Enjoy the Ride - Part 7

I couldn’t believe I had gone through with my plan. Sneaking out of the penthouse to meet Greg felt like a mission impossible, but the moment I saw him waiting for me in all his muscular glory, all that hesitation melted away. Feeling his massive body atop me while his cock stretched my hole felt like a dream come true. But that brief moment didn’t solve my problems. The pull between the two men in my life hadn’t lessened. If anything, it had only intensified because I had tasted both men now. And I did not want to give either of them up.

However, my days took on a repetitive pace to maintain some sense of normalcy, even though the whole situation was far from normal, and my body wanted to sink deeper into the lustful desires that hooked me to Mr. Griffin and Greg. I still had other things to think about among the chaos, apart from enjoying Greg’s and Mr. Griffin’s company.

I would wake up early—usually groggy, aching from the strain of a pregnancy that involved not only sextuplets but also a set of quadruplets. Even weeks after learning the news about the superfetation, I still had some trouble processing the news. My body was changing more rapidly than I’d thought possible. My belly stuck out like a taut globe, hard as a drum and heavy enough that I had to swing my legs sideways to sit up from bed. Every motion was a negotiation with gravity.

But despite the strain, I refused to give up my role as Marco’s father. I insisted on getting him up every morning—making breakfast, helping him get dressed, and packing his backpack. Mr. Griffin offered help, of course. He always did. But it was important to me to be present in Marco’s daily routines. I wanted him to remember that I was still his Dad no matter how big I was getting or how exhausted I felt.

“Come here,” I’d grunt each morning, crouching carefully to help him with his shoes while my belly made the position almost impossible to reach, making me wince.

“Daddy, your tummy’s getting huuuuuge,” he’d giggle, patting it with his tiny hand. “Are they kicking you again?”

“All the time,” I’d laugh, breathless as I eased upright. “The babies are having a dance party. And remember, this is our secret. Don’t mention the babies to anyone. Okay?”

Marco nodded. “I won’t, Daddy.” I had told him that having babies was my superpower and that if anyone found out, a villain would come to threaten me.

I waddled around the kitchen, balancing a bowl in one hand and cradling my belly with the other to make him some cereal. I had to be careful, but the bigger I got, the more I mastered the art of waddling through the rooms with some stuff in my arms.

Then, once Marco finished his cereal, I’d guide him to the sink, help him brush his teeth, and carefully ease down to zip up his backpack. Mr. Griffin always drove him to school, so by the time Marco was ready, he was waiting by the door with a broad smile and looking stunning. He would often pick up Marco in his arms and carry him to the car. We’d take the elevator down together, me waddling slightly behind them as my hips swayed side to side.

Once Mr. Griffin and Marco were in the car, I would return to the penthouse to spend all morning alone. The silence made my arousal and emotional confusion rise. The hormonal surge from carrying ten babies meant I was practically a walking bundle of sensitivity. Every step, every brush of fabric, and every stray touch left me gasping. My chest had filled out a lot in recent weeks, and my nipples were darker and more sensitive than I was ready for. Even the simple act of changing into fresh clothes was overwhelming.

My cock was hard most of the day, and I could barely concentrate, but I tried to help around the penthouse, even if my contributions were laughably small. I’d fold some laundry—or at least attempt to—and put away some dishes, though Mr. Griffin insisted he could hire someone to do it all. His concern was always touching. He worried so much about me and the babies. And every evening, he’d come home with something for me. New “maternity” clothes in a soft color. A tub of gourmet ice cream. A heating pad shaped like a sleepy fox.

“For your back,” he’d say, smiling that impossibly gentle smile. “And your hips. And probably every other part of you, too.”

I’d sit there, holding the little gift and trying not to cry. It was impossible not to fall for Mr. Griffin. It was impossible not to melt when he led me to bed and helped me undress piece by piece—always patient, always gentle—as his fingers brushed over my skin like I was something delicate. He’d kiss my shoulders, my neck, and my collarbone, and each touch sent shivers through my already overstimulated body.

Then he’d climb over me, already naked, casting a shadow over me with his warm and firm body. I would smile, and he would carefully touch the sides of my belly. We’d share intimate moments, letting our bodies speak when words couldn’t. For someone as hormonal and overwhelmed as I was, those touches, that closeness, felt like salvation. His caring manners felt fantastic, and when his cock entered my hole, I couldn’t help but shake and tremble in pleasure. He made everything feel perfect.

But despite how Mr. Griffin made me feel, I still met with Greg once a week. We used the same hotel room around midday when Greg could get permission to leave work for a few hours. Each time, I was heavier, rounder, and slower. I’d tug a hoodie over my belly only for it to ride up as soon as I started walking, revealing the taut skin underneath. Sweatpants were the only bottoms that still stretched enough to accommodate my hips and thighs—but they hugged every curve, leaving nothing to the imagination.

Walking to the hotel was a mission in itself. My thighs rubbed, my back ached, and my breathing was labored. My belly jiggled slightly with every step, and the soft sway of my chest added to the full-body motion I couldn’t hide. People stared. I caught their glances—some confused and some curious—but I just blushed and continued waddling, holding my head high. Greg was at the end of that path, and it was the only thing that mattered.

