Up & Down - Part 10 (Patreon)

After the octuplets were born, our mornings became a battlefield. Not loud—not at first, but it all suddenly turned chaotic and overwhelming. There was a seemingly fragile silence in the apartment before the babies woke, a stillness that followed a storm. Being a dad was the best thing we had experienced, but it had its challenges, many of them, especially with ten babies to care for.

I always woke before any of them, lying in bed, right beside Spencer, listening to his frequent snoring. My lovely, enormous husband, wrecked and worn out as he was, slept like someone who had run marathons in his dreams, deep but restless, with a slow and heavy breathing that made his massive chest rise and fall in broad waves. I couldn’t help but smile and sigh in delight whenever I looked at him. 

Even in sleep, he looked exhausted, like his body was still trying to understand that the tremendous burden it had carried for months was finally gone. He lay sprawled on his back, with one thick arm thrown above his head and the other resting over the softened swell of his postpartum belly. His whole body still looked impossibly massive—435 pounds of muscle wrapped in plush softness, a result of pregnancy metabolism and recovery. His pecs were immensely heavy with milk, resting like round pillows on his ribcage, with dark and puffy nipples that were so sensitive that the faint touch of fabric made him flinch.

His belly had deflated into a heavy mound that settled low over his hips, soft but still firm underneath. His abdominal muscles were still thick beneath the remaining fullness—surprisingly, after how much they had stretched, like dense stone under a layer of dough. His hips were wider, still tender and sore from birth, especially where the weight of his body pressed into the mattress. His thighs were enormous, muscular but padded with softness, warm, smooth, and sensitive to every touch. They brushed together naturally, leaving him constantly waddling.

And then there was his butt; it was gigantic, rounded, and muscular, but swollen after the strain of labor. It had carried so much of the burden for months, supporting the weight of that gigantic belly and stabilizing every step he took when his body grew beyond anything natural. Now, postpartum, his butt still showed the consequences. It looked almost exaggerated even on his massive body, overly developed during pregnancy, and after every muscle fiber had worked overtime when he pushed eight enormous babies out of him.

The skin on his ass was smooth and warm but slightly stretched near the lower curve, where the pressure of pushing had forced every inch of his body to expand. There were faint pink marks along the edges, soft and healing, reminding him how violently his body had opened to let our babies through. Sitting too long made him ache, not only from bruising deep in the muscle but also from the tender skin that had stretched so far. Standing too long made him tremble because those cheeks had clenched and strained through hours of pushing, bearing down again and again with the force of someone trying to move a mountain—or eight of them.

The area between his legs was still healing. The skin there had stretched more than it should have, eight times, but it was miraculously intact. I had checked him gently more than once, kneeling between his thighs and applying gentle pressure around his hole, afraid of hurting him. Despite the strain, everything was healing fine—no tearing, only deep soreness, swelling, and sensitivity that made Spencer gasp if anything brushed the area. I couldn’t help but playfully move my fingers over his perineum, making him shiver and giggle. He loved it, so I often spent minutes massaging him down there.

Every movement reminded him of what his body had done: the ache when he shifted his hips, the pull between his legs when he spread them, and the dull throb that flared when he tried to sit upright. Even rolling over in bed sent a ripple of soreness through his ass and the tender skin beneath it—which is why every morning began the same way.

Spencer groaned softly, wincing as his hips protested the shift. “Mmmgh… Morning, handsome,” he said as soon as his eyes opened.

“Morning, big guy,” I whispered, already sliding closer. “How do you feel today?”

“As if a train ran over me. Same as yesterday,” Spencer said, smiling as I leaned closer and kissed his cheek. “Help me roll. Please,” he added, groaning.

He hated needing help, but he needed it. I slid one arm behind his broad shoulders and another under the curve of his belly, feeling his soft skin give under my palms. Then, slowly and carefully, I rocked him side to side. We worked together until he rolled onto his side, with his cock and bull balls flopping around freely with the motion.

Then, with a deep grunt and a full‑body shiver, he pushed upright. He sat there panting, instinctively reaching for his crotch to adjust his cock and heavy balls between his thighs. Part of me wanted to lean in and suck him off right there, but I knew it wasn’t the right time for that.

