Chapter 14: Forced Overstimulation
Taichi lost track of time on the carpet. The swollen firmness of his belly was a constant, impossible reminder. When he finally could move, it was a slow, pained process. He crawled to the bathroom, each movement causing a sloshing, heavy shift inside him. He didn’t vomit. Nothing came up. Whatever the conduit had pumped into him was settling, being absorbed.
He avoided the mirror until he couldn’t. Standing on shaky legs, he stared at his reflection. He looked… blurred. His skin had a faint, pearlescent sheen. His eyes were darker, the brown now ringed with a thin line of something like tarnished gold. And his stomach—a smooth, subtle dome that defied all logic. He pressed a hand against it.It was warm. He felt a deep, internal stirring, a slow coil of something that was not his own.
A week passed. Or maybe three days.The boundaries blurred. He called in sick to the office, his voice a hollow rasp on the phone. The thought of putting on slacks, of riding the train, of making small talk about weekend plans, was cosmically absurd. His reality had been reduced to the four walls of his apartment and the thing living on his living room floor.
It hadn’t shrunk back to its original size. It remained a dormant, obsidian mass, now roughly the size of a large pillow. It hummed sometimes, a low frequency he felt in his teeth. The hunger returned, quicker and sharper each time. It wasn’t a want. It was a physiological demand, a cramping, hollow pang that originated in his newly-shaped gut and radiated out, making his nerves scream.
Van appeared without fanfare, materializing from a shadow that seemed too deep for the afternoon light slanting through the blinds. He looked at Taichi, who was curled on the couch in a pair of old sweats, staring at the conduit.
“It’s calling you,” Van stated, his voice filling the quiet room. “You hear it. In your blood.”
Taichi didn’t deny it. He just nodded, a slow, shameful dip of his chin. “It hurts,” he whispered.
“It hurts because you’re fighting it.” Van walked to the center of the room, his boots silent on the carpet. He nudged the conduit with his toe. It rippled, a wave of readiness passing through its form. “The emptiness you felt before? That was your true self, aching for definition. This,” he said, gesturing to Taichi’s body, “is you becoming defined. Filled. Real.”
“I feel like a container,” Taichi said, his old cynicism surfacing as a brittle defense.
“You are,” Van agreed, without malice. “A sacred one.Now come here. Kneel before your altar.”
The command was absolute. Taichi moved off the couch, his body obeying before his mind could form a protest. He knelt on the carpet before the dark mass. The humming intensified, vibrating up through his knees. The air crackled, dry and electric.
Van stood behind him, a wall of heat and dominance. His hands came down on Taichi’s shoulders, heavy and warm. “You want to be filled, don’t you?” he murmured, his breath cool against Taichi’s ear. “It’s all you want now. To have that hollow ache stuffed raw until you can’t remember your own name.”
A sob hitched in Taichi’s throat. It was true. The shame was still there, but it was a distant thing, drowned out by the roaring need. “Yes,” he choked out.
“Then drink your sacrament.”
Van’s hand fisted in his hair, not gently, and shoved his face forward, down towards the center of the pulsating mass. Taichi gasped as his lips met the warm, yielding surface. It gave way like skin, and a single, thick tendril, slick with that familiar lubricant, slid into his mouth.
It was just the beginning.
The conduit erupted into motion. Two of the largest shafts, already glistening, found his cunt and his asshole simultaneously. They pressed against him, and his body, already stretched and changed, opened for them with a shocking, wet ease. There was no resistance, only a deep, plunging acceptance as they speared into him in one relentless, synchronized thrust.
“Fuck! Oh god—” The words were garbled around the thickness in his throat.
The tendrils pinning his limbs were swift and efficient. They wrapped around his wrists, yanking his arms behind his back, and coiled around his ankles, spreading his knees wide, forcing his ass up into the air. He was trussed up, presented, utterly helpless. Van kept a firm grip on his hair, holding his face down onto the main mass as another, thinner tendril snaked up to tease at his nipple, then pinch it viciously.
He was full, fuller than last time, the two massive invaders stretching his passages to a breathtaking burn. But they didn’t just piston. They swelled. Rhythmically, each pulse making them thicker, stretching him inch by torturous inch. The one in his mouth pushed deeper, down his throat, and he gagged, tears springing to his eyes. The tendril down his throat didn’t stop. It fed him a steady trickle of that sweet, numbing fluid, forcing him to swallow around it.
Van released his hair, now just an observer. He circled Taichi’s prone, violated body, his footsteps slow. “Look at you,” he said, his voice a mix of awe and possession. “Taking it all. You were made for this. A vessel born to be brimming.”
The twin shafts began to fuck him in earnest, a brutal, pounding rhythm that stole the air from his lungs. Each slam shook his entire body, his swollen belly wobbling with the impact. The pleasure was a sharp, screaming wire, strung so tight inside him it felt like it would slice him open. It was inseparable from the pain, from the humiliation, from the sheer, obscene physics of what was happening to him.
The tendril around his untouched cock tightened, a slick, tight ring that stroked him in time with the ravaging of his other holes. Sensation overloaded his nervous system. He was a instrument being played too hard, strings snapping, notes distorting into noise.
“He’s close,” Van commented, as if to the room itself. “Can you feel it? The conduit feels it. It knows.”
It did. The movements changed. The relentless pounding became deeper, more grinding. The shafts inside him seemed to knot, swelling at their bases, locking into place. A new, different heat bloomed at their tips.
The orgasm that tore through Taichi was a silent, seismic event. His back arched impossibly, his body seizing around the invasive lengths as jets of his own release splattered uselessly onto the carpet beneath him. It was a powerless, draining spasm, and as it peaked, the conduit unleashed its own.
The flood was hotter this time, viscous and alive. It wasn’t just filling him; it was claiming. Taichi could feel it pumping into his core in thick, endless pulses, a supernatural ejaculation that inflated his belly further. The dome rounded out, firm and tight, pressing against his organs. He could see it, a taut, pregnant curve that distorted his frame. The conduit didn’t stop until he was visibly, grotesquely distended, until a sharp, breathless pressure made black spots dance at the edges of his vision.
Finally, it released him. The tendrils retreated, slithering wetly from his throat, his cunt, his ass. They dumped him onto his side. He collapsed, a gasping, bloated heap, his hand instinctively cradling the massive swell of his stomach. It felt different. Not just full.Seeded.
Van knelt beside him. He placed his broad hand over Taichi’s, over the hard curve. He leaned close, his lips brushing Taichi’s ear. “The promise is taking root,” he whispered, a dark thrill in his voice. “Soon, you won’t need the conduit at all. You’ll be self-sustaining. Perfect.”
Taichi, mind shattered and body brimming with otherworldly essence, could only stare at the ceiling. The hollow ache was gone, replaced by a terrifying, weighted permanence. He felt a faint, fluttering movement deep within the firmness of his belly. It wasn’t his heartbeat.
It was something else. Something growing.