1: The Audit 🪞
It was Jake’s day off, which meant Ironclad Fitness wasn’t the office. It was the playground.
He pushed through the double doors, his battered duffel slung loose over one shoulder, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. He wasn't wearing his polite, branded trainer polo. He was in his Sunday best—a sleeveless cotton tee with raw, cut-off edges and retro short shorts that showed the strength of his quads. It was just the gear of a guy who wasn’t there to show off, but to get a pump, and have some fun moving heavy objects from point A to point B.
The air inside was a thick soup of chalk dust, stale sweat, and the aggressive, heart-rattling thrum of bass-heavy hip-hop. He bobbed his head to the beat.
"Alright," he breathed, inhaling the scent of iron and sweat.
"Yo, Jake! No clients today?" the front desk kid, Kyle, chirped, looking up from his phone.
"Strictly business, bro. My business." He tagged Kyle’s hand with a loud crack of a high-five that echoed in the entryway. "Gotta get that pump in before noon, right?"
He grinned, unable to help himself, and caught his reflection in the mirrored wall behind the front desk. He paused for a micro-second. He saw the dusky brown brush cut that he kept short because it was easy, topped with a snapback cap worn backward. Beneath the brim, deep, boyish dimples popped in his cheeks.
He tried to scowl to look tougher, to look like the "Alpha" the internet said he should be, but the dimples betrayed him. He let out a short, self-deprecating chuckle—he just looked like a snub-nosed little bro who had accidentally unlocked the code to getting huge.
He strode onto the floor, weaving through the morning rush, head bopping, digging his lifting gloves out of his pocket.
He threw a quick, respectful nod to Frank, the silver-haired facilities guy, who was quietly working his jaw on a piece of gum while ratcheting a loose bolt on a cable tower. The older man returned the nod. He slapped high-fives to the regulars as he passed, mouthing the lyrics to the track blasting overhead.
Jake wasn't a "mass monster"—not one of those guys who couldn’t look over their shoulders. At least not yet. He was still only twenty-two.
He was built more like a swimmer who’d hit a genetic jackpot—that final testosterone bloom that turned lean muscle into something dense. He was an action figure come to life: broad shoulders that tapered sharply down to a waist you could almost span with two hands. Defined muscle—dense traps, solid pecs, and abs you could count on your fingers.
He scanned the floor, looking for an open station, when he spotted a familiar shape. He recognized the intricate tribal ink sleeving the guy's arms before he even saw the face.
"Ramos! You’re alive!" Jake barked, his voice booming.
Ramos had been a beast a year ago—a broad-shouldered guy with delts like bowling balls who moved heavy iron. Now he was standing by the pulleys, looking… diminished. His t-shirt hung loose where it used to pull tight against his muscles.
Ramos flinched at the noise. "Hey, Jake. Yeah. Just... getting back into the swing of things."
"Where you been, man? You been on a juice cleanse or something?" Jake teased, slapping Ramos on the shoulder. He meant it as a joke, a way to hype him up, but he felt Ramos’s frame give slightly under the impact. "We gotta get some mass back on you, bro. You’re looking small. Seriously, come find me later, I’ll write you a hypertrophy program on the house. We’ll get you huge by summer."
He beamed at Ramos, fully expecting a grateful fist bump. If you weren't growing, you were dying, right?
Ramos nodded and smiled. But it wasn’t the smile of a gym bro. It was the look of a guy who had seen things Jake hadn't.
"Nah, I'm good, Jake. It’s just the baby—kid keeps me up all night.” His hand drifted unconsciously to his stomach. “Sometimes life comes at you hard. You just gotta... be ready for the weight."
Jake laughed, loud and bright. "Weight? What’s a baby? Twelve pounds? That ain't nothin' but a peanut!"
He spent the next forty minutes in a state of pure, empty-headed bliss. He focused on the squeeze, the mind-muscle connection, watching his own veins snake up his forearms in the mirror. He looked good and felt better.
He felt peak Jake.
An hour later he stood in the locker room showers, the steam billowing around him. He wiped a squeaky oval in the fogged-up mirror to perform his daily audit. This was his favorite part of the day. The check-in.
He ignored the "pretty boy" face—the thick eyelashes and the dimples—and focused on the hardware. He started with the shoulders, turning to inspect the separation in his delts, but his eyes caught on his chest.
"Damn," he whispered, turning to the side.
His pecs were swole. And not just pumped from the cables. They sat high on his chest, but with an odd fullness to them, projecting out further than they ever had. He ran a hand over them, cupping one. When his thumb brushed over the nipple—which was a darker, brick color now—every nerve in his body went haywire.