“Ugh! Everything’s still so sore,” he said, wincing at the sharp sensation between his legs as he adjusted his position. “Can’t say I’m surprised after I gave birth to eight linebackers.”

I laughed softly. “And you’re the only one to blame for that. Our kids inherited your size. They’ve got my handsomeness and charm, though.”

He chuckled and instinctively moved his hand over his deflated belly as if remembering how it felt to have all those huge kids inside him.

Then came the next step: the babies—all ten of them. I left the bed and walked to the nursery, where the chorus was building—small cries turning into louder, desperate wails as hunger woke them. Eight tiny newborns wriggled in their cribs, their little bodies arching, fists waving wildly, and faces scrunched red. Their mouths opened in perfect O‑shapes, trembling and furious as they started crying, their tiny lungs somehow producing astonishing volume.

Some kicked their blankets off as their little legs flailed in frantic bicycle motions, while others thrashed their arms as if trying to grab the air itself. One of them let out a trembling, high‑pitched cry that cracked in the middle, making my heart clench.

The older twins, Henry and Harry, kicked in their crib, already demanding attention. Their cries were lower and throatier, sounding more impatient rather than panicked. I approached them first, and Henry reached both arms toward me, curling and uncurling his fingers in that instinctive grasping motion, while Harry turned red in outrage that no one was holding him yet.

For a moment, I stood there, taking in the sight, processing the fact that those ten tiny lives needed us; they demanded our attention. The room felt impossibly small—as expected with ten cribs inside—as my chest tightened with a combination of anxiety and overwhelming tenderness. The scene looked more like a maternity ward than a regular nursery, but deep down, I couldn’t be prouder at the fact that those were our kids—all of them.

“Alright, little giants,” I whispered, scooping the twins up, pressing their warm, squirming bodies against my bare chest. “Let’s take you to your daddy so you can have your first meal of the day,” I said as the rest of the litter cried louder. “I know, I know—I’m coming. Your dad only has two arms to take you all there.”

Five trips later, I returned with the last pair, and the bed looked like a pile of puppies—ten babies nestled around their daddy’s massive body, squirming and whining.

Spencer stared down at them, smiling but overwhelmed. “Why are there so many?” he groaned playfully, pulling them closer to him.

“Because you’re very fertile,” I teased. “That’s also on you,” I added, and Spencer playfully patted his belly as if confirming.

I handed him the two hungriest newborns, and he carefully brought them up to his massive tits. His nipples were already leaking, with milk beading at the tips before running slowly down the curve of his chest. His hormones had turned his body into an unstoppable milk machine. And the moment the first baby’s mouth brushed his nipple, Spencer gasped.

“Oh—oh hell—” He said as the baby latched with a strong suck. His head fell back, instinctively closing his eyes in bliss. “Ugh, the relief. I thought my pecs would burst,” he whispered. Then, the second baby latched, and Spencer moaned deep and low.

His pecs released milk fast, too fast. It spilled from the corners of the babies’ mouths, dribbling down their cheeks. It was a lovely scene, but as those two boys drank Spencer’s milk, eight more cried louder.

I tried to calm the crying ones by rocking them, shushing, and bouncing, but hunger drowned everything. “Hey, calm down. You’ll get your turn. It’s not like Daddy’s running out of milk or anything,” I said, but the babies only cried louder.

Spencer’s eyes widened in panic. “I need more nipples,” he choked. “I need at least six nipples. Or ten! Owen, this is bad design,” he said, trying to contain his nervous laughter.

I chuckled and felt the two babies in my arms squirming higher against my chest, patting my pecs blindly. One pressed his whole palm against my pec, splaying his fingers as if testing the surface. The other nuzzled forward, opening his mouth and rooting instinctively. I blinked down at them, realizing they wanted to latch on to my nipples.

“Hey, hey. Don’t do that,” I whispered, laughing under my breath. “Absolutely not. These are decorative. Your daddy, that massive man right there in bed, is the one who has milk,” I added, but both babies leaned instinctively, seeking with their little mouths, and wobbling their chins with effort when they found my useless nipples. One even let out an indignant squeak when nothing came out. “I hate to break it to you, but your dad’s pecs are just for show.”

