”

“It could be dangerous,” someone else piped in.

“I’m not at term,” Brooks insisted.

Several other people gave dubious looks.

Brooks looked down at himself, his shoulders dropping in a sigh. “My…my boyfriend thinks that it’s his, but he…he hasn’t been able to induce me,” he admitted, voice falling to a whisper. “I think he’s starting to get suspicious. If we go to the hospital to get it done, they’ll run tests. To get the right genetic markers. But after they see the results, they’ll know, then my boyfriend will know, and…then my life will be over.”

The room was quiet for a moment, Brooks clutching his belly as he stared off, looking haunted.

“This is the first time you opened up like this,” said Oliver gently. “That’s progress, Michael. I’m proud of you.”

“We all are,” someone else said.

Oliver started to clap, the others joining in.

“Thank you for sharing,” said Oliver.

Brooks sniffed, and nodded.

“But I think it’s time to tell your boyfriend the truth,” said a guy with a nasally voice. “It’s the right thing. And who knows, maybe he’ll forgive you.”

“There’s only so much your body can take,” said Jim, who had mostly recovered from his tears.

Brooks’ breathing grew thin, and audible. Again, he managed a jerky nod. The others waited, watching him. But he said nothing further, clearly overcome with emotion.

“Well…” said Oliver, looking around at the circle of men seated in cheap folding chairs. “This certainly was a productive evening. I’d like to thank you all for coming. As a reminder, we meet twice a week. On Mondays, at…”

People began to rise and gather their coats, briefcases, and backpacks, as Oliver went on with his perfunctory closing remarks.

Hardly anyone noticed Malcolm. He continued to discreetly sweep in the back, wearing a janitor jumpsuit and a baseball cap, his head down.

Malcolm only came to these meetings occasionally. He wasn’t one for all the emotionality and crying on display here. But he had decided to stop by that night on the off chance that one of his would stop by.

And damn, had he been lucky.

The close-up view of Brooks was far better than the pixelated camera feed through which Malcolm had been watching him lately. Just seeing Brooks grimace and groan as he heaved himself up from his seat left Malcolm in such a state of arousal he was truly straining his inflexible janitor uniform. Brooks arched his back, pushing his overripe mound out even farther. The thing was huge. Brooks looked like he was due with twins, or more. Paired with some rounded hips, a fat ass, the plump Ds on his chest, the guy was a thing of beauty. Malcolm licked his lips, thinking of all the things he wanted to do with him.

But he couldn’t. Brooks had been easy enough to pull nine or ten months ago, but Malcolm had serious doubts that it would work now. Between hauling himself up the stairs from the church basement, and returning home to the arms of a loving boyfriend, Brooks wouldn’t have much time or interest for going home with some creep who he may or may not recall.

Horny as he was at that moment, Malcolm had to set his sights elsewhere if he wanted to get laid that night.

Malcolm continued to pretend to sweep as the room emptied out, Brooks truly struggling to haul himself up the short staircase.

The last person was Oliver, who busied himself with shoving papers and pamphlets into his satchel. From his peripheral vision, Malcolm could see the man giving him a long, thoughtful look.

Then Oliver sighed, and he left as well. “Good night,” he said quietly as he disappeared up the staircase.

Malcolm stopped sweeping. He leaned the broom against the wall then dug into his pocket for his cell phone. He scrolled through his contacts, looking for someone appealing. Someone who might inspire.

Peter was away on a business trip, which had left Malcolm especially lonesome that week.

Malcolm saw a name on his phone that was particularly enticing and would be fairly easy. Yes, Malcolm could call him up. No, better to just show up at his place. Why not surprise him?

-

White-Collar Tim

Tim Harris hissed a curse. It was late, after all. 11PM. When Tim answered his front door, he was wearing an amorphous bathrobe and some slippers. His hair was deliciously disheveled, shoulders tense. He had pink splotches on one cheek, probably from falling asleep against it.

“How do you even know where I live?” Tim asked rigidly.

“I have my methods.” Malcolm stepped forward, closing in. Duly, Tim stepped back, ceding the way he always had and always would. Because Malcolm owned him.

“You’re actually psychotic.” Tim marveled.

Malcolm stepped fully inside and closed the door behind him.

Before he knew it, Tim was untying the belt of his robe simply but provocatively. His tits has gotten even bigger than they had been the last time Malcolm had seen them. They were just so fat, pressed together in a sweaty line of cleavage, the size of fucking volleyballs as they heaved on Tim’s chest.

Before Malcolm knew it, he was fucking him while clutching them, squeezing Harris’ big tits as they bounced and jiggled. Harris grunted and yelped, clutching the back of the couch for support as Malcolm pumped him hard and fast. It was a beautiful sight. Malcolm could always rely on pregnant men to be horny.

Usually Malcolm had more restraint than this, but being at the therapy group, around all those hormones and pheromones, and just seeing Brooks so completely stuffed with his kids—it had sent Malcolm over the edge. Discipline was overrated as far as he could tell.

“Ohhh!” Harris cried as he just started spraying. His nipples started squirting like teats as Malcolm squeezed with his thrusts and Harris grunted out rhythmically.

Malcolm couldn’t hold back anymore. He gave in, he lost control, to which Harris arched and groaned, body trembling as he was filled up with Malcolm all over again.