Whoa. Must be the new creatine, he thought, a flicker of pride warring with confusion. Making me hold water in the chest? Whatever. Looks huge.
Then his hand moved down.
He lived for his serratus—the finger-like muscles on his ribs—and the V-taper into his waist. He expected to see the tight abs he’d had since he was nineteen.
The six-pack was there, but the definition at the very bottom, right at his waistband, was slightly off. Something only he’d see.
"Huh," Jake breathed. He tried to suck in his gut, a reflex he’d mastered years ago.
The muscle wouldn't retract. The wall was solid.
He pressed his hand into his lower stomach. He expected the squish of a cheat meal, or the bloat of too much sodium.
Instead, his fingers met resistance. Deep inside, past the wall of muscle, he felt a hard, distinct little lump.
He pressed again. It was tiny—barely noticeable.
He frowned, holding up his hand. He started counting backward on his fingers, mouthing the weeks.
"Chest day... leg day... cardio week..."
He stopped when he hit the thumb on his other hand.
"Six," he whispered. "Six weeks."
The realization hit him harder than a squat rep.
It wasn’t fat. He was occupied.
By something no bigger than a peanut.
"Oh, fuck," he whispered, his voice cracking, sounding very young in the empty locker room.
2: The Diagnostics 🩺
The exam room at the clinic was cold. It smelled of antiseptic and latex—a sharp, sterile contrast to the warm, chalky musk of the gym.
Jake sat on the edge of the paper-covered table, his legs dangling. The paper gown they’d made him change into was a joke—it strained across his broad shoulders and split completely down the back, leaving the deep crack between his glutes open to the draft.
He felt exposed, kicking his heels against the metal cabinet like a kid waiting for the principal—like that time Mr. Johnson told him he couldn't wear his short-shorts to class because they were "distracting the faculty."
Dr. Aris breezed in. She was a fast-talking, no-nonsense woman with big glasses and a tablet. She took a moment to take him in. She scanned the vascularity in his forearms, the flush in his cheeks, the restless energy in his legs, and the way he gripped the edge of the table as if he were about to do a dip.
"Alright, Jake," she said, tapping the screen. "I see here you’ve been a confirmed Carrier since puberty. Regular cycles, standard management. You know the drill."
"Yeah, Doc. I know the drill," Jake said, nodding seriously. "Hydrate, sleep, and... uh... watch my Bro-gesterone levels?”
Dr. Aris cracked a small smile. "Close enough.”
She looked down at her tablet. “But this... this feels different, right? The bloating? The density?"
"Yeah. I feel... full. Like I ate a weight plate."
"Well, your bloodwork is screaming," she said, scrolling down. "Your testosterone is naturally sitting at levels most guys need a needle to hit. That explains the physique.” She ran a hand lightly over his delt. “You’ve got that swimmer’s taper, but the muscle density is off the charts. That’s all classic Carrier biology, Jake. You’re built for endurance, not just show."
She looked at him over her glasses. "But combined with the HCG markers? It suggests you’ve been Activated."
Jake blinked, tilting his head like a confused puppy. "Activated? Like... my glutes during a squat?"
Dr. Aris paused, then nodded slowly. "Sure, Jake. Like your glutes. The system is online and firing. Let's check the hardware. Lie back. Feet in the stirrups."
Jake hesitated. "Doc, I hit calves hard yesterday. They're pretty swollen. I don't know if they're gonna fit in those little metal cups."
"Make it work."
He awkwardly maneuvered his legs into the metal holders. He had to widen his stance to accommodate his thighs, which left him completely displayed. As his legs fell open, he felt a rush of cool air hit his perineum, and surprisingly, a little jolt of anticipation. His body didn't want to close up; it wanted to be open.
He stared at the ceiling tiles, trying to find a pattern. His head filled with thoughts about macros. Protein. Carbs. Fats.
"I need to check the canal tone," she said clinically. "Relax."
She pressed a gloved finger against his entrance.
"Oh!" Jake gasped, his head falling back against the crinkly paper.
It wasn't cold. It felt electric. As she circled the rim, a shiver went straight down his spine and curled into his toes. His hips gave a little involuntary twitch, bucking slightly into her touch rather than away from it.
"Sensitive?" she asked.
"Yeah," Jake breathed, his face heating up. "It feels... uh... really awake back there."
"Trace self-lubrication," she noted, her voice neutral. She raised a hand, tapping two blue-gloved fingers together—a clear fluid tacky between them. "You see this slickness, Jake? That’s not sweat. That’s high-grade biological estrus fluid. Your body is practically coating the runway to make sure nothing stops an entry."
Jake blushed, his ears burning. He remembered the heavy, wet feeling in his shorts during the workout, how he’d practically been sliding off the bench press.
