Life as a Factory, Part 3 (Patreon)

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Summary: Mark appears to be your typical teen. He just graduated high school an is looking to go to college with his girlfriend Jenna, but little did Mark know that once every 100 years, on their 18th birthday a young man in his family will gradually transform into a baby factory. Mark now has to go through college and maintain his relationship with his girlfriend Jenna. All while he constantly grows more and more pregnant. Contains: Pregnancy, pregnancy expansion, breast expansion, ass expansion, cloths ripping, lactation. hyper pregnancy, permanent pregnancy, non-stop birthing. Idea submitted by Brace_Q 1/24.

Previous Chapter

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The next day, Mark woke up later than he had intended, but he still had sufficient time to pack his duffel bag and catch the train to visit his parents. He felt heavy and lethargic, his body awkwardly tense around the middle as he threw random items into his bag—a weekend's worth. Some movements made him grimace. Others made him freeze up or shiver. The more it happened, the more he became aware of how tortuously sensitive his nipples had become.

He blinked where he stood, unsure of how long he had been stationary. His nipples were tingling, somehow begging to be touched. Mark glanced around the dorm room. His roommates had left before he had woken, likely for their early-morning gym session. Mark sat down on his bed and dipped his fingers under his shirt. He bypassed his belly, going straight for his chest. His fingertips closed in on his hard, puffy nipples, which proved shockingly sensitive. His eyelids fluttered as he stroked them, carefully rubbing and teasing. He didn't know what was wrong with them, but he couldn't say it didn't feel amazing.

A weak groan escaped his throat. He was getting hard. He knew he had to stop and yet he kept touching himself. His hips twitched as he slowly unraveled to the escalating pleasure, but an unexpected sensation brought him sharply back to reality. He found himself on his bed again, tense and frozen, as he wondered why his fingers had encountered a distinct...wetness.

The door banged open. Mark hurriedly tugged down his top.

His two roommates stared at him, Mark looking like a deer caught in headlights. But then they exchanged a glance and proceeded to walk in, probably figuring Mark had just been caught mid-fap or something.

"Hey, Baker," said the lankier of Mark’s two roommates. His name was Dave.

"Hey," Mark replied, unconsciously tugging at his sweatshirt. He resisted the urge to glance down at himself.

"You heading out?" asked Mark's other roommate, Jake, as he eyed Mark's duffel bag.

"Yeah, going home for the weekend." Mark stood up, grabbing the bag and slinging it over his shoulder. He turned away from them, trying to be casual as he made for the door.

" Say hi to your mom for me," said Dave as Jake burst into sniggers.

Throwing them only a rude hand gesture as parting, Mark walked out of the dorm.

As he left campus and walked towards the train station, a sense of relief washed over him. Maybe he needed the time away to recalibrate. Figure out what was going on with his body.

By the time he arrived at the station, he was out of breath. The duffel bag was heavy. Or more likely, he was just out of shape.

He made it to the platform, gasping. Then leaned against a post, one hand pressed against the small of his back while the other cradled the firm, tight curve.

It was definitely a curve now. He tried to remember when it had gone from "bloated" to "round." He couldn't. The changes had been so gradual, he hadn't noticed until he was forced to, but it was now a very distinct bump.

On the train, he managed to snag a window seat. The gentle rumble of the car was strangely soothing. He closed his eyes, letting the sounds lull him into a doze. He couldn't believe how tired he was. It seemed like only seconds later that someone was gripping his shoulder, shaking him awake.

"End of the line, kid."

Mark blinked, disoriented. He was home. He gathered his things and stumbled off the train, the bright afternoon sunlight making him squint.

His mom was waiting for him at the curb in their minivan, a sight that made him simultaneously comforted and a bit sheepish. As he heaved his bag into the back and slid into the passenger seat, he was acutely aware of how the seatbelt felt tight across his abdomen.

"Markie!" she chirped, her smile bright but strained. "Look at you!"

He knew what she meant. He looked bigger. "Hey, Mom," he mumbled, staring out the window.

The ride home was filled with her pointed questions about classes, his dorm, the food, and Jenna. Each one he answered with as few words as possible, the persistent, nagging ache of his bloated stomach making conversation difficult. He was starving again. He wished he knew why, but it was getting worse by the moment.

When they pulled into the driveway, his dad was waiting on the porch. The look on his face was a strange mixture of pity, fear, and morbid curiosity.

