The Deal Pt. 01

It shouldn't have been arousing, watching you as you lay there with your feet in the stirrups, hairy thighs and bushy snatch exposed below your paper napkin smock, hands fiddling restlessly by your sides as if you wanted to press them to the bulging mound of your tummy but knew you shouldn't.

The doctor finished taking his swabs and told you that now he was going to palpate your abdomen. My t-dick twitched in my pants at the clinical language.

It wasn't that I was attracted to the doctor.

Ew, reader.

He was stern and formal in a way that went beyond being just old-fashioned. I couldn't imagine a pregnant lady coming to him and walking away feeling at all comforted or reassured.

I felt myself moisten and stiffen as he pressed and probed your distended belly with his uncannily long hands, working his way from just below your ribcage to just above your bush, and you squirmed in shame and discomfort.

He frowned. "But the test was negative. I'll have Nurse run it again," he said, speaking almost to himself. Then, to me: "Her fundal height is consistent with a six month pregnancy. My first assumption was fibroids, but there is movement in the womb. I'll need to do a scan."

"His."

"I beg your pardon?"

"His, not her. He's a guy. He had his gender marker changed by court order."

The doctor tried but did not succeed in not rolling his eyes.

It had been two weeks since we found the book.

The fucking book.

**

We had ditched most of our crappy flatpack bachelor furniture when we moved in together, and decided to hunt for better quality pieces in second-hand and antique stores. We could learn to refinish hardwood! We could upcycle! How hard could reupholstery be anyhow?

Our first haul was successful. A battered old kitchen table and charmingly mismatched chairs. Now we had a place to eat that wasn't the sofa. Some cast iron pans to be scrubbed down with steel wool and re-seasoned in the oven. A tall shelving unit that had been used for display but which we bargained for and got.

And an armload of crumbling antique books.

Your idea.

I'm a visual guy. You're the reader in the family. But I swear I could feel the books calling to me from their box in the bed of my truck as I drove us home to our new apartment. When we got home and unloaded our loot, I sat down to read one at random.

It was a kids' mystery book, like the Hardy Boys but not, and against my will I found myself drawn into the relatively simple story.

You got to work on the cast iron, and once they were oiled up and baking in the oven you joined me on the sofa and began to sort through the other books.

"Look at this one," you said, holding one out to me. It had to be a century old, if not more. The title was Her Only Sin.

"Her Only Sin," I read.

"Did she let a man see her ankle? Without them even being betrothed?" I was just a mechanic, but you taught high school history, and I had picked some things up from you.

"Sloot," you said, and set the book aside carefully.

I went back to reading. I wanted to find out who had stolen the dowager's emerald after the hunting party.

"Oh my God," you breathed.

"What?"

You held out another book. This one was much, much older. I could see that at a glance. It had no title, only a symbol that made my vision go blurry as if I had a migraine coming on.

I took it in my hands. The cover tingled against my skin, and the pages almost turned themselves. It wasn't in English.

Having it in my hands felt... wrong in a way my mechanic brain couldn't begin to explain, so I handed it back to you.

"It's in some kind of code," you said. "I thought it was a language, but it doesn't look like anything I've ever seen."

There was a glint of excitement in your dark eyes that I was pretty sure meant trouble, and sure enough, as soon as you had set the strange little book down you were on me, straddling my lap as you bit my lips and fumbled at the buttons of my short sleeved shirt.

**

The sonogram machine or whatever it was shorted out.

More than that, really. The doctor pressed the wand to the gel smeared across the bulge of your tummy. You had your eyes closed, and you held my hand hard enough to hurt. My t-dick was rock hard and rampant in my boxer briefs.

A sound like a lightning strike. A smell of sulfur. The black and white screen flashed red and then its housing cracked and a flood of foul, greasy smoke poured out.

You yelped in fright and scrambled off the examination table and into my arms.

Alarms sounded, and from the ceiling, water sprinkled down.

The panicked scramble to get you back into your jeans and out into the hallway, following nurses and pregnant patients.

Somebody had a service dog and the damn thing went mad, lunging and snarling at you, slaver dripping from its jaws. Even unpregnant, its person would have been too frail to hold it back, and the watermelon in her tummy certainly didn't help. I allowed myself a moment of contempt. Train that thing if you can't control it. Jesus Christ, lady.

I am not a very good man.

A man nurse tackled the raving dog and wrestled it down, then dragged it to the fire exit by its ruff.

You held your jeans up with one hand--they wouldn't fasten over the swell of your lower belly--and tried to shuffle into your shoes as I pushed your arms and head into your T-shirt- my T-shirt, technically--and urged you down the hall, tempted to drag you physically like the nurse dragged the dog, to get you away from that machine and the evil flames licking out from under the exam room door.

In all the confusion, we forgot to pay your bill.

Oops.

**

"I think I broke the code!"

"What code?"

It was 3 am, and a Saturday. I had just fallen asleep, it felt like, and your hand on my shoulder shaking me hard brought me back a long, long way.

"The code the book is in. I found it online. Spiritualists used it, back in the Victorian era, to talk to the men they lost fighting in the Crimea or when their whaler went down or whatever. Here. Listen."

I rolled over onto my back and gazed at you blearily, suddenly frightened for no reason I could explain.

And, kneeling on the bed in your boxers, your thin chest sweaty from the excitement of your discovery, you read it.