"Now, deep breath."
She warmed the speculum in her hands. When she inserted it, Jake’s breath caught. It wasn't pain, exactly. It was a strange hollowing sensation—a feeling of being stretched from the inside out that felt oddly... satisfying.
"Just as I thought," Dr. Aris murmured, adjusting the overhead light. "Significant internal remodeling. I’m inserting the scope."
She slid a thin camera probe through the open speculum. "Look at the monitor."
She turned the screen toward him. Jake squinted.
The camera revealed the walls of his inner canal. They weren't smooth. They were deeply, vividly ribbed. Muscular ridges lined the entire length of the chute. As the light from the probe hit them, they reacted—pulsing rhythmically, trying to squeeze down on the small camera instrument.
"Whoa," Jake whispered. "It looks like... the inside of a vacuum hose."
"That is high-grade biological engineering, Jake," Dr. Aris corrected. "During a High Cycle, your body reveals these friction rings. They’re designed for one thing: to grip a partner and milk them dry. It’s an involuntary reflex."
She glanced at him over her glasses. "Whoever you were with, Jake... your body really wanted what he had. It built a milking machine to get it."
Jake groaned internally. Betrayed by my own brovaries. Unbelievable.
"Okay," Jake croaked. "But the lump. The peanut."
"Right. The payload."
She withdrew the scope and picked up the ultrasound wand. She squirted cool blue gel onto Jake’s lower stomach, right over that rock-hard little bump he’d found in the locker room. She pressed down.
On the screen, past the bladder, nestled deep behind the wall of his abdominals, was a small, dark pocket. And inside it, a tiny, flickering grain of rice.
"There it is," she said softly. "You’ve got a deep-set chamber, Jake. It sits way back, protected by your core."
She looked at him, her expression serious but appreciative. "Whoever the father is, he didn't just get lucky. He had the equipment to bypass your defenses and breach the seal, like your chamber was a bullseye. It’s a lock-and-key fit.”
She sat back. “That peanut’s no accident.”
Jake stared at the screen, at the tiny flicker of life deep inside his own body. The reality hit him, followed immediately by the panic.
"Wait, Doc," Jake said, his voice rising. "I know physics. The guy... he’s huge. Like, industrial huge. And I have a 32-inch waist. If that peanut grows into a tank, how does it get out of a garage door this small? I’m going to split in half."
Dr. Aris wiped the gel from his stomach and sat back. "Hydraulics and compression, Jake. Standard Carrier biology."
"Compression?"
"See this?" She tapped the screen. "A female uterus expands outward like a balloon. Yours? It operates like a piston chamber. The baby is going to grow inward. He’s going to be compressed against your abdominal wall. He won’t grow soft; he’ll grow dense. He’s basically doing isometrics against your abs for nine months."
Jake’s eyes widened. "So he's... training? In the womb?"
"Basically. That’s why Carriers don't get a soft bump. You get a hard hull. But the exit is where the fluid comes in."
"The lube?"
"Exactly. That slickness you felt today? That was just a systems check. When labor starts, your body dumps liters of that stuff. It’s a high-viscosity biological lubricant. It turns your canal into a frictionless slip-and-slide. The baby won't just come out; he’ll practically launch."
Jake nodded slowly, processing the mechanics. High pressure. Low friction. Aerodynamic.
"Cool," Jake whispered. "Like a torpedo."
"It’s the ultimate endurance set," Dr. Aris agreed. "You think you can handle the weight?"
Jake looked down at his stomach—the six-pack still visible. He flexed his abs tentatively. The peanut didn't move. It was locked in tight, already training against the muscle.
It was just like any other training. He was just starting the longest, heaviest set of his life.
"Light weight," he whispered to himself, a grin slowly spreading across his face, his dimples popping.
"Ain't nothin' but a peanut."
He hoped.
3: The Heat Cycle 🦍
Six Weeks Earlier.
It was supposed to be a rest week. Jake knew the calendar. He knew the biology and the risks.
But he also knew he had a new pre-workout stack and a chest day scheduled, and he figured he could just power through the cycle like he did a plateau. He’d had cycles since high school—he could handle this.
He was an idiot.
It wasn’t just the cycle—it was a High Cycle. The kind that only hit once or twice a year, usually when he was peaking. The kind that made his tits hurt and made his hole quiver when he went to the bathroom, leaking his natural lube.
He thought he could handle it, but the moment he walked onto the gym floor, the hormones hit him like a tsunami.
The sweat was an aphrodisiac; the clang of the plates and the grunting were a mating call.