“We all agree that you need to grow some boobs, Owen,” Spencer said from bed, smiling tenderly as if watching a lovely scene. “Hmm, I think you’d look so good with a big pair of milky tits,” he added, smiling wickedly.

I snorted. “Nope. Sorry. That’s not happening!” I said and then looked down at the babies. “You two, calm down. I know they look impressive, but the only one in this house with functional equipment is your daddy over there, and he’s busy being a milk fountain.”

Spencer laughed again. “Tell them to get in line,” he groaned, adjusting the two already latched onto him. “Daddy’s supply is overbooked.”

“They don’t care,” I said, gesturing at all the crying babies. “They want the tap, now!” I added and Spencer continued the endless cycle of feeding.

After what felt like an eternity, the last pair of babies pulled away from Spencer’s tits, milk-drunk, with round bellies and breathing heavily. We carefully placed them in bed as they slowly dozed off. Spencer sighed and leaned back against the headboard, exhausted but satisfied after fulfilling such a demanding task. I sat beside him, leaning my head against his shoulders and watching the babies peacefully relaxing.

Spencer squeezed his tits, groaning as milk sprayed. “Ugh! They’re not draining anything. I just fed ten hungry babies, and my pecs are still so full. I feel like a dairy cow.”

“That’s good. We would be in big trouble if your tits weren’t so productive. Your body grew eight huge babies, and now it knows they need their milk,” I whispered, moving my hand over the vast curve of his pec. “You’re the most beautiful dairy cow ever,” I said, and looked up at his face, finding his beautiful smile.

Spencer squeezed his chest again, and more milk flowed out. “I hate it when you make all of this feel so fine,” he added, pulling my hands to feel his nipples throbbing. “You make this dairy cow feel so loved that I don’t even mind you calling my pecs tits.”

Milk dripped steadily down his ribs, tracing slow paths over the curve of his soft postpartum belly. Spencer cupped both pecs with his hands, sinking his fingers into the heavy, overfilled tissue, and letting out a guttural groan that shook through his whole chest. His tits were enormous—so swollen and taut they almost looked inflated, the skin stretched glossy and flushed, with veins faintly visible beneath the surface.

I smiled and kneaded them desperately, sweeping my thumbs in tight circles around the swollen areolas. The darkened skin there was puffy and hypersensitive, and the slightest pressure made Spencer gasp. Milk pooled around my thumbs, coating my hands as I worked, and making a wet squelch with each squeeze.

“Oh—Owen,” he hissed, and his voice cracked as another gush spurted from his nipples, splattering against his belly with an audible pat. “I’m so full. It’s so much—”

I pinched gently around the base of the nipple, pressing inward, and a steady stream flowed out, dribbling down my fingers. “Does that feel better?”

His breathing shortened, and his lips parted in pure bliss. “It does. But there’s too much pressure,” he whimpered, as I rubbed frantically in small circles around the tight edges of the areola where the tension felt sharpest. “Owen, it hurts. It’s like they’re going to burst…”

“Let it flow,” I said as Spencer moaned loudly and his nipples literally exploded. Milk rained over his body, even spraying over my arms as Spencer gasped.

He moaned as the pressure in his tits eased slightly and slumped back against the pillows, breathing heavily, melting as his nipples let milk flow like waterfalls. “Ugh! That’s so good, but it’s like they refill the second they stop drinking. I swear, I’m producing enough to feed a village,” he added, closing his eyes and letting my hands keep working.

“You kind of are,” I teased gently, pinching his nipples more firmly.

He chuckled, finally relaxing. “I hate you for doing this to me. But I love you for it at the same time,” he said as I squeezed his rounded tits, making him moan loudly.

It was our routine almost every morning. Sometimes I would hook Spencer’s tits to the breast pump to help him release the pressure, but nothing worked as well as my hands to make his nipples explode. Then, hours passed in cycles. The babies cried for milk, and Spencer fed them, two at a time, groaning in relief. Then they fell asleep, and we had a short period of peace before two more screamed for another round. By the end of the day, his chest looked even fuller, and he could only groan and complain of the immense pressure.

“It’s endless,” he moaned, rubbing at the sides of each tit where the tissue felt hardest. “Owen, it’s actually endless. Too much milk and too many babies. “I need more nipples to let all the milk flow out or feed them all at once.”