**

After the abortive (so to speak) doctor's visit, things escalated. Your belly swelled, uterus bulging inside you, filling your abdomen full to bursting. I tried to make another appointment for you, at a different clinic, but you begged me not to, hysterical with fear.

You couldn't go outside like this.

Everyone would see.

You couldn't do it again--another round of palpation, of probes, of swabs, of scanning, of misgendering. And what if--what if another scanner broke? What if another clinic burned down in flames that could not be doused with water?

The thought was a crazy one, but sometimes crazy things have their own weird logic, don't they?

I must have fapped five times a day. The relentless growth of your pregnancy, the tremble of your skinny legs under the unaccustomed weight of your tummy, the restless movement inside you, the faint reddish glow of your womb, filled with flame and dark shadows, when I turned out the lights and helped you lay back against the wedge pillow left over from your top surgery.

Your bloated body drove me mad.

Your shame and horror drove me mad.

You wouldn't let me touch you, so I had no choice but to touch myself.

As I've said, I'm not a good man.

**

Obviously you couldn't work like that, so I told your boss you were laid up with a nasty flu that had turned to pneumonia.

But I had to. Someone had to pay the bills.

One night I came home, half irritable because it would be another evening without sex, and half terrified lest I find you with your tummy burst open from the relentless growth inside you.

The sounds that came from our room were unmistakable. I shucked out of my work clothes and threw everything but my boxer briefs and my socks into the wash, then padded to the rear of the apartment. You were propped up on your wedge pillow, in a pair of my pajama pants and nothing else, and going to town on yourself with a long-handled toy.

Without results, apparently, given the frustrated noises you were making.

Acting on impulse, I snatched the toy away from you hard enough that it unplugged from the wall and its vigorous buzzing died.

"Not so fast, pregnant boy."

You whined deep in your throat and reached out wordlessly for the toy.

"Pregnant boys don't get to come. Not unless they let their boyfriend touch them. I want to feel your belly. Let me feel your belly, and then I'll help you come."

You reached for the bedside table, but I was there first, grabbing the drawer containing your strap, my strap, the butt plugs, the rabbit habit, and other assorted amusements, and dislodging it from its runners. I could see the way the weight of your tummy pinned you in place. Your breath came short, and your skinny chest heaved above the mountain of your abdomen.

"Christ, you're an asshole."

"An asshole who wants to help you come," I agreed. "I want to feel your belly, pregnant boy. You've kept me waiting too long. Let me feel it, and I'll do whatever you want, I'll get you off in whatever way you want."

"Feel it then. Pervert." You crossed your fragile arms--everything you had eaten over the past few weeks seemed to have gone to swell your uterus, and obviously you couldn't work out like this.

I set the drawer aside and sat next to you on our bed. My hand shook faintly as I reached out and laid it on the mound of your tummy.

It was firm, and round, and full to bursting. I could feel the strain of your abs, stretched to their limit, and underneath...

Underneath, there was a presence. My other hand joined the first, and I pressed gently, trying to palpate you the way I had seen the doctor do it.

The lightbulbs died in the overhead lamp, and we were left in the darkness. My hands on your pregnancy, your panicked gasps. And inside you, seething shadows, red and black.

Something moving. Something not human. I could feel it.

I should have been frightened, I suppose, but I was too aroused. I pressed your abdomen, hearing your grunt of discomfort and not caring. Again, not a great guy here.

Your uterus rippled inside you, and I became more aware than ever before of my rampant t-dick. I shifted my weight. "God, you're so pregnant," I breathed.

You made a disgusted noise.

"Tell me what it feels like."

Your belly shifted and bulged under my hands. I pressed a little more firmly, trying to feel the contours of the shadows that flitted and lurched inside you.

You moaned and arched your back. "The pressure. It's unimaginable. I can't stand it." For the first time your hands joined mine, clutching your tummy as it swelled in our grasp. "I almost wish I COULD burst, oh god--"

"I thought you'd cheated," I confessed, my voice husky from lust. "I thought you'd been with a cis dude and got yourself knocked up. When your tummy started to swell--remember how you were complaining about how your pants wouldn't zip all of a sudden? I thought you were one of those people who don't show... until they do."

"I wish I had. At least it would be human," you groaned. "I can feel it. It's so hot. Inside me. Temperature hot, not sexy hot. Soon it'll be boiling, and I--"

I pried myself away from you and went to the bathroom to wet a towel in cold water. When I came back I laid it on your belly. "Does this help?"

You shook your head. "Not much. Can you feel it? From the outside? I feel like I'm going crazy."

"I can feel motion," I said. "And... I can feel your--your uterus. How stretched it is. How tight."

"Move your hand down lower," you said, and pressed my palm to your pelvis, just at the base of your womb. "Oh god, I'm so sensitive there."

I applied pressure, massaging carefully as you shivered and groaned, my other hand on the top of your belly.

"There's my pregnant boy," I said.

"Asshole."

"That's right."

I worked your jammy pants off of you. Your abdomen was too heavy for you to lift your skinny hips, but you tried, and I nearly lost my mind from desire.

And there, poking out of your hairy bush, was something new.

"What's this?"

I took it in my hand. You had had surprisingly decent bottom growth--a bit more than mine, even, if I'm being honest--but this was an actual dick. Four or five inches, even semi-flaccid. "What's THIS?" I said again, anger and shock in my voice.

The thing began to rise and thicken in my hand.

"I made a deal," you confessed miserably. "Oh my god, I made a deal."