He moved to the flat bench, racking up two plates, trying to keep his head down. His skin felt tight, feverish, a constant, burning blush radiating from his cheeks that he couldn't cool down. The fabric of his shorts rubbed against his dick with distracting, rhythmic friction, and the cotton of his tee dragged over his nipples, making them burn and peak against the cloth.
He laid back on the bench, staring up at the bar. But the air down there at crotch level was even worse.
When he spread his legs to plant his feet and brace his core, the seal broke. The pheromones rolled off him in invisible, nuclear waves—a heavy, musky sweetness that screamed Prime. Peak fertility. Open for business.
The reaction was immediate. It was like dropping a side of beef into a tank of piranhas.
"I got you, bro," a guy named Todd said, rushing over from the squat rack before Jake even got his grip on the bar.
Todd stepped right into the spotter’s notch behind the bench, planting his feet wide. Before Jake could even lift his arms, Todd leaned over to grab the bar, effectively hovering his mesh-covered crotch inches from Jake’s nose.
Todd looked down. His eyes were wide, his pupils so dilated they swallowed the blue irises. And he wasn't hiding anything. Staring straight up, Jake was forced to look at the sharp, undeniable tent in Todd’s mesh gym shorts. The guy was twitching with that frantic, needy energy just from being near Jake’s scent.
"Back off, Todd, I’m spotting him," another regular, Mike, snarled, stepping in close, puffing his chest out like a rooster.
"I got it, I got it!" a third voice chimed in.
The air around the bench became thick with aggression. The guys were practically snarling at each other, posturing, their nostrils flaring. They were fighting for the right to hover over him, to be in his space, to touch the bar he touched.
Jake felt his own lust spiking, a biological override that made his breath hitch. The throb in his rear had a pulse of its own, demanding breeding.
But the chaos turned his stomach.
He looked at Todd’s trembling, desperate erection and felt a wave of disdain. No way was he going to give it up to one of these lunkheads. He’d spent five years building his body into a temple.
He wasn’t going to ruin that with a baby bump for a few minutes of clumsy, frantic pleasure.
"I'm good," Jake snapped, his voice rough and breathless.
He left them arguing over who had dibs, turning on his heel to get away from the noise. He needed cold water. He needed to reset.
He headed toward the weight rack.
The guys who had just been vying to spot him had left a disaster zone in their wake—100-pound dumbbells left rolling on the mat, plates scattered like loose change.
Behind the rack, an older guy in a black logo tee and faded black jeans stood there, hands on his hips, staring at the mess. Frank.
They’d worked in the same building for three years—Jake training the bodies, Frank keeping the place running—but they rarely spoke beyond a nod.
Jake kept his head down, trying to control his breathing. "Morning, Frank."
Frank didn't look up. He just chewed his gum with a slow, mechanical rhythm. “Morning, boss.”
He kept his eyes on the mess, shaking his head.
"Children," he rumbled.
The voice was a deep baritone wrapped in a thick accent that sounded like Eastern Europe. Maybe Ukraine, Jake thought he’d heard.
And today, it seemed to reverberate in Jake’s spine.
"Always… leaving toys," Frank muttered, rolling the 'r' deep in his throat.
Frank reached down for a 45-pound plate that one of the gym bros had left flat on the floor—the kind that was a pain in the ass to pry up. He pinched the rim with one hand, his fingers like vise grips, lifted it with a grunt and slotted it back onto the tree with a smooth, metallic clack.
Jake paused, watching. He realized he had seen Frank do this routine a thousand times—cleaning up after the bros. Fixing things without fanfare. The plates the younger guys slammed to show effort, Frank handled like dinnerware.
Just last week he saw Frank move the base of a broken elliptical machine—commercial grade, three hundred pounds. Frank didn’t bring in a team. He handled the dolly himself, set it down with a controlled thud. Then he just wiped his hands on his jeans.
Jake knew the guy was strong—you had to be to move commercial equipment like that solo. He’d always written him off as "old man strong." But through the haze of the heat cycle, the way he saw him changed.
When Frank turned to the 100-pound dumbbells, he bent at the waist, and Jake saw the shirt pull tight across his back. It lifted at the rear, exposing a pale thatch of silver hair at the small of his back, just above the thick cotton of his white briefs.
Frank stood up, holding 200 pounds of dead weight at his sides like they were grocery bags. His exposed arms were thick and vascular, covered in a coarse silver hair that glinted under the overhead lights.
Frank turned to carry them back to the rack with his usual easy stride, but he slowed dead when he neared Jake.
His chest expanded. He tilted his head slightly, taking a slow, dragging sniff of the air.
Jake felt a shiver go down his spine.
