ADVENTURES OF YOU: Brad (Patreon)

tags: mpreg, public birth

Imagine seeing your local gym bro, the annoyingly perfect jock, pregnant.

Brad had always been sort of a sore spot for you. That man scratched the itch right there in your brain that made you want to fuck him and envy him in equal parts.

It wasn’t even one particular thing that made you irk. Just Brad. Brad and the impunity of his perfect self. The physique, the perfect protein shake, the perfect form in all the exercises. And he was an asshole, too. He was the definition of a gym bro. 

The number of girls —and some boys— from the gym he went home with every weekend was almost as impressive as his number of reps.

That's why the moment you noticed something was wrong, you were more than interested. 

The moment the skin-tight shirts got replaced by fabric that hung way more loosely on his body, when the sharp muscles started to fade into something softer, rounder, everyone knew something was up. And no one said anything.

When the once chiseled stomach, the ripped abs, the obliques, the Adonis belt started to disappear, under the sudden bloating of his stomach, it became evident that Brad really was letting himself go. The first thing you thought was that finally, he wasn't going to be the most ripped jerk at the gym. The second thing was that the swell of his once lean midsection didn't exactly look like someone just overeating.

A few months later, when what you had tried to convince yourself was just the small gain of a dirty bulk turned into a swollen, tense gut protruding from his middle, the skin of his stomach red and furious under the unexpected tension, Brad hadn’t said a word.

His body was now burdened with the weight of a baby —just one?— that everyone seemed to refuse to acknowledge. 

And Brad didn't say a word about it. You saw him go on with his life as if there wasn't a painfully obvious gravid stomach in front of him, bumping with the world. He didn't say a word, not when he started to outgrow all of his shirts, when he would walk around the place with the underside of his stomach peeking from beneath the taut fabric, not when his confident walk turned into a restrained waddle. Not even when his performance started decreasing and his coach gave him shit for lifting less.

Not even when he got so, so big that he started to go on the moment of the day he knew there would be fewer people, just to avoid all the stares.

You saw the way everything looked like a chore, even walking. The way his hand would constantly be on his lower back, trying to compensate for the careless lack of support.

That's why the night you went in for a late-night workout and saw him there, looking exhausted, a strained look on his face, you didn’t think much about it.

You didn't think much about it when the strained sounds of his training became louder and louder moans. When the rest between sets became longer and longer, his hands started to move over his stomach, fingers gripping at the fabric of his shirt, legs shaking with each strained movement. 

You didn't think much about it when you walked into the locker room. When you hear the low and muffled, unmistakable sounds of pain. You walked in, steps slow and careful, only to find what you already suspected.

You don't think much about seeing Brad hunched over one of the benches, shoulders shaking, face red, a puddle of liquid forming at his feet as it leaked from between his legs, leaving a dark spot on the blue fabric of his shorts. Or when you saw the round and unmistakable shape of a baby's head tenting his obscenely small shorts, as the baby Brad didn’t think much about crowned in his pants.