They sank to the floor together, both gasping, Harris’ tits wobbling gently. Harris’ belly seemed a bit bloated now, and Malcolm wasn’t sure whether or not it had prior to their coupling.

“Fuck,” Harris whimpered, his hands cradling his breasts, rubbing and squeezing them, likely stimulating them worse. It was specifically what he advised Malcolm against doing. They were already hot and swollen, full of milk, and this would just make them fuller.

Harris had worked his way up to his nipples, pinching and squeezing, milking himself as he squirmed.

Then he exploded. He came hard, splattering the underside of his tits and the couch. Harris slumped back against Malcolm’s chest gasping for breath, nipples seeping in a continuing stream. Clearly he had discovered the pleasure that his fat, engorged tits could offer.

“You’re gonna get huge,” Malcolm muttered in deranged amusement. If Tim Harris kept milking his tits like this, Malcolm was in for a real treat.

-

Simon the Soccer Player

One day, it just became obvious to everyone. Simon just popped. He could no longer hide it or disguise it as weight gain. The bump looked strangely pronounced on his slim, athletic build.

Everyone around school stared at him. At the way his round belly was stretching out his jersey.

“You goddamn freak,” seethed Coach after Simon showed up at practice. In the background, the other players were sending Simon disturbed looks. “You’re off the team. Get the hell out of here!”

With a stiff nod, Simon left.

He spent the following days feeling numb and listless without the distraction of athletics. None of his friends were answering his calls. It felt like his whole life had been dismantled.

Simon spent a lot of time in his dorm watching TV or playing video games. He started cutting classes and ate food mindlessly. No longer having to adhere to his athletic diet, he sought comfort in take-out and junk food, and turning off his mind as he submerged himself deeper in digital anesthesia. Occasionally he would grimace down at his body. This slim college kid with an overgrown belly.

One of his dorm mates did nothing but sneer at him as the others would press themselves against walls in their desperation to avoid being anywhere near him.

And the baby was growing. Growing fast. Simon was getting bigger and…he just tried not to think about the mess he was in.

Simon came out of his reverie only when someone started snapping their fingers right in front of his eyes. He looked up at his dorm advisor, Ben, who was waving a pile of letters from the school Simon had never bothered to open. Then Simon looked around at all the empty food containers and wrappings littered around him.

“You’ve been expelled, man,” said Tristan uneasily as he gave Simon a onceover. “Tends to happen when you skip all your classes. The administration wants you out by three.” He pointed at the clock. Simon had two hours, apparently.

When Simon got up, he registered how heavy his body felt now. It wasn’t as though he didn’t get up and walk around several times a day, mostly to get more food or use the bathroom. But it was different now, as he removed his wireless headset, and disengaged himself from the television. He tried to register what this all meant. He had flunked out of his sophomore year. He wouldn’t be getting his college degree.

Simon shoved what he could of his belongings into a backpack, not having much energy for proper packing. Soon he was standing in the bus station down the road from campus, registering how awkwardly tight his clothes felt on him now. He looked down at himself, hands absently cupping his round belly. He looked as though he was seven months along, but he couldn’t have been that far…could he? Simon hadn’t exactly been keeping track of things. He tried to do the math in his head.

At the bus station, a couple of college students lingered around, as well as some older people with crinkled eyes and calloused fingers. Blue-collar types.

“Come disposal,” someone coughed.

Simon’s eyes darted to the trio of students in the corner quietly giggling amongst themselves. Face feeling hot, Simon absently tugged down his shirt. The buttons looked like they were straining. He had wanted to wear something that would please his parents and hopefully detract from the pile of bad news he was bringing, but maybe he should have just stuck with a T-shirt.

“I hear it takes a lot of whoring for a guy to get himself knocked up,” someone said.

Simon’s eyes shot to a wiry middle-aged man who was seated on a railing not far from where Simon was standing. Across the room, the students resumed their tittering.

Simon looked down, doing his best to ignore all of them.

“Just something I heard. Is it true son? Do you like it up the ass every day? All the time?”

A bell chimed and an automated voice indicated that Simon’s bus was, thankfully, loading. Stoically, he walked outside and pulled his ticket out of his pocket, waiting his turn to board.

It was a relief for Simon to find himself walking towards the back of the bus. It wasn’t packed, and Simon found a row to himself. He hesitated before he sat down. He’d specifically avoided sitting down on one of the benches at the bus station because his shirt really was tight on him now. It was honestly a miracle that any of his old clothes still fit him at all.

Doors closing, an automated voice announced. Please stay seated while the bus is in…

Simon eased himself down slowly and gingerly, holding his breath as the shirt tightened more but managed to hold together.

The same couldn’t be said for his trousers. Simon’s eyes widened as he felt a faint popping, before his waistband loosened, and he registered that his pants button had snapped off. God, why hadn’t he just worn sweats?

But it was okay for now, hidden by… hidden by his belly. His belly was so big that no one could see his unbuttoned pants, at least not while he was seated. He swallowed, wondering when this had happened. When had his stomach gotten big enough to become an overhang?

Simon looked out the window and tried to absorb himself in the passing road signs and forestry. It was an hour-long ride to his hometown. His parents had no idea he was coming. They didn’t know he was gay, pregnant, or expelled from school.

Maybe…maybe they would sympathize.

Or, more likely, they would kill him.

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