And every time I saw him, it felt like the world stopped. He’d greet me with open arms and a wide smile. His muscles looked bigger each week, and I loved it. He’d cup my face, kiss me like the world was ending, and help me into bed like I was made of glass. Every move was delicate, even though he was so huge and strong.

“I missed you so bad,” he’d whisper. “You’re even more beautiful than last time.”

“Greg...” I’d try to reply, but the words would falter when his hand would slide to my belly, stroking the stretched skin like the babies inside it belonged to him.

I couldn’t stop sneaking out to meet with him, even though I could barely move. And on October 20, a day before I hit 32 weeks, I found myself in his arms again, cuddling in a little spoon while his cock was still inside me. I weighed 295 pounds; most of it was my belly, which jutted out 22 inches in front of me. My chest had grown round and plump, and the weight of it made me ache constantly. My ass had filled out, forcing my hips to widen to accommodate it. I barely resembled the person I was when this all began. And Greg adored it.

He ran his hands over my body, worshiping every inch of me with his touch. He leaned in, kissing along my collarbone before his hands slid up to cup my chest.

“Greg—ahh—” I moaned as my body jolted at the sensitivity.

He chuckled, and I felt his cock throbbing inside me at my reaction. He gently massaged the sides of my chest, helping with the pressure and kneading the soreness with careful fingers. “You’re so full,” he whispered. “I can feel it. You’ve been holding so much.”

“Don’t—don’t tease,” I warned, even as I arched into his touch, breathing heavily. My pecs have been plump and sore for days now, but I hadn’t openly said it.

“I’m not teasing. I’m helping,” Greg said, smirking

His fingers moved in slow circles, making me shiver as my breathing shortened. The sensation overwhelmed me—tingles racing down my spine, my hips twitching involuntarily. And then it happened. A warm trickle wetted his fingers.

“Oh—oh my—” I gasped as he firmly squeezed my pecs.

We stared, watching the milk flowing more steadily—and then I burst into laughter. I covered my face, mortified and deliriously happy. But after the laughter faded, I lay there quietly, resting my hand on my rounded middle. Greg hugged me tighter, caressing my belly and hips. The moment was perfect. And still, my mind wandered to Mr. Griffin.

I didn’t know how much longer I could do it—loving two men, carrying ten babies, and hiding the ache in my heart. I had Greg’s devotion, Mr. Griffin’s steadiness, and Marco’s laughter. And I thought it was enough to keep going a little longer. But while I enjoyed Greg’s powerful arms around me, I felt it—an unmistakable tightening deep in my belly that turned suddenly painful. My breath hitched, and my whole body locked up.

Greg instantly tensed, noticing I was in pain. “Adam? What’s wrong?”

I couldn’t speak at first. My fingers dug into the sides of my belly, which now felt tauter than ever. I gasped again as it visibly contracted beneath my palms. The pressure surged, and all the babies kicked up a storm like they were as alarmed as their daddy. They rolled and pressed outward with enough strength to make my belly ripple and bulge.

“I—it hurts—ugh! Greg, something’s wrong!” I cried out as the pressure intensified.

I panicked, and Greg was pale, but he sprang into action, quickly moving away, pulling his cock out of me, and helping me sit up against the headboard. His arms stayed around me, repeating that everything would be okay. But it didn’t help. The pain kept radiating through me, and my breath came in quick, panicked bursts.

“Are you going into labor? Adam—was this… Did we overdo it? My cock—”

I sobbed, shaking my head. “I don’t know—I don’t know. I need a doctor, but I can’t call Mr. Griffin. I can’t tell him I wasn’t home!”

Greg froze for a second but then jumped off the bed and gathered our clothes. He started pulling on his clothes, helping me into mine. Every movement was agony—my belly was taut and sore, like a drumhead about to snap. My body felt far too big and heavy to move, but Greg guided me through it gently.

I moaned as he pulled my sweatshirt over my chest, which had at least stopped leaking when the pain started. The fabric clung tightly, riding up over my belly and exposing the underside. He tugged it down as best he could, but it wouldn’t stay. My sweatpants were even worse, and the snugness made my discomfort ten times worse.

The trip back to the penthouse was a slow, torturous shuffle, made more theatrical by my size and the effort it took to move. Greg kept one arm around my back and the other bracing my arm, gently steering me forward while bearing nearly all my weight. I waddled beside him, panting softly, and felt every eye on me as if I were a walking sideshow.

A young woman with a coffee did a double take and whispered something to her friend. I could only read “Look at his ass” on her lips, and I couldn’t help but smirk despite the pain. A suited man smiled politely and stepped aside to let us pass. Someone else gasped when my belly gave a prominent lurch, visibly shifting as one of the babies rolled inside, making my entire front wobble like a waterbed. I was seriously putting on a show, but it didn’t matter.

By the time we reached the penthouse lobby, I was trembling all over, leaning so hard into Greg that he was practically carrying me. When we entered the penthouse, I was on the edge of collapse. Greg quickly helped me lie on the couch, carefully placing cushions beneath and beside me to support my body.