Frank stood there—with his creased face and silver hair, thinning at the crown. His sloping back and thick wrists. His dark eyes swept over Jake’s flushed skin, his insides spasming.
That’s when Jake saw it.
The guys on the floor were just baboons. Screeching. Posturing.
Frank was a silverback.
4: The Deposit 💦
Six Weeks Earlier, continued.
Jake fled the gym floor like a man about to be sick. He ducked down the narrow hallway that led to the "Staff Only" quarters and shoved the door open.
The room was small, barely big enough for a row of tall metal lockers, a pair of showers, and a single, battered wooden bench. It smelled of bleach and, he realized with a sudden spike of panic, the stale, heavy musk of a specific pair of leather work boots. Frank’s.
"No," Jake whispered to the empty room. "No way."
If he’d bypassed those muscle monsters on the floor, he wasn’t going to give it away to the facilities guy. The baby might come out with a funny accent and gray hair.
He made it to his locker. His skin felt too tight. His face too hot. He leaned his forehead against the cold metal vents, gasping for a little relief.
Behind him, the door opened.
Thud.
Heavy boots crunched on the linoleum, triggering a tremor in Jake’s gut.
He didn’t need to turn around to see who it was. His senses were already locked in on the silverback. He could smell him. Old leather. Strong black coffee. The iron tang of a man who worked with his hands.
Frank didn't stop until he was right behind Jake, crowding him against the lockers. Jake turned around, putting his back flat against the cool metal of the lockers.
In the tight quarters, Frank’s big-shouldered presence displaced the air.
“You got problem, boss?” Boss was what he called everyone who worked at the gym. But today, the Ukrainian's voice made the tiny hairs on Jake’s arms stand at attention.
“Yeah, I got a problem,” Jake said, weakly.
“I fix it,” Frank said, his eyes low on Jake. He chewed a piece of gum with a slow, deliberate rhythm.
Jake could feel his heart racing—faster than a heavy set of deadlifts, pounding like he’d just dry-scooped his pre-workout.
Baby bumps, he reminded himself, squeezing his eyes shut. Stretch marks. Ruined abs. Saggy moobs. Don't do it.
But in the claustrophobic heat of the locker room, the polite boundaries burned away.
"You smell," Frank rumbled, his voice rough. The older man leaned into Jake’s neck. He inhaled deeply—a slow, dragging sniff. He paused, struggling with the language. "Hot copper. Milk. Sweet milk.”
Jake looked up, meeting those dark, watchful eyes. For three years, Frank had been nearly invisible to him—a polite nod over a broken cable machine, a passing blur in the staff room. Morning, boss.
But now he looked at the slope of Frank’s shoulders, the thick corded neck. Hands like a gorilla. The wet smacking sound of his gum filled Jake’s ears, even as he shook his head.
He had to see.
He reached down, grabbing the hem of his own damp tank top, giving it a sharp, deliberate tug. He pointed his chin at Frank's chest.
"Show me," Jake demanded, his voice dropping an octave.
Frank shrugged, just slightly. Without a show of emotion, he reached down, grabbed the hem of his black logo tee, and pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it onto the floor.
Jake’s breath hitched. Holy shit, Jake thought, his eyes widening. Look at the density.
Frank’s torso was a barrel of seasoned muscle. A thick mat of silver hair spread across his chest and over his shoulders. Nestled in that field of silver, his nipples were stark pink, thick, and erect. The fur swirled down Frank’s stomach, disappearing into his waistband.
Where Jake had clearly articulated abs, Frank was thick—a solid core of strength. It wasn’t aesthetic. It was all functional, old-man strength.
Then Frank stepped back just enough to give himself room. The sound of his leather belt unfastening echoed in the small space. A heavy thud of denim, and the clack of the buckle hitting the floor.
Frank’s jeans and white cotton briefs were around his ankles. And rising from the thick thatch of silver pubic hair was... a monster.
Frank’s erection towered up, engorged, terrifyingly big—a thick, rigid bar of solid meat that looked almost purple with blood flow. Thick veins wound around the shaft, pulsing with every beat of Frank's heart.
It looked like a tool designed for a very specific, heavy-duty job.
Jake looked at Frank and finally saw him. The thick wrists, the barrel chest, the undeniable weight of his presence. The ease of his athletic hips. The cock with one single purpose. Not the facilities guy. The Silverback. Built to breed.
Frank saw Jake staring. He grunted—a low, challenging sound.
Jake’s mouth went dry, and his shorts went wet.
He planted his hands flat against the hairy wall of Frank's chest. The touch was electric. With a sudden burst of leverage, Jake shoved him backward.
The shove caught Frank off guard. He stumbled back, his heavy boots tangling in his dropped jeans, until he landed heavily on the wooden bench behind him.