“I’ll check the catalog,” I laughed, leaning over to kiss his lips.

“No, seriously,” he insisted. “Grow some boobs. Help. Be useful.”

I snorted. “Hey, I do everything else.”

“Yes, but I’m the only one producing gallons of milk every hour,” he argued as a wet squirt dripped down his ribs.

I would place a cooling fan on the nightstand, turning it toward him as I adjusted the pillows behind his back. Then I tucked a soft blanket under his hips to relieve the soreness.

Spencer sagged into the cool air, sighing. “Okay. That’s helping. Do that. More of that.”

I brushed my thumb along the tense curve of his shoulder. “Anything else?”

“Snacks,” he said instantly. “Bring snacks. Lots. I’m starving.”

We worked as a team, but chaos was our permanent companion. Each day brought a new, surprising challenge, but we preferred to laugh through each one and move on. One afternoon, I was changing one of the octuplets in our bed. Spencer was lying back, with two babies latched to his chest, relaxing as they drained him.

I lifted the newborn’s legs, humming to myself. “Look at Dad’s clean little—” A sudden, powerful burst of poop hit my hand, and then a warm, wet, shockingly forceful splat hit right across my chest, neck, and chin. I froze, and Spencer blinked in surprise before letting out a single, sharp bark of laughter. Then, he absolutely lost it.

He threw his head back, laughing so hard his entire massive body shook, and milk sprayed from one nipple as the baby lost suction. He had tears streaming down his cheeks. Meanwhile, the baby kicked happily, apparently proud of his accomplishment.

I wiped my cheek slowly. “Ugh. It got in my mouth,” I whispered, and Spencer let out a strangled scream-laugh.

It took him five minutes to calm down while I cleaned the baby and myself off. And after that, he hugged me tight. “You are a wonderful dad, a poop-covered dad, but the most loving, most perfect, and hottest dad this planet has seen,” he said, and we laughed again.

We were managing, but sleep deprivation was brutal and merciless. One night, around 3 AM, Spencer sat against the headboard, with his eyes half-closed and two babies latched on his tits. Milk dripped down his chest as I took one baby away and handed him another one.

He stared at it in confusion. “Isn’t this the same baby again?” he whispered.

I looked at him, then at the baby, then at the rest of the litter. “Does it matter? Let him drink until he’s full. Move on.” I whispered back, and we both burst into exhausted giggles.

After that disaster, we started tying colored ribbons to each baby’s wrists—little blue, green, yellow, red, pink, purple, orange, and white bows. The twins got matching striped ones. It helped most of the time.

Despite the challenges, we loved the routine. And as the days passed, Spencer’s body healed, and he even lost a little weight. His belly shrank further, his face sharpened slightly, and his shoulders stayed broad and muscular, regaining some definition, but he still had a soft layer covering his entire body that looked delicious. I loved to have some tender moments with him when the babies napped. And the best part was that as he recovered, he was needy.

I often massaged his body, moving my hands over his thick shoulders, kneading the dense knots of muscle along his upper back, and rubbing the deep soreness in his hips and thighs. And every touch drew a reaction. He would melt under my hands, drop his head back, close his eyes, part his lips, and let out a helpless moan.

“Please, don’t stop,” he whispered whenever I paused.

“I’m only getting started,” I said. Sometimes I leaned forward and kissed along Spencer’s neck, his jaw, his shoulder, and his tits. He shivered every time.

“I swear,” he breathed, trembling, “your hands are the only reason I’m surviving this.”

“You’re doing the hardest part,” I whispered against his skin. “And you look so hot while doing it,” I said, grinning and playfully squeezing his tits or his hips.

We always had these playful moments, but about a month after giving birth to the octuplets, his hormones surged unpredictably during a massage session. He was panting as I moved my hands over his hips, and the next second he was pushing himself upright with a sudden, desperate strength. His cheeks were flushed deep pink, and I saw a pleading look in his eyes that I knew way too well.

“Owen,” he gasped. “I can’t—I can’t wait anymore. I’ve been needing you so badly.”

Before I could ask what he meant, he shifted forward on the bed, wincing but determined, turning onto his hands and knees. His enormous body settled heavily into the mattress as his thick arms braced his weight, and his immense ass pushed high and wide in front of me. He looked back at me over his shoulder, and his face made me fall for him all over again. He was so perfect. His massive body was so ready for me.