“Go,” I begged him, wheezing. “Greg, you have to go before anyone sees you. Please.”

His brows were pinched in concern. “No way! I won’t leave you like this—what if—”

“I’ll be fine,” I insisted. “Please. Just go. I’ll text you later.”

He lingered a second more, then kissed my forehead and slipped out. I didn’t even have time to miss him—I crashed onto the couch and shakily dialed Mr. Griffin’s number. He arrived less than fifteen minutes later, bringing his private doctor to check on me. Both were concerned even though the cramps had stopped.

The examination was invasive but gentle. The doctor palpated my belly with careful hands, feeling for tension and movement. He measured the girth and hardness of my abdomen and checked each fetal heartbeat with a Doppler. Cold gel smeared my stretched skin. He listened to my lungs, took my vitals, and asked how long the cramps had lasted and how intense they were.

“No signs of labor,” the doctor finally said. “You’re experiencing abdominal cramps from severe overstretching. Your abdominal wall is under enormous strain—unsurprising, given the sextuplets and the superfetated quadruplets. However, your blood pressure is high, and you’re clearly stressed. I’m putting you on permanent bed rest at least until the first delivery.”

I sighed in relief, but guilt flooded my mind. I felt I had risked the pregnancy—the babies—every time I took the exhausting walk to the hotel room. So, I decided it was time to stop that. I couldn’t help but miss Greg, but there were more important things right now, and the crisis had been a warning.

Once the doctor left, Mr. Griffin sat beside me, and his hand immediately went to my belly. He stroked it slowly and lovingly, making me feel safe. “You scared me,” he whispered. “But it’s going to be okay. I’m here.”

I leaned against his chest, letting his warmth help me relax. “Thanks. I was scared, too.”

He kissed my forehead while caressing my belly. Then he paused. “What’s this?” He said, reaching behind the couch and pulling out a massive hoodie.

I froze. It was Greg’s hoodie. The color drained from my face. He must’ve forgotten it on the couch when I asked him to leave in a rush.

“It’s huge. It’s definitely not yours,” Mr. Griffin said, turning it in his hands. “It looks kind of familiar, though.”

I scrambled for a lie. “Oh. Marco brought it home from school. Lost and found. It probably belongs to one of his teachers. I meant to return it.”

Mr. Griffin frowned, slightly narrowing his eyes. “Hmm.” He didn’t say more. But the weight of that silent suspicion pressed on me.

*

After that day, I stayed in bed as I was told. Mr. Griffin hired a quiet woman with kind eyes and a strict confidentiality contract to help around the penthouse. She kept things tidy and helped with Marco. But I still insisted on doing some things. Even in bed, I wanted to be part of Marco’s routine. I helped him with his homework, brushed his hair, and read to him every night. He curled up beside my mountainous belly like it was a pillow. I sang to him softly while he drifted off, and sometimes, I caught him whispering secrets to the babies.

By 34 weeks, I was 314 pounds—more than double my original weight. My belly stuck out over two feet from my core, and my chest was round and sore, always heavy, always in the way, and constantly leaking. I could barely turn in bed without help. And the worst part was that hormones were ruling me now—my moods flipped like a switch.

One evening, while cuddling, Mr. Griffin kissed my temple and whispered, “You’re so beautiful.” I burst into tears.

“I’m not! I look like some bloated planet!” I responded, unable to hold back my tears.

He held me tighter. “But you’re the most beautiful planet I’ve seen.”

I cried again when we ran out of orange juice—full-on sobbing as if the world had ended with the last drop. My emotions surged so quickly and violently that it scared even me. One moment, I was fine, and the next, I clutched the empty carton like a lifeline had been severed. Then I cried when Marco proudly showed me a crayon drawing of me with a belly so round it took up nearly the whole page. He’d even drawn little circles around it to represent the babies. I should have laughed—it was adorable—but instead, I burst into tears, overwhelmed by how real it all looked, how true it felt.

I cried again when I dropped the remote and couldn’t reach it, sobbing in frustration as I leaned over and my belly pressed hard into my thighs, making it impossible to bend far enough. Everything felt like too much—too heavy, too swollen, too emotional. I even cried at a commercial with puppies. The mood swings came like hurricanes, sudden and uncontrollable, leaving me exhausted and wrung out in their wake.

It was worse when Greg texted me. I missed him, but my tears were for something else. I couldn’t read his text before bursting into tears. Sometimes, I didn’t reply because I was too busy crying. My conflicted heart and my hormones were driving me crazy.

Then, my conflicts worsened one evening. Mr. Griffin stepped into my room while Marco played in his own room. His face was calm. Too calm.

“Adam,” he said softly. “Explain this.” He turned his phone around to show me a still image from our building’s security footage. It showed Greg supporting me as I waddled, trembling, into the lobby the day I had the abdominal cramps.

I stared at the screen, frozen.

Mr. Griffin didn’t yell. He wasn’t mad. But his voice cracked slightly when he said, “Why?”

I had no answers, only shame. My secret was exposed. My heart was split. I didn’t want to lose Mr. Griffin or Greg, and I felt dangerously close to losing both.

...

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