He sat there for a second, knees spread wide, chest rising and falling under the fluorescent lights. His heavy jaw worked the gum in his mouth as he eyed Jake.
Jake didn't waste a second. He shoved his shorts down over his sneakers and kicked them away, peeling his damp tank top off until he stood there naked, flushed, and leaking.
Frank’s dark eyes dilated—completely black. He leaned back slightly, resting his weight on his hands. The veins that ran up his thick arms were like roadmaps.
He let his gaze drag over Jake’s body. He took in the wide shoulders, the pecs, the V-taper and chiseled abs. The cock, standing at attention.
It was a young, aspiring builder's physique, honed to perfection, and Frank looked at it like he was starving.
"Good frame," Frank rumbled, his voice thick with appreciation. "Strong."
They’d each assessed each other. It was a match.
Jake stepped into Frank’s space, stepping between the older man's spread thighs.
He reached out, gripping Frank’s broad shoulders for leverage, and straddled him. He lowered his hips like an athlete mounting a pommel horse, driven by pure instinct.
As Jake settled onto his lap, Frank’s large, calloused hands slid up the back of Jake’s thighs, cupping the curve of his glutes. His rough fingers brushed against the heat between Jake's cheeks.
They found the truth. Jake was slick. And more than that—he was open. The heat cycle had relaxed the muscle, leaving him gaping and soft.
Frank’s fingers explored the wetness.
"Wet," Frank grunted, sounding impressed. "Leaking."
He worked his fingers into the heat. His eyebrows knit as his rough fingers traced the internal ridges of Jake's chute.
Frank withdrew. The brief touch was intoxicating, but the emptiness that followed was maddening.
"Fix it," Jake whispered.
Frank looked up at him, his dark eyes serious. He took it as a work order.
Jake gasped as the hood of the silverback’s erection met his wet rear lips, making them quiver.
Then, Frank surged upward.
Frank slid inside him with a heavy, unstoppable pressure. He felt huge—not just wide, but dense. Like Jake was being filled with a heavy-duty piston—something too big, but just right, touching everywhere at once.
"Oh god..." Jake sobbed.
He clutched at the hairy shoulders.
Frank pulled back and slammed home again.
"Is good?" Frank growled.
Jake gasped. “Is good.”
Then his instincts took over. He held onto Frank’s shoulders and neck for leverage and started to move. He used his quads, bouncing on Frank’s lap with a frantic, athletic intensity.
Down. Squeeze. Up. Release.
It was like a high-intensity interval set.
Frank’s thrusts rose to meet him—but something passed over his face. A darker awareness.
"Inside?" Frank murmured, his voice rough. He drove in again, and growled, looking awestruck. "Like milky machine?"
"I... I can't stop it!" Jake moaned. He could feel it too—his insides were rippling, clamping down on Frank’s length in a terrified, starving rhythm he couldn't control.
Frank let out a sound—half grunt, half whimper.
He adjusted his angle. He rested his weight on one hand, the other catching Jake at the sweaty small of his back. He tilted his hips and drove upward, harder this time.
Jake gasped out loud as his vision went white. Frank had hit something new—a spot deep inside, past the usual zone, a sort of shelf that Jake had never felt touched before. It sent a shockwave through his entire nervous system.
“Right there… right there!”
Frank wrapped his arm around Jake, bringing him closer, bearing his weight as he neared Jake’s chest. He turned his head, spitting his gum onto the linoleum with a wet smack, then back to find the right nipple. His heavy breath ghosted over the sensitive skin.
"Juicy," Frank muttered, vibrating against Jake's pec.
He latched on.
As Frank sucked, Jake felt a corresponding jolt deep in his rear, right at that new, deep spot. It was a wire-tight nerve connection.
Tug on the tit. Clamp in the gut.
"Oh god," Jake sobbed, his head falling down onto Frank’s gray head, clutching at it just to ride the sensation.
Frank's big hands clasped at Jake’s back, drawing him back down for a deeper penetration. He worked the nipple with his tongue and teeth, sending a live wire of sensation straight to the same spot his cockhead was hitting in Jake’s guts, that deep ring, triggering the milking reflex.
“Give it to me,” Jake begged.
His erection was trapped between them. It rubbed relentlessly against Frank’s stomach. The coarse, silver hair was a brush, dragging against the sensitive head of Jake’s dick with every thrust.
Up. Down. Scratch. Slide.
It was too much. The smooth glans against the rough silver wool.
"Fuck!" Jake groaned out loud, his hips snapping uncontrollably.
Frank bit down on the nipple. He drove his hips up, grinding his furry stomach against Jake’s hardness.
