Coaxed

The drugged lubricant must be having more of an effect on him than he'd thought, because his head is spinning, and he gets concentrated on trying to grind his cock against something, even though he's in the wrong position, even though he can't --

And then suddenly he looks down and his belly is massive, a great pregnant swell, and he's aware of the feeling of strain, the skin stretched and his body feeling weighted down by it, and at the same time, his guts are cramping. He lets out a whine, louder than the noises he's been making involuntarily, and Thorne laughs at him, pats his arse and making him jump and shudder.

"How much more?"

"You said you wouldn't burst," says Thorn, and Amaethon moans at the answer hidden in that, which is: a lot.

Thorn leans over him, two of his hands coming down to squeeze and press on the taut flesh of his swollen belly, rubbing over the texture of all the eggs crammed in him, so that he isn't even smooth to the touch.

"My -- cock -- "

"Your cock?" repeats Thorn, his voice warm and quiet, and as three of his hands keep sliding back and forth over his flesh, over his tits, making them wobble and jump, over his growing belly, the other shoves it up slightly and two fingers touch against his cock.

The singular touch puts him in touch with all the throbbing heat gathered in his cunt, the orgasm that's been gathering in his body, all at once: he comes with a shout, his whole body shuddering, his cunt clenching and fluttering around the thick pierce of Thorn's ovipositor, and above him, Thorn laughs.

"You really are very easy, aren't you?" he asks softly, blowing air over the back of his neck, and then Amaethon feels a prick of teeth --

And he's soaring through the air.

This is a new, more potent venom, his skin electrified like he's been struck directly by lightning, and it feels like his orgasm continues on for an age, for the whole of an epoch, for centuries: wave after wave of pleasure crashes over him, his head spinning, his cock jumping and twitching, his cunt so full.

When he slowly comes down, his head is limply hanging forward, and he opens his eyes to stare down at his belly, so large now he can barely fucking conceive of it, comprehend it. It's twice as big as the rest of him and it aches, huge and heavy enough that it's stretching down to touch the web underneath.

Thorn's ovipositor is slowly retracting, and Amaethon shudders in relief.

"Good boy," he says quietly, and Amaethon's eyes flutter at the playful touch of his fingers over his raw, open cunt. "You really do stretch, don't you? Your skin's been treated, you were saying?"

"So I can stretch," says Amaethon blearily.

"Mm, so I feel," says Thorn, and then the ovipositor prods against him again, at his arse instead, and Amaethon whines --

But it's not as though he can escape at this point, is it? He's so gravid with eggs he couldn't even get to his feet, couldn't even reach the floor to crawl, even were he not suspended in the air, heavier than he's ever been.

The first egg pops into his arse, sliding through the thick fluid that Thorn's already pumped into his cuts, and then that same tentacle comes to push into his cunt again, sliding deeper inside and pumping out that same fluid --

The nutritional stuff, he supposes, and it's warm, but oh, fuck, it's odd, it's strange, feeling it pump into his womb over the eggs, feeling the weird warmth of it deeper in him, feel it pumps so fast.

If he stares down at the base of his swollen belly, he can actually see the surface of his flesh filling out, seeing his stretched taut skin, marked over and over with stretchmarks and his own veins, pulled so thin he's surprised it's not transparent, as liquid glugs and sloshes into him.

"How long do I have to hold them?" asks Amaethon, swallowing. He aches to piss, and at the same time he feels so full, feels so packed, like the whole of his existence has just been reduced to this, to the eggs inside him, to being a sac for them. His cock is aching, and he wants to come again.

"Even sterile, they'll absorb the nutritional fluid," says Thorn. "I could keep pumping it into you for a week or two -- by the end of that, each of those eggs would be the size of a watermelon -- they'd grow bigger, with a growing babe within, of course."

Amaethon's stomach, although he doesn't know that he'd be able to find it with his insides full of eggs and fluid, gives a horrified lurch. He doesn't know how many eggs are inside him, hundreds, probably, but they're still the size of his fist -- if they were six or seven times the size of that?

He should burst, made that big -- if he didn't, he thinks the pure sensation would kill him, or drive him mad, even before it came to laying the things.

"Are you going to hold me for a week or two?"

"No, I don't expect so," muses Thorn. "I'd like to use this cunt again, some day. Can't do that if I reduce you to a gaping hole, can I? I need some tightness to clutch at me."

Amaethon lets out a whimpered noise -- Thorn takes this as a prompt to touch his cock again, and begins to rock him in his place, the movement making his stomach stretch and wobble, the eggs within him jostling, the fluid sloshing and splashing inside him.

"You'll come twice more before I let you lay these," says Thorn.

"Ah," chokes out Amaethon, and Thorn begins to laugh again.

-- -

Five days later, Amaethon arrives back into the village sprawled on the back of a donkey, still fuckdrunk and dizzy, feeling oddly empty in a way he never has before, although his body doesn't show all it's accepted, all it's eagerly invited in, in the course of the week before.

He giggles as he takes his payment, and says, "I've made a note in my diary. I shall return when his rut is due again."

"What did you do?" asks the village elder, looking at him fascinatedly, not without an edge of distant horror. "You drank with him? You -- what, coaxed his rut from him?"

"Yes," says Amaethon. "Coaxed it -- yes, exactly."

Far be it from him to explain precisely how.