Kompera
patreon
Malcolm, Part 1
🕑 Added 2025-02-15 00:43:49 +0000 UTC$4/Base Directory
$7/Bronze Directory
$12/Silver Directory
Summary: Malcolm has a unique ability. Contains: Male: belly expansion, breast expansion, stuffing, weight gain, butt expansion, pregnancy.
This story is a work of fiction. As specified through the story, all characters featured in this work are 18 years of age or older.
-
"You fucked up," said Malcolm coldly as he cornered the smaller man in that cramped office. They could both hear the overlapping chatter of business being conducted throughout the call center outside.
Tim's face reddened slightly. He was snide, but also flustered and there was a deranged sense of excitement in his eyes. He was like a child acting out, and he had certainly gotten Malcolm's attention. "Our contract was never finalized. Feldman had a better offer."
"You just cost me a clean 10K," Malcolm retorted huskily. By then he had Tim fully pressed against the wall.
"This is business, Ross. Nothing personal," Tim huffed back, gazing intently up at him. "And what can I say? You should have followed through."
Malcolm would.
He turned Tim around so that Tim was facing the wall now. Malcolm pressed him hard there, practically crushing him. Tim grunted, but didn't resist.
Malcolm leaned down to his ear. "After seeing the way you skimmed that fundraising drive, I guess I shouldn't be surprised."
Tim's eyes widened. "I never---you have no proof of that."
Malcolm laughed, and he could see the tension in Tim's jaw, that smugness replaced with uneasiness. "I'm really good at my job, Tim. I went through all your records. I'm not some useless corporate drone. I know theft when I see it."
"I guess that comes with running a security firm," said Tim facetiously, despite that he was sweating. "Enough with the foreplay, what do you want, big guy? A cut?"
Malcolm chuckled darkly. He rolled his hips, causing Tim to groan at the sensation of Malcolm's hard, thick cock pressing against the back of his trousers. "Why haven't we fucked?"
"Maybe this whole mess could've been avoided."
"Yeah..." said Malcolm with a crooked smirk. "Because you should have been exclusive to me. Your business. Your body."
"Cool down there, champ."
"Take off your pants."
Tim hesitated. "My secretary might come in, she's due to drop off a repo---"
"I don't care. Take them off. Now."
Tim fumbled with his belt buckle. Soon his trousers were sliding off his hips, and Malcolm was cupping his smooth, perfect ass as Tim muted himself by humming. Malcom pressed harder into him.
"Hot, right?" said Malcolm, his free hand reaching into his pocket. "Never done it at the office, boy scout?"
"Corporate theft, sure. But I draw the line at public indecency." The sarcasm.
"Take a couple of these." Malcolm gave him a pill bottle. Then he indulgently ran his hands over Tim's slim frame, thinking about how hot it would be when everything started to change.
"Trying to get me high at work?" Tim responded with an eye-roll. Nevertheless, the popped some of the pills with little concern. "I hope it's strong," he said as he returned the bottle. "I'm not a light weight, you know."
Malcolm huffed a laugh. "They're fertility drugs. Strong ones."
Tim froze.
"Male pregnancy is rare, but I have a really impressive track record." Malcolm unzipped his own pants. "Ready to make up for that 10K, big guy."
"Wait---"
"Or would you rather I tell your boss at corporate that you've been skimming them fifty grand every quarter? How does federal prison sound?"
"'the hell, man. Let me just --- think ---" Tim struggled but Malcolm held him in place.
"It's a one-time deal, mommy. Not giving you a chance to back out. Not again. Take it or leave it." Malcolm aligned his dick to Tim's crack. Tim released a shuddering breath as they made contact.
"Fuck, I -- I feel really hot," Tim rambled.
"That'll be the drugs kicking in. Makes you want it even more."
"I don't --- I just --- you can't be serious. This has to be a joke."
"You have five seconds."
"Fine just --- jesus fuck--- just do it."
Malcolm fucked a baby into him.
