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Trying to tamp down on his unease, the boy slides his feet into the stirrups and focuses on the ceiling. He grimaces when the technician eases the cold ultrasound wand inside of him.
Even now, undergoing an ultrasound, he almost can’t believe this is really happening.
He’d only been working at the ranch for a few months at the time of the incident. He remembers how lucky he’d felt to have that job: a fair wage, plus room and board, and the added privilege of getting to work with some of the best racing Ponyta and Rapidash in the world. Most of what he did was grunt work, of course, but he didn’t mind. He loved being around those beautiful Pokémon.
That day, he’d been mucking out stalls, and came upon the one belonging to a big male Rapidash. It was retired from racing, but the Rapidash had won a number of championships and held a few records. These days, it was the ranch’s prize stud. People paid exorbitant amounts to breed their mares with this particular Rapidash.
He’d mucked out this stall in the past, without any problems. But that day, something about his presence excited the stud. Maybe it was his scent. Maybe it was something else. He supposes he’ll never know.
A hoof stuck him between the shoulders when he turned his back to the Rapidash. He stumbled forward, falling against a bale of hay, and was pinned there, face-down. What happened next is a blur, but he remembers the Rapidash mounting him from behind and fucking him roughly, urgently, like he was a broodmare. He had sobbed when he felt the hot gush of seed spilling inside of him. It seemed to go on for hours, though it could only have been a matter of minutes.
When it was done, the Rapidash lost interest in him almost immediately, moving over to the water trough. He had crawled out of the stall, in too much pain to walk. Another ranch worker found him there, sobbing incoherently, bleeding between the legs.
Weeks passed, and he began to feel nauseated and fatigued. He wrote it off as stress, initially, but when the symptoms could no longer be ignored, he took a pregnancy test.
It came back positive. He’d broken out in a cold sweat as he stared at the little plus sign. That night in the stable, the Rapidash had impregnated him.
He went to the ranch owners, hoping they would help him, since it was their Pokémon that put him in this condition. But he had no such luck.
The owners laid it out in no uncertain terms: Legally, the foal he carries is their property. While they can’t stop him from having an abortion, they can sue him for the cost of the foal—and a Ponyta sired by their prize Rapidash would cost a fortune.
His only other option is to carry the foal to term and hand it over once it’s born. At least the ranch owners have agreed to cover the cost of his medical care for the duration of the pregnancy, and to provide room and board—just as they would for any broodmare, he thinks bitterly.
Which brings him here, to his first prenatal appointment. If he’s very lucky, the foal will have some kind of genetic defect that makes it not viable. In that case, the owners will allow him to terminate without paying them anything—no harm, no foul. But if it’s healthy, he’ll have to carry it.
The technician studies the screen for a long moment. “Well,” she says at last. “Looks like you’re carrying twins.”
****
Twins.
He had been terrified by the thought of carrying just one foal. How will he survive carrying two? He’s spent enough time working on and around ranches to know that baby Ponyta aren’t small, not by any stretch of the imagination. Even if he doesn’t split down the middle before he goes into labor, he doubts that he’ll be able to squeeze two huge babies through his narrow pelvis.
As soon as the ranch owners find out he’s carrying twins, he’s sure they will be that much more eager to protect their “investment.” They’ll be getting two valuable foals for the price of one.
****
Just shy of three months along, he’s already showing. His belly has begun to round out, and in a few more weeks, it will be obvious to anyone who sees him that he’s pregnant. He supposes that’s just what comes of carrying two big foals in a small human womb.
A typical Ponyta pregnancy lasts eleven months. He doesn’t even want to think about how big he’ll be by then.
At least the morning sickness has abated. He has more energy lately, though he’s bored out of his skull. The ranch owners have forbidden him for working, or doing anything strenuous, on the grounds that he might harm the foals.
For the duration of the pregnancy, he will stay in a small guest cottage near the edge of the properly. The owners want to keep him close, so their doctors can monitor his progress. It’s a relief, almost, to be tucked away like this. He doesn’t want anyone to see him in this condition, or to have to explain how it happened.