“Owen,” he whispered. “I need you. Please—fuck me,” he added, and then, almost sobbing, he said, “Just—put a condom on. I can’t get pregnant again, but I can’t live without your cock going deep into me.”

He spread his knees wider on the bed, and his round cheeks trembled slightly as he held himself up. The muscles underneath flexed hard as if preparing for what was about to happen. He dropped onto his elbows, arching his back instinctively, presenting himself without shame, without hesitation. His cock quickly hardened, and his bull balls hung between his thighs, almost brushing against the mattress.

I remained frozen for a second, processing the request, but then my cock stirred, and I reached for the nightstand to get a condom. I quickly put the condom on and positioned myself behind Spencer. My hands moved over the expanse of his ass, squeezing firmly as he let out a deep, broken moan. He pushed his hips back into my touch, and I brushed my huge, hard cock against his cheeks. I massaged slowly and deeply, pressing into the thick muscle, kneading the heavy cheeks. He shuddered violently, overwhelmed by horniness.

I leaned forward, kissing the small of his back, then the curve where his spine met his ass. He gasped, gripping the sheets. Then, I pushed my cock into his hole for the first time after the birth, and Spencer moaned so loud that the whole bed trembled. His back arched, and his hips instinctively pushed backwards, begging for more. I smirked and buried my cock all the way in, loving how tight his hole felt despite how much it had stretched recently.

I fucked him so hard and so long that by the time I shot my huge load into the condom—deep inside him, Spencer was barely conscious, his tits were leaking like hoses, and his cock had shot two immense loads over the mattress. And the best part was that after that session, those moments of raw intimacy became frequent—at least once a day as his body recovered nicely and his horniness peaked.

*

About two months after the birth, we were doing better at handling the babies, and Spencer’s body had healed entirely, so he decided it was time for him to move more. He said he needed to work out and start the path to get his body back. He began slowly, like someone rediscovering his body. Squats came first, then push-ups, and careful stretches followed, and his body moved with effort, but there was power beneath it.

One morning, I watched him lower toward the floor, and inspiration struck me. As he pushed down into a controlled push-up, I gently sat on his broad back, with Henry and Harry in my arms. Spencer froze mid-position, and I could hear his soft laughter.

“Owen,” he whispered.

“Yes?” I replied innocently.

“Why are you sitting on me?” he added.

“Adding resistance, big guy,” I said, shifting in my spot to get comfortable.

He groaned, letting his head drop for a moment. “You’re going to kill me.” But then, with a deep breath, he lowered his body and pushed himself up as his arms bulged, and his back flexed beautifully under my weight. His ass tightened, and his thighs trembled, but he kept doing rep after rep as if it was nothing.

I lost count of the push-ups after 30, and he collapsed gently onto the floor, panting and flushed. I leaned down and kissed the back of his neck. “You’re incredible,” I whispered.

He smirked, breathless. “I know. And I promise I’ll only get better. For you.”

I got off his back and sat right beside him with the twins in my arms, and the octuplets slept near in their bassinets. He rolled onto his back and looked at me with the happiest expression. We looked into each other’s eyes for a while, having a long wordless conversation where we told each other how much we loved our life together. We looked at the twins in my arms, then at the eight bassinets, and we smiled even more.

“We did it,” Spencer whispered. “We have a family. I can’t believe we did it.”

“We’re doing it,” I corrected gently, bouncing the twins in my arms. “We still have to raise them. But we’re going to keep doing it.”

He nodded slowly, instinctively moving his hands over his abdomen and his overinflated tits. “We’re going to keep being the best dads. We can handle this and more,” he said proudly. Then he huffed, shifting slightly. “But we are not doing babies again.”

I laughed softly. “Sure. If you say so.”

He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Owen!”

“What? You said this and more. We could handle a couple mo—”

“HELL! NO!”

His response echoed through the room, and I laughed. He sat up, and we leaned into each other. Our world was chaotic. Some days were easier than others. There were ups and downs, but it was all part of the fun. I had him, he had me, and we had ten perfect babies. It was all that mattered.

...

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