Manhunt, Part 2

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Summary: After a one-night-stand, a charming young Spaceforce captain unknowingly impregnates an alien woman who is on the run from galactic authorities. Months later, said alien woman ambushes the young captain, and transfers her massive litter to his body, against his will, just before it is time for the children to be born. She leaves the litter with him for safekeeping. As a male, he cannot birth the litter. Instead he grows and grows as he and his crew struggle to track her so that he can transfer the offspring back over to her. Contains: Male: Pregnancy/belly expansion, breast expansion, butt expansion. Some female pregnancy.

Previous Chapter

-

The sex proved awkward. They tried it at varying ankles, until Tom finally settled on fucking Iglina from behind, her hands on the wall, her belly heaving with her harsh, grunting breaths. Her breasts wiggled and he gripped what he could of her while simultaneously pumping his cock as deep as he could inside of her wet, hot opening. It squeezed him dizzyingly. He carelessly pushed his weight against her back until she groaned, trembled, and hunched forward. She clutched her belly with one hand, face scrunched like she might pop.

It was as erotic as it was absurd. Tom prepared for the sensation of clamping; he didn’t resist it. God, what was he doing? He groaned and arched, clutching her flanks as she twitched and shivered to finally scream out.

But rather than pumping him, Iglina’s body did something exceedingly odd. He felt his gender swelling uncomfortably as her opening throbbed and pushed something into him.

“Nrrgghhhh…” Tom grunted at the strange sensation that rolled through his cock. It felt so unpleasant, he tried to dismount, but was reacquainted with the fact that his gender was clamped inside her, as though surgically attached. “Agghhhhh!” he cried, as his dick swelled and contorted to the point that his vision began to blur. He found himself sobbing as the pressure spiked to intesnse pain. His stomach contracted violently. He felt like he might heave.

“I need you to hold onto them for safekeeping,” said Iglina huskily, her voice thick with effort. “Just till I take them back.”

“What are you t-talking about,” Tom stammered, as his belly tightened and face warmed. He tried to plea with her to cease this sexual torture, but by then everything had gone black.

-

When Tom awoke, his head was pounding. He was hot and sweaty, sprawled back on his bed. His body was tight and pulsing, his belly particularly. A great weight was pinning him down, leaving him breathless and his head swimming. It took him several minutes to will himself to open his eyes.

Iglina was gone. The room was shady, but not so dark that he couldn’t see her absence. Grimacing, he attempted to get up, but still found himself pinned down by something flush against him. He shoved his hands downwards, to dislodge whatever it was perched there, when his hand made contact with…skin. More of it than he had anticipated.

Tom looked down at himself. He blinked several times, hoping if he waited that his sight would adjust into a more logical reality. But nothing changed, except that the pain in his back became more blatant, and his head grew foggier, his breathing thinner. He took a shuddering breath, then struggled, and forced his heavy body somewhat upright against his pillows.

“Fuck,” he hissed, as he stared at the mound, almost afraid to touch it. But he did. He rested his hand against his sweat-sleeked skin, watching the mass heave in turn with his breathing. He looked as though he was fucking—pregnant. As pregnant as Iglina had been. “No, fuck, no…” he muttered to himself, his fingers exploring, pressing into his skin. He wanted to tear the bulge away from him but it was firmly affixed. His hand made contact with his bulging belly button, his nose wrinkling in disgust. He could feel his pulse pounding relentlessly in his throat, could feel his panic surging.

Something wiggled inside him, beneath his skin, against his palm, as though in greeting. Tom gave a choked noise of horror, quickly retracting both hands. This couldn’t be happening. Iglina had impregnated him somehow. He thought back on the last words she had said to him:

I need you to hold onto them for safekeeping.

Just till I take them back.

Tom screamed. Hoarsely, bitterly, he screamed out, as he pressed against his belly, trying to squash whatever horrible creatures laid within him. He screamed till he lost his voice, till his door banged open, and several of his crew members stood around, staring at him. Before he could process it, he was being restrained, shaken, spoken to. He soon found himself strapped down to a table in the medical bay, his consciousness riddled with panic-induced blackouts. He gasped for breath.

“The sedative should be taking effect right about…now,” said a female voice beside him.

As if on cue, his thin breaths deepened, his heart steadied, and the fog cleared until he was boneless, weary, but no longer utterly frenzied.

“Heavy,” he wheezed.

L’ren’ztha hummed to herself and adjusted the mechanical bed so that he was partially upright, his heavy weight shifting downwards with a discomfort that made him cringe.

Tom looked down at himself. He had been dressed in a plain shirt and cotton pants, though the shirt didn’t nearly cover his massive abdomen, at least half of it bulging out beneath the stretched hem.

Ren noticed his stare. “Apologies. Starforce regulated attire isn’t designed for…maternity.”

Tom drew a sharp breath that he refused to acknowledge as a sob. “What happened to me?” he whispered.

“Well…you’re pregnant,” Ren said. “In fact, almost due. You’re quite burdened with a mixture of eggs and live offspring. They’re yours, if you were wondering. There are only few species’ with the capability to fetus-transfer, so that at least narrows down your…callers’…species.”

Tom gulped. “Where is she?” he croaked.

“Gone,” Ren said, with a sympathetic frown. “She stole one of the pods. Footage shows that she left almost two hours ago. She’s fast. Evasive. I suspect she might even have some biological cloaking abilities. No one noticed her infiltration of the ship, and by the time we did, you were…”

Tom squeezed his eyes shut. He felt another nauseating twist of movement towards the bottom of his belly “I need you to get rid of this.” He nodded downwards.