Over the last few weeks, he’s noticed that his chest has become swollen and tender. It hits him, belatedly, what’s happening: His normally barely-there breasts are swelling up with milk for the foals developing inside of him. Suddenly, he worries that the ranch owners will expect him to nurse the foals as well, when they’re finally born.
****
Now that the foals are strong enough to kick, he barely gets a moment’s peace. They’re most active when he’s trying to sleep, tossing and turning fitfully. Sometimes he’s startled awake in the middle of the night because an errant hoof has jabbed him. Worst of all, they have four legs each with which to kick him. His insides feel almost bruised.
He’s round like a mare, growing not just outward, but sideways. It’s not just his belly that’s swelling up, either: Every day, he grows fatter and softer. His hips are widening and becoming fleshier; his ass and thighs are getting thick.
It doesn’t help that he’s constantly ravenous. Now that he’s pregnant, his body’s resources support the foals first, and him second. The foals require a great deal of nutrients to develop properly, which leaves precious little for him. He gorges himself daily, stuffing himself obscenely at every meal, just to keep up with the pregnancy’s demands on his body. His clothes struggle to contain him now. Even his loosest shirts are stretched taut, unable to cover his belly, and at this rate, he soon won’t be able to get the waist of his current pants over his ass.
The ever-increasing weight of his womb has curved his back. It’s hard to breathe sometimes, as the foals occupy a space usually enjoyed by his lungs. He waddles around with one hand pressed against the base of his spine, and the other supporting his heavy belly.
His areolas are twice their original size, and flushed a dark pink. His breasts are big and sore, growing heavier by the day. He has to moisturize his nipples to keep them from drying and cracking. They’re so sensitive that even a light touch is painful. He can’t help but whimper as he massages the lotion into his skin, feeling his nipples stiffen.
He doesn’t know how much more of this he can take. Humans simply aren’t equipped to carry Pokémon, especially not Pokémon of this size. The foals are already much bigger than human babies, and they’ll only grow larger over the next five months. At birth, each one will weight almost thirty pounds. He applies a special lotion to his belly each day, to help his skin stretch, but there’s only so much it can do. His belly is tight and sore, striped with ruddy stretch marks.
Because the babies’ body temperature is naturally much higher than his, he is constantly running a fever. His belly feels uncomfortably warm all the time, as if he’s swallowed a smoldering coal.
****
By the eleventh month, he’s too big even to waddle around, thrown hopelessly off-balance by his belly. He’s stuffed to the limit, almost sixty pounds of baby Ponyta crammed inside of him, and they still have a few more weeks of growing to do. It’s a wonder that he hasn’t burst yet. Maybe he will, before the end.
Confined to bed, he lies propped up with many pillows, too round to sit up without help. He can’t remember the last time he saw his feet, or the last time he was able to wrap his arms around himself. His swollen tits ache unbearably, sometimes dribbling milk. Lately, his only comfort is in the knowledge that in a few more weeks, this nightmare will be over.
There’s not much space left inside his womb for the almost fully-developed foals to move, so their kicks are weaker than before. They still squirm almost constantly, though: twitching inside of him, rolling over.
As one foal moves, he can see its body outlined against his taut, reddened skin. He rubs a hand over the spot to ease the ache a little, silently pleading with the foal to keep still for a while so he can get some rest. Hot to the touch, his belly is stretched impossibly tight.
Sometimes, he thinks about how these are technically his babies. The Rapidash sired them, sure, and they belong to the ranch owners on paper... but they’ve grown inside of him. He’s the one who’s nurtured them within his own body, the one who’s grown heavy and hungry, the one who’s suffered all the pains of carrying them. He is their dam.
Surely he should feel something toward the foals inside of him, some kind of tenderness. But all he feels is a growing sense of dread. It won’t be long until he has to birth them.
The first foal’s movement seems to have stirred its twin; it rolls over, as if woken from sleep. Before long, both of them are moving restlessly, sliding against the thin skin of his belly. His hands come up to cradle his stretch-marked sides. Moaning softly, he strokes and strokes his belly, rubbing in concentric circles, hoping to calm the foals.
It doesn’t help. Nothing ever does.
****
Sprawled on his side on a thick pallet in the middle of the floor, he sweats and moans through another contraction. Outside the window, it’s pitch dark. In his opinion, the babies can’t come fast enough. He wants them out now.