Dinner felt like a demented game. Mark truly tried, at first, to eat like a normal person. When he sat down, there was a roasted chicken, a mountain of mashed potatoes, a pan of baked mac and cheese, a basket of rolls, and a plate piled high with buttered corn. It was enough for six people, not three.

"Mom, this is... a lot," he said, eyeing the feast. The only time his mother ever cooked this much was on Thanksgiving.

"I'm just happy to have you back for the weekend," she responded, her smile controlled. "Besides, you need your strength."

But did he? Mark felt like he was losing strength the more extra weight he put on. Still, rather than voicing this concern, he found himself gazing at the mac and cheese with rapt focus. His stomach growled audibly, causing him to flush in embarrassment. He folded his arms over his waist but there was really no hiding the thing. "Just...a little," he managed. He knew it would take effort, but maybe he could restrain himself. Frankly, he preferred not to give his parents a glimpse of his etiquette in the campus cafeteria.

"Eat up," his father encouraged.

Mark didn’t need to be told twice.

He started with a completely reasonable portion. He ate it quickly, methodically, hardly tasting a thing. When he was done, he sat back, intending to say he was full, but the words wouldn't come. His hands, as if with a will of their own, reached for the platter of chicken. He carved off another piece, then another. He loaded his plate with potatoes until it was a pale, buttery peak.

He couldn't stop.

His parents watched in silence as he devoured everything on the table. The chicken vanished. The potatoes became a mere smear. He ripped the rolls apart and stuffed them into his mouth, barely chewing.

His parents didn't even pretend to eat, their plates left empty. They were simply there to watch him.

Mark was panting. Around campus, no one really knew him yet. People probably assumed he had always been chunky around the middle. And sometimes, with all his sweatshirts, he liked to think that his man-tits could pass as thick pecs.

But now that he was home, there wasn't much hiding. His parents could see exactly what he was becoming.

Mark slumped back in his chair, groaning. "I feel sick," he whimpered. His belly was so tight it felt like it could burst at any second. He hugged himself, wincing.

"You've had a long day," said Mom, her tone gentle. She cleared their plates, and Mark stared at the space they had occupied, feeling ashamed and disgusted.

Even so, he helped himself to a second and then a third slice of chocolate cake for dessert, by which point he was sweating. His clothes were painfully tight, his sweatpants cutting into his waist. His stomach was a hard, swollen globe that pressed insistently against the table.

"I just have to...powder my nose," Mark gasped out as he got up and staggered off to the nearest bathroom.

"You okay, Mark?" his mother’s voice trailed him.

Mark closed the bathroom door then dragged himself to the mirror, his face flushed, strained, and pouring sweat. He gripped the sink for support, the tension incredible. His gut was unbearably tight, his skin prickling. His nipples started to sting, and he didn't see the damp spots forming on his sweatshirt. He was too focused on the increasing pressure in his belly, one of his hands shooting down to his lower back as he groaned. What the hell was happening?

"Mark," his father called, knocking forcefully on the door.

Mark wished he could tell him to fuck off, but he was too busy struggling and groaning. His belly felt like a balloon that was about to spilit. He yelped as a popping sensation erupted on the surface, and for a deranged instant, he thought he had ruptured. But then, as he looked down, he found himself gaping at his body. He tugged up his sweatshirt to confirm it. "What the fuck?" he gasped out.

His belly button had popped outward. There was no longer any denying it. He fucking looked as though he was—

"Mark, answer us, we're worried!" his mother cried from the hallway.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," Mark cut her off as he opened the door, standing there, tugging down his sweater because it seemed determined to slide up and expose even more of his humiliation. His recent growth spurt, as well as his newly bulging navel, were evident regardless, his parents staring at the protrusion. "I look..." Mark's cheeks reddened. "...like a freak."

"No, you don't," his mother responded, her eyes tearing up. "You look wonderful. You're doing a great job."

Mark didn't even know what that meant. A great job at getting fat?

"Laurie," Mark's dad said emphatically to his wife, looking a little sick.

Mark's mother followed his gaze to Mark's chest, her mouth falling open. "Oh dear," she said.

Mark looked down at the mortifying heaps on his chest to realize that his parents weren't just looking at his moobs. At first, his brain couldn't compute it. But there were two damp spots on his sweater, his fat nipples bulging distinctly against them. And the spots were getting wetter, damper...widening. There was no source. The wetness was... It was coming from him.