That was the trigger.
The bite. The deep breach. The silver wool scratching his dick.
Jake’s groan choked in his throat. He exploded, shooting his load all over Frank’s silver-haired stomach, matting the fur, while inside, his body went into a final spasm.
Frank went rigid. His gorilla hands clawed at Jake, locking him down as he poured into him.
It felt endless. Hot, heavy, and thick. A massive volume of warm fluid filling and coating the deepest space in him.
He could almost hear the machinery of his body clinging to Frank, drawing the load out in squeezing contractions, leaving the older man shuddering.
Frank held him there, panting, his forehead resting on Jake’s shoulder.
When Jake’s legs threatened to give out, he forced himself up—his hungry hole finally releasing Frank’s half-hard cock with a wet slurp.
Jake staggered back, his legs like noodles.
But the fever was gone.
As he stood there shivering in the sudden cold of the locker room, he felt a distinct, heavy shift as his hole tightened—closing and sealing the warm deposit safely inside.
Jake shifted his weight, suddenly hyper-aware that he was completely naked, dripping, and staring at the maintenance guy.
The older man was still sitting on the wooden bench, his broad chest heaving, his silver-furred stomach plastered with Jake’s mess. The intense, predatory darkness had faded from Frank’s eyes, replaced by a heavy satisfaction.
Jake’s default programming kicked in—a muscle-memory attempt to normalize the most intense experience of his life.
He awkwardly extended his knuckles toward the silverback.
"Uh," Jake croaked, his voice cracking slightly. "Good set, man. Thanks for the... spot."
Frank stared at the extended fist for a long, heavy moment. He didn't bump the fist.
Instead, he gave a low grunt and reached to his side, grabbing a couple of clean white towels off a nearby stack. He tossed one, hitting Jake square in the chest, and used the other to wipe himself.
"Wipe down equipment when finished, boss," Frank rumbled.
Jake rested his back against the lockers.
Okay, he thought, his newly sober brain wrestling with the endorphins. That was... a lot. But just once? What were the odds? One shot probably didn't even take. No way was he knocked up.
And as soon as the thought formed, gym-bro logic twisted it into something dangerous.
You never just do one set. And if some is good, more is definitely better.
He looked down at Frank. The older man was still sitting wide-kneed on the bench. And rising from the silver fur of his stomach, his cock was heavy, bobbing as the silverback caught his breath.
Jake's pulse spiked. His internal chamber practically hummed, suddenly greedy for more of that heavy Ukrainian baby batter. The locker room felt entirely too hot again.
Jake turned around and bent over the battered wooden bench, gripping the edge with white-knuckled hands. He arched his back, shamelessly presenting the slick, heavily used evidence of what they’d just done.
"Spot me for another set," Jake demanded, looking back over his shoulder, his dimples popping in a cocky grin.
Frank’s dark eyes flashed, zeroing in on Jake's arched back. He dropped his own towel and gave a low, rumbling grunt, his massive hands reaching out to grip Jake's hips—pure silverback style.
"Greedy boy," Frank growled, pushing in. "We go again."
5: The Dad Bod 🍼
One Year Later.
Jake stood in his bedroom, shirtless, holding his breath.
The morning sun hit the mirror, lighting up the audit. It was different now. The perpetual little brother was still there, looking back at him with that snub nose and the brush cut—but upgraded.
He hadn't gotten softer. He had gotten denser.
The pregnancy had built him up. His core, once a vacuum-sealed washboard, was now a wall of muscle, ridged like a hand grenade. It was designed to protect a payload. But the biggest change was the chest.
"Damn," Jake whispered, turning to the side.
His pecs used to be high and tight. Now, they had a distinct overhang. They were a real, honest-to-god rack—slabs of muscle that sat with more authority, filled with a new weight.
He brushed a thumb over his nipple, feeling a shiver. He wasn't done with the "cycle" yet. Nursing a three-month-old who ate like a growing linebacker was a constant, heavy drain that made a superset of bench presses look like a warm-up.
The kid didn't just eat; he latched like a shop-vac. It was zero-hesitation, high-torque suction. Jake winced slightly, rubbing the tender spot. He knew exactly which side of the family the kid got that appetite from.
But it paid off. He was built to be a Carrier. His chest rebuilt itself thicker, denser, to keep up with the demand. Milky juggers.
He looked over at the crib in the corner.
"Morning, little bro. Time to crush it."
A thick, gurgling laugh answered him. The baby kicked the blankets off and flashed a wide, gummy smile. And right there, in the middle of those heavy, chubby cheeks, two deep, sharp craters appeared.
Jake grinned back, his own matching dimples popping.