Malcolm zipped up. "I'll be checking in," he told Tim who was sprawled on the ground, completely unwound. "Don't try anything stupid," Malcolm warned as he walked out of the office, shutting the door behind him.
The secretary perked at seeing Malcolm. She put on her brightest smile. "Everything go well with your meeting, Mr. Ross?"
"Yeah, it did," Malcolm responded. "We're going forward with the deal."
The secretary maintained her smile though it was a surprised one now. "Well, that's --- great," she said, entirely puzzled.
"I'll arrange to have the installations done next week," Malcolm said as he headed for the door. "Later."
"Enjoy your day, Mr. Ross," she called.
Male pregnancy was extremely rare. There had only been a handful of cases worldwide over the past decade. With female fertility rates progressively declining, people called male pregnancy a mutation, an adaptation, even an evolutionary inevitability. Yet it was kept hidden away from society and people didn't understand it. Many just thought it to be some hoax, others, a myth. At large, it just made people uncomfortable.
Malcolm didn't understand male pregnancy himself, though by then, he knew that the "donor" had to play a significant factor in things.
Because Malcolm had fathered many, many children to male mothers, each pregnancy viable and successful, whether or not said mother even wanted it to be. It was actually scarce that one of Malcolm's hookups didn't result in a pregnancy. Not only that, but the babies were always big and healthy. Occasionally, there were even multiples. And the incorporation of fertility drugs guaranteed it.
Malcolm knew he was special. He knew that doctors and scientists would be vying to study him if they knew what he could do. He was like a prized stag. A breeding bull. His sperm was fucking unstoppable.
In fact, Malcolm could name only one man who he could not get pregnant.
"How was the meeting?" Peter's voice asked over the car bluetooth. Peter's words were clear but Malcolm could tell that he was multitasking---he always was. Probably scanning the subtitles on the morning news he played on mute in his office or reading an article on the structural integrity of Iberian glaciers post-1940.
"It went well," Malcolm responded as he drove.
"That's good. Things sounded dubious."
"I sorted it out."
"Nice." Malcolm could hear Peter take a sip of coffee. Soon he would have to run some numbers or join a conference call.
"Now I'm off to a lunch meeting." Malcolm adjusted his rearview mirror, glancing over Mr. Cheekbones in the car behind him. "Isn't your birthday coming up?" he said idly.
Peter scoffed. "You know I don't care about that stuff."
"But baby, it's the big 3-OH."
"Don't call me that." Peter's huff wasn't a laugh, not quite. "But yeah, thirty, big deal. You know my sister? Darla? She always says I have the personality of a sixty-year-old."
"Ouch."
"I take it as a compliment," Peter said. "I'm being summoned. I guess I'll see you tonight."
"Have fun," Malcolm said, then the line went dead. His mind drifted as he continued to drive.
Though Malcolm wouldn't have put it in those terms, Darla wasn't wrong. In Malcolm's three years with the other man, Peter had always been very cool, mature, and no-nonsense in his temperament. It was odd to think that he was only twenty-nine. Of course he looked young, yet he seemed so much older.
It was kind of comforting, this constant about Peter---his unwavering composure. Yet sometimes Malcolm just wanted to shake him. He wanted to see some variation from his collected demeanor. There was more there, it just --- Peter wasn't one to show vulnerability. Ever.
Malcolm pulled into the stadium lot. It wasn't packed like it was on the weekends, but this was just a practice match between two friendly college teams.
Malcolm stopped at concessions on his way to the stands, picking up a hot dog and some soda. The crowd was sparse and there was an abundance of open seats, so Malcolm found a spot as close to the pitch as he could get, right behind the home team.
Then he sat back and enjoyed the show, which wasn't actually the soccer game going on. Malcolm had his eyes on the players. Well, one in particular.
Simon Connors was the team captain and star player. He was on a sports scholarship, his costly college tuition covered as long as he continued to perform.
But Simon wasn't the same lately. His game was sloppy, movements slow, and he was truly struggling to keep up with his teammates. Sure, two hours of straight cardio was unfathomable for most, but it should have been a breeze for the twenty-year-old.
"What the hell was that!?" the coach roared.