Mark abruptly felt sick and dizzy all at once. He stumbled to the toilet and knelt before it, gagging. Nothing came up, but the retching continued, leaving him shaky and pale when he was finally done.

His father pulled him up to a standing position. "Son," he started, but then paused.

Mark's father looked pained, like he wanted to bolt. He looked like he wanted to call a priest or an exorcist, not that either would be much help.

"We need to tell you what's going on," Mom said, her jaw trembling. "Now."

She took Mark by the arm and led him back to the kitchen. His belly gurgled ominously. He felt a strange lurching sensation deep inside, not like gas, but like...something shifting. It was unnerving.

"Sit," she commanded, pointing to a chair.

Mark sat. The chair groaned under his weight. He stared at the tabletop, tracing the wood grain with a sweaty fingertip.

"It's not a curse," his father began, his voice low and strained. "Not exactly. It's more of a...a condition. A family inheritance."

Mark looked up. His father was standing by the sink, leaning against it as if for support.

"Remember what we tried to tell you? At the dorm?" he asked.

Mark nodded mutely.

"It's about fertility," he continued. "Our family line...it can't continue in the normal way. So, every hundred years or so, the lineage selects a male. A conduit. To ensure the survival of the bloodline."

Mark's mind reeled. A conduit? This was insane. It sounded like something out of some ludicrous serialized fetish story. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, his voice cracking.

His mother reached across the table and placed her hand over his. "You're pregnant, Mark."

Mark stared at her, then at his father. He waited for one of them to start laughing. This had to be a joke.

But they didn't laugh. They just stared at him tensely, waiting for his reaction.

"Pregnant?" he whispered, the prospect absurd. "I'm a guy."

"You are," his father agreed. "And you are. It started on your eighteenth birthday."

Mark jerked his hand away from his mother's. He looked down at his stomach. The tight, round swell. The popped-out navel. The strange, internal shifting. Then he looked back at his parents. "You guys are insane," he said hotly.

"Mark—" his mother protested.

"I'm leaving," Mark decided. He didn't want to hear any more. He was furious that they couldn't take this seriously. They had been acting so bizarre ever since college had started. He got up. "I'm going back to campus." He would probably have better luck with the campus infirmary than with anything else his parents had to say. He wondered if his dad was drinking again. What a clown show.

"Mark, wait," his father pleaded, stepping into his path. "Please. You need to hear this."

But Mark pushed past him, exiting the house without even bothering to grab his stuff. His belly continued to gurgle, still tightly packed and pressurized. God, it felt like it was stretching and growing. That heavy meal hadn't done him any favors.

"Mark!" his mother cried.

"Fuck off!" he screamed, hardly recognizing his own voice. He felt an instant pang of guilt but refused to look back and see his mother's hurt expression. He just needed to get away.

Mark's father started to come after him, but Mark heard a sharp, "Let him go!" from his mom. Mark kept walking, seething, trying to get as far away from the house as possible. He could feel their gazes on his back until he made it down the sidewalk and past the fence. Then they and his childhood home were finally out of sight.

He didn't know where he was going. Just...away. He made his way down the sidewalk, wishing he had grabbed a jacket or something. Just a few more layers he could hide under. His stride felt awkward. His balance, unfamiliar. His belly still tight...getting tighter. His face was flushed, and his lips pressed into a grimace. He was breathing heavily, his body feeling awkward and ungainly.

People stared. A woman walking her dog did a double-take, her eyes widening as they flickered from his face down to the damp patches on his sweatshirt, then to the odd protrusion of his gut. He looked away, hunching his shoulders and wrapping his arms around himself, which only emphasized the roundness of his stomach. He felt like a freak, a circus sideshow. His cheeks burned with shame.

His nipples stung, his shirt getting wetter, but he tried not to think about what that meant. And god, his belly button. He could feel it, a tight little nub of pressure against the inside of his shirt, a constant, humiliating reminder of how…wrong…he looked.

He ended up on a busy road, the exhaust fumes making him feel even queasier. Cars whizzed by, their passengers' faces blurring into a smear of judgment. He just wanted to disappear. To be back in his dorm, buried under a pile of blankets, where no one could see him.

A beat-up old sedan slowed down next to him, then pulled over with a screech of tires. Mark flinched, preparing for some kind of taunt.

"Woah, Baker? That you?"

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