"No way," Jake whispered, tapping his own cheek and then the baby's. "You got Frank’s mass, but you got the signature dimples too? That’s a lethal combo, kid. Absolute aesthetic perfection."
He reached into the crib and hoisted the baby out with one arm. The baby had been born dense, like Dr. Aris promised, folded in on himself. But he had unfolded, and now the kid was a tank—solid, heavy for his age, with dark eyes that watched everything with a calm delight.
"You look bigger," Jake told him, bouncing him on a bicep that was now roughly the size of a cured ham. "Did you up your creatine?"
He thought back to the delivery room, just three months ago.
It had been a marathon. Thirty hours of labor. Dr. Aris had been shouting instructions like a CrossFit coach. Push! Breathe! Bear down!
Frank hadn't flinched. He had stood there, a rock in the chaos, wiping Jake’s forehead with a cool cloth and murmuring low, rumbling Ukrainian lullabies. Jake didn’t know the words, but based on the tone, they were probably about deadlifts.
Jake had been exhausted, sweating through his hospital gown, crushing the bones in Frank’s hand. He was delirious, his gym-brain panicking about the physics of the exit.
"Doc, watch out!" Jake had gasped between contractions, gripping the stirrups. "He's gonna shoot!"
"I'm ready, Jake," Dr. Aris had said calmly, snapping her gloves.
"No!" Jake shouted between heavy grunts, bracing his core. "He's a torpedo!"
"I play goalie in a lesbian soccer league," Dr. Aris deadpanned. "I'll catch the projectile. Now push."
When the kid finally launched, he came out shaped more like a football than a soccer ball. But Dr. Aris caught him—safe, sound, and heavy.
Then the sensation hit Jake like a freight train. Not just relief, but a chemical explosion.
The dopamine dump was massive. It was the ultimate pump. Better than a new personal record on the squat rack. Better than the best pre-workout he’d ever taken. It was the highest high of his life.
When they finally handed Jake the baby, wrapped in a blanket, he was floating. He squinted at the plastic ID bracelet on the kid’s tiny, thick wrist.
"Frank, look," Jake had whispered, his voice raspy in the delirium of the rush. "Y-O-B. They named him Yob."
Frank reached over with a gentle, massive finger and rotated the baby’s arm.
"Is BOY, Jake. You read upsy-down."
Jake had blinked, his hormone-addled brain trying to process the letters. "Oh."
He looked at the kid again. The baby stared back, silent, waiting.
"Nah," Jake whispered. "Yob is badass. Like a Viking. Yob the Destroyer. I’m calling him Yob."
Back in the bedroom, Jake chuckled at the memory. "Right, Yob?"
The baby blew a spit bubble.
Jake set him down on the changing table—a repurposed weight bench with a soft pad—and got to work packing the bag.
First, he tossed in his knee sleeves, then the wrist wraps. He dropped in his shaker bottle, the metal whisk ball clattering against the plastic.
It was his old, battered gym duffel, but the inventory had changed.
Without breaking rhythm, he grabbed a handful of size-4 diapers from the dresser and shoved them into the side pocket, right next to his lifting straps. A container of wet wipes slotted perfectly into the mesh holder meant for a water bottle.
He didn't need formula. He was packing the goods himself in his juicy tits. He slapped each pec to make sure. They snapped back with tensile strength, but judging by the weight, they were full.
He zipped the bag shut. Click. Snap. Done.
He grabbed a fresh neon yellow stringer from the laundry pile. He held it up, then looked down at his chest. The rack was sensitive today.
"Nah," he muttered, tossing the shirt onto the duffel bag. "Let's air the boys out til we hit the locker room."
He turned to Yob.
"Alright. We got leg day today. We're gonna go see Papa Frank."
The kid was dressed for the occasion, wearing a black cotton onesie with cracked neon lettering across the chest that read: BULKING SEASON.
He maneuvered Yob into the carrier strapped to his chest. The kid settled in, facing forward, looking like a little pilot in a mech suit.
Jake looked in the mirror one last time, at the two of them. The big dumb gym bro with the dimples and the heavy, working rack, and the little silverback-in-training strapped to his chest.
"Okay, lesson one," Jake rumbled, poking the boy’s tummy. Boop. "A is for Abs."
Yob kicked his legs.
"B is for Biceps." Jake flexed his free arm, admiring the peak.
The baby gurgled.
"C is for Clean up." Jake winked. "Because Papa Frank says we never leave our toys on the floor."
He grabbed his keys and the heavy bag, fully loaded.
He patted the baby’s solid belly.
"Let’s go lift something heavy, little peanut."
END
Thanks to my friend BeheMorph for the title.
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