When the pains started, he prayed that it was just a false alarm. He’s alone here, tucked away in this cottage at the far end of the property, and the midwife isn’t due to check him for another two days. Because he’s too big to walk more than a few steps, and too round even to crawl, he can’t go for help.
The pains kept coming at regular intervals, though, and he realized that he really was in labor. Worse, he’d have to deliver these foals alone.
Progress has been slow and agonizing. He’d already known that the babies are so large that his cervix would need a long time to dilate, but surely his water should’ve broken by now. He’s been laboring for almost a full day. How much longer will it take? Even when the time comes, he’s not convinced that his hips are wide enough for the foals to pass through.
Suddenly, he feels a pop, and a hot gush of fluid soaks the pallet beneath him. It keeps pouring out of him for several long seconds, coating the insides of his thighs. From what he’s read, when a mare’s water breaks, there could be anywhere between two and four gallons of fluid. He has no idea how much just fountained out of him.
Grimacing, he tries to reach between his legs to feel for any sign of a foal, but his belly is too round. No matter how he stretches and strains, he can’t reach his own pussy. But soon, he feels an increasing pressure between his legs, as well as an urge to push.
It’s coming.
He pushes on the next contraction. This time, he feels movement. Pressure. Intense burning. He manages to prop himself up on one elbow, craning his neck. The sight of what appears to be the forelegs, jutting out below the curve of his great belly, almost overwhelms him. He collapses against the pallet, moaning.
The forelegs are the narrowest part of the foal. If pushing them out is this painful, how will he squeeze out the rest of the body?
Another contraction builds. He grabs one of his legs behind the knee, hauling it up, spreading his legs as wide as possible. Then he forces himself to bear down.
He howls in pain, with no one to hear him. He’s exhausted, ready to give up. But this baby has to come out, and nobody is going to birth it for him. He has to choice but to continue straining.
As he pushes, he feels himself stretch even wider. There’s a terrible burning as the foal’s body emerges, inch by inch. He feels like he’s going to split in half.
He gives a big push and shouts as the foal slides the rest of the way out of his body, along with another gush of fluid.
The pressure is gone almost instantly. There’s a moment of dizzy, blissful relief. He raises his head enough to see the foal struggling free of the milky gestational sac. The baby Ponyta is white and damp, skinny limbs stirring weakly as it tries to stand up. Its mane and tail haven’t ignited yet; that doesn’t happen until a few days after birth.
For a moment, he just stares at the newborn Ponyta. He almost can’t believe he gave birth to it. How could such a creature have come out of his body?
He cries out as another contraction wrenches his insides. He’s got another foal to deliver, and he can already feel the pressure of it between his legs.
Urged by an instinct he doesn’t understand, he maneuvers onto his hands and knees, slow and heavy. His belly is so large that it brushes the pallet. He spreads his knees wide, squatting with his hands braced flat against the floor, trembling all over. He doesn’t want to imagine how he looks right now: naked on all fours, red-faced and thighs slick with his own fluids, the second foal’s forelegs sticking out of his stretched pussy.
The pain is worse this time, somehow. Maybe the second foal is bigger than its twin. He moans and pushes, split wide open by the foal’s body. It comes shockingly fast, in only a few pushes, landing on the end of the pallet with a thump.
He tries to catch his breath for a minute, his limbs loose and shaky, before he expels the placenta with another push. And then, finally, it’s over.
Exhausted and spent, he lies back on the pallet, which is soaked through with sweat and fluids. He’s so tired that he can’t even care about how disgusting it is.
One foal presses against his side, as if drawn to the warmth of his body. His eyes blink open at the touch. By instinct, the foal nuzzles his swollen breast and clumsily latches on. He gasps when he feels the first spurt of milk—and then it flows, practically gushing from his nipple and into the foal’s soft, hot, sucking mouth.
Before long, he’s got a foal at each breast. Nursing aches a little, but there’s something undeniably pleasurable about it, too: the sweet relief of his overfull tits emptying. Breathy moans escape him as the foals suckle hungrily.
Well, he thinks blearily, at the least the hardest part is over.