There was a long bout of silence. It made him fearful. He finally brought himself to open his eyes.

“I’m afraid that is not possible, captain,” said Ren with a commiserating expression. “You cannot abort them. You cannot even birth them. Your human body is not meant for this condition. As such, your only hope is to transfer the offspring back to the mother. Any alternative will result in your and their deaths.”

Tom felt numb. He knew he would have had a much more overt reaction had he not been drugged. But as he was, she simply stared off for a moment, before beginning to heave himself up. Ren fretted in protest, and he nearly lost his balance as he shifted his weight to his bare feet. He wasn’t used to this overhang of weight before him. He didn’t think he could ever be.

It was absolutely obscene, how fat he was. It wasn’t even logical. He felt grotesque and deformed. As he began to move forward, he grimaced at the tension in his lower back, his need to arch, the uncomfortable tightness of his hips, and the way his gait had devolved to a humiliating waddle. His ignored as Ren prattled on, and roughly jerked his arm, nearly toppling himself, as she tried to grab hold of him. He locked himself in the medical bay bathroom, a litany of curses escaping is throat as Ren obnoxiously knocked on the door.

“You’re heavily medicated,” she called through the cool metal. “You really shouldn’t be walking around on your own.”

Tom stared at himself in the mirror that covered one of the walls, and found himself aghast at his own reflection. His belly resembled a large ball, looking completely out of place on his slim torso. In fact, it looked flushed and tight, skin stretched and aching, angry pink marks beginning to blossom on the sides of the offensive mound. His skin burned with the tension. He didn’t resemble pregnant women, who developed an overall softness to supplement their conditions. His belly was a harsh, painful protrusion on his ill-prepared form. It had developed too quickly for his body to adapt to it. Even then, he was assailed by an internal tension that was on the cusp of pain, a pressure outside of the clear irritation of his skin. His body wasn’t meant for this.

As he slowly wobbled to his side, he could see that his dick had clearly taken on some more growth, now bulging visibly in the groin of his sweatpants despite being soft.

He couldn’t stand the feeling of strain. Tom arched his sore back, then hissed out, and decided against it. He felt ready to pop, the prickling of his skin spreading to his navel. Though he knew he was as pregnant as Iglina had been, it looked even more pronounced on his ill-suited body. He gave a frustrated, sedated moan, leaned forward, and closed his eyes, hoping this was a dream. He couldn’t plant his forehead against the mirror, with his girth, but he felt the exposed parts of his belly press against it, increasing the stinging yet offering the comfort of the cool glass that mitigated the pain to a tingling.

He heard keys jangle, before the door was gingerly opened behind him. Tom didn’t lift his eyelids until his alien medic wrapped her arm behind him—she was stronger than she looked—and guided him out of the bathroom. She eased him down into a chair—he hissed out as the tension peaked at his navel, his belly settling on his lap—before she pushed his shirt up all the way, marveling at his humiliation.

Ren left momentarily, before returning with a large jar. She unscrewed the cover, revealing an oily orange substance. “This serum will help,” she assured, as she coated her gloved fingers in the solution. “Your skin hasn’t had time to soften. This will prevent damage.” With that, she began to slather the gunk onto the unwelcome mound.

He was surprised by how rapid and profound the effects were. He felt the external tension ease with each stroke of the oily cream, until he entire swollen belly was coated in what looked like greasy orange paint, leaving his skin pleasantly supple and soft to the touch. Even the stretch marks seemed to have faded a good deal. He experimentally pressed his finger against his plump flesh, his finger sinking into the new layer of resistance.

“This may have to be applied periodically based on your growth rate,” Ren said. The orange color was beginning to fade, the substance sinking into his flesh. “Understandably, your body may not produce the hormones necessary for proper—ah—stretching. We’ll start off with once a week, then adjust the treatment as necessary. If we apply it too infrequently, there’s a risk of injury to your skin, or worse. But if we apply it too frequently, it might encourage excess growth.”

Tom grit his teeth, suddenly feeling sick again. “I’d like to go to my room,” he managed.

Ren frowned, but eventually agreed to let him go, under the condition that he allow her to escort him. “I believe you will be more comfortable in your own quarters,” she murmured.

As the two walked down the halls together, he refused to let her touch him, but her arm still shot out whenever he stumbled. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the weight in front of him, or the sheer amount of the space his abdomen now took up. More than once, he unintentionally bumped his belly into a wall.

Ren had been unable to find a shirt that could accommodate him in all his fatness, so half of the mound was still disgustingly protruding out. When his personnel passed him in the corridors, they froze at the sight of him. But not to salute. They simply stared at him in utter shock.

As soon as Tom got back to his quarters, he shut the door in Ren’s face, then locked it as well. He crawled, awkwardly, into bed, then tried to find a comfortable position with his expanded, lurching body. Miserable as he felt, the solitude was a welcome reprieve from the stares and scrutiny. He stayed holed up in his quarters, and even when he could no longer sleep, he wrapped himself in his blankets, if just to hide the mound from his own sight, impossible though that was. He stared off, speculated, trying to form a plan. His mind reeled in an endless cycle, and any inception of a plot was just swallowed up by anxiety. So he slept when he could, and when he couldn’t, he tried to.