Simon had been called off the field, not only benched, but screamed at. Malcolm had to respect Simon's cold indifference as he stood there and endured it. The coach's arms were flailing, spittle flying as he publicly vented his infuriation to everyone within a mile. Maybe he thought Simon was being combative or just not taking the game seriously enough. Partying too much, training too little. The kid's appearance would certainly corroborate that. Malcolm could see the lines under Simon's eyes and the bulkiness under his jersey.
Malcolm wondered if he knew.
Malcolm got up and ducked off, out of the stands, appreciating the lack of facility staff and security on a weekday such as this one. The locker rooms were wide open. Malcolm walked in, looking around at the strewn about duffel bags, grass-stained uniforms, sweaty fitness clothes, and miscellaneous sports equipment. The place was devoid of other people, at least until he heard another pair feet approaching, sneakers padding stiffly against the flooring. Malcolm stepped behind a row of lockers, disappearing from sight as he listened.
"Fuck," a voice growled.
That would be Simon.
The kid arbitrarily slammed one of the locker doors that hung ajar, causing it to clang viciously on metal. Then he drew in several long breaths, trying to temper himself.
Malcolm leaned over to take a peek.
Simon was pulling off his jersey, throwing it aside, his face anguished as he looked down at what it revealed. The tank top he had on was skin-tight, largely due to his swollen belly. The jersey had hid it impressively despite that the kid looked six months in. There was no way he hadn't realized he was pregnant at the size of this baby on his athletic build.
Simon's hands cupped the swell as he breathed heavily and stepped back to lean on another of the lockers. He closed his eyes, clenching his jaw as he just cupped it and mumbled under his breath---praying? Cursing? Malcolm couldn't tell.
Simon gave a hum---more of a grunt as his face twisted and he bit his bottom lip.
"Oh," Simon yelped, cheeks reddening as he looked down at himself, and Malcolm wasn't sure what had happened. Not until he really studied the kid, and realized the change. His bellybutton was now protruding outwards.
Simon continued to stare at the mound, looking daunted; defeated. He couldn't hide this forever, let alone another week or two.
Nevertheless, he grabbed up his jersey. Pulled it back on. Detaching his hands from his torso, he drew a deep breath, and left the room.
When Malcolm got to the house, he went straight to his home office.
Peter often chastised him for spending so much time in there. He said that Malcolm was obsessed with his business, and couldn't delineate worktime from downtime, especially when he did so much of his work from home.
On the contrary, the time that Malcolm spent in his home office was pure relaxation for him. Above his desk hoovered three monitors, the video feeds oscillating between camera angles of the location of his choosing.
Malcolm ran a local security firm. He had about two dozen employees who handled things like installation, troubleshooting, and a site monitoring, but he did his own work from home. At any moment of any day, Malcolm could pull up the camera feeds on one of the hundreds of businesses and residences he had under security surveillance. He saw people entering and exiting, exchanging words and exchanging money, fucking and fighting, or sometimes just gazing curiously up at the camera lense. Suffice to say, he usually saw too much. But people hardly had time to be wary of positioning and angles when they were already juggling shit that mattered like work and family. Malcolm's firm was an entity as far as they were concerned. It was innocuous. Rather, it was meant to keep them safe.
Licking his lips, Malcolm scrolled through the streams on his laptop. Everything he passed appeared to be running properly, not that he was checking. He was looking for something more recreational. Something tasty. His eyes registered a particular residence, and he was hit with remembrance. Yeah, that guy. Brooks.
Malcolm opened the stream and looked up at the monitors, his irises glowing as they reflected different angles of a heavily pregnant man waddling around his living room in real-time.
There was a buzzing noise. Jerked out of his reverie, Malcolm's eyes shot down to his phone, and the alert that had populated there. Someone was entering the front door. Malcolm opened the app to see that Peter had gotten home. Was it six already? "Fuck," he muttered, running a hand down his face.
Malcolm turned off his computer, the three external monitors going black. He sighed as he got up, pocketed his phone, and walked out to greet his partner.
