Chapter 1: Gym Encounter: A Teacher’s Reward
The gym was always quiet this late. Kalen liked it that way—the echo of his own footsteps on the polished wood, the shafts of afternoon sun cutting through the high windows, painting everything in warm, dusty gold. He moved with a slight waddle, his hands unconsciously supporting the lower curve of his belly. The fabric of his UA uniform was stretched taut, the buttons straining. One hundred and fifty. He could feel them, a gentle, shifting weight inside him, a constant reminder of last weekend’s… enthusiasm.
He was heading for the weights, thinking a light workout might ease the ache in his lower back, when he saw the figure slumped against the far wall, near the rolled-up wrestling mats.
Aizawa-sensei.
The hero was sitting on the floor, head back against the concrete, eyes closed. His capture weapon was loose around his shoulders. But it was the dark, spreading patches on the front of his black shirt that caught Kalen’s eye. Two distinct circles, damp and clinging. Even from across the gym, Kalen’s sensitive nose caught the sweet, rich scent of fresh milk.
“Sensei?”
Kalen hurried over, his own substantial belly leading the way. Up close, it was worse. Aizawa’s face was pale, beads of sweat tracking through the stubble on his jaw. His chest rose and fell in shallow hitches. The damp patches weren’t just stains; they were actively seeping, the fabric clinging to the pronounced swell of his pecs.
“Rodriguez.” Aizawa’s voice was a dry rasp. He didn’t open his eyes. “Gym’s closed.”
“You’re leaking,” Kalen said, kneeling beside him with a grunt. The movement made the babies inside him roll. “And you look like death. Quirk overuse?”
“A long day.” Aizawa finally cracked his eyes open, the dark rings under them looking like bruises. “It’s fine. It’ll pass.”
But Kalen could see the other signs. The tight clench of Aizawa’s jaw, the way his thighs were pressed together. The hero’s usual loose-fitting pants looked uncomfortably snug in the groin, fabric stretched by a prominent, heavy bulge. Kalen knew that kind of ache. His own balls, constantly full, were a familiar burden. Aizawa’s were clearly in a similar state, a painful-looking swell against the dark cloth.
“Your balls are full,” Kalen stated, his tone practical, concerned. “And your tits are dripping. That’s not ‘fine.’ You need relief.”
Aizawa shot him a weary, warning look. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what? Help my teacher?” Kalen’s kindness was stubborn, an active force. He reached out, his fingers brushing the wet fabric on Aizawa’s chest. The hero flinched, but didn’t pull away. A low, helpless sound escaped him as Kalen’s touch pressed against the engorged, milk-swollen flesh beneath. “You’re rock hard. This hurts, doesn’t it?”
Aizawa’s breath hitched. His defiant glare wavered. The pain and the physiological pressure were undeniable, stripping away layers of stoic control. He gave the barest, almost imperceptible nod.
“Let me help. Just the milk. Okay?” Kalen’s voice was soft, persuasive. Without waiting for further protest, he deftly popped the first few buttons of Aizawa’s shirt, parting the material.
The sight was something else. Aizawa’s pecs were firm and full, the nipples dark and pebbled, beaded with creamy milk. The scent intensified, sweet and earthy. Kalen leaned in, his mouth covering one nub.
Aizawa jolted, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat as Kalen began to suckle, firm and rhythmic. It wasn’t sexual, not at first—it was practical, a relief of urgent pressure. A hot, rich stream filled Kalen’s mouth, and he swallowed gratefully. He could feel the tense swell under his lips begin to soften almost immediately.
“Fuck,” Aizawa whispered, his head thudding back against the wall. His hand came up, tangling weakly in Kalen’s hair, not pushing him away, but holding on. “Oh, fuck…”
Kalen switched sides, giving the same dedicated attention to the other aching peak. He drank until the flow eased from a gush to a trickle, until the hard knots of tension in Aizawa’s chest melted away under his tongue. The hero was panting, boneless against the wall, a deep blush spreading across his pale chest and neck.
But the larger problem remained. The massive bulge in Aizawa’s pants had, if anything, become more pronounced, now that the upper body tension had released. Aizawa groaned, his hips giving an involuntary, desperate little roll.
“Shit,” he muttered, eyes squeezed shut in shame and need. “Rodriguez… you should go.”
Kalen sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His own uniform pants were growing tight. Seeing Aizawa like this, vulnerable and wanting, was doing things to him. His generous cock stirred, pressing against the fabric, and a fresh wave of wetness slicked his inner thighs. His ass, always ready, clenched with empty anticipation.
“You’re still in pain,” Kalen said, his voice a little thicker now. He gestured to the prominent tent in Aizawa’s trousers. “That’s not going away on its own.”
“I’ll deal with it,” Aizawa gritted out, but his body betrayed him. He rocked his hips again, a small, aborted movement of pure agony.
Kalen made a decision. He shuffled forward on his knees, coming to rest between Aizawa’s sprawled legs. The hero’s thick thighs trembled. With steady hands, Kalen worked open the fly of Aizawa’s pants, freeing him.
Aizawa’s cock sprang out, thick and flushed, the head glistening. It was impressively large, veins standing out in relief. Kalen let out a soft, appreciative hum. He leaned forward, his breath ghosting over the heated skin.
“Kalen, don’t—” Aizawa’s protest was weak, consumed by a wave of overwhelming sensation as Kalen’s lips, soft and warm, closed around the tip.
Kalen took him in slowly, his mouth a slick, perfect heat. He had no gag reflex to speak of, his throat opening easily as he sank down, down, until his nose was buried in the coarse hair at the base. Aizawa cried out, a raw, shattered sound that echoed in the empty gym. His hands flew to Kalen’s head, fingers gripping tight.
Kalen began to move, a deep, steady rhythm. One of his hands came up to cradle Aizawa’s heavy balls, feeling the tight, overfull sac. He massaged gently, and Aizawa sobbed, his hips stuttering up off the floor.
It was fast and desperate. Aizawa had been holding back for too long. After only a few punishing deep thrusts into that willing throat, his body locked. A guttural roar ripped from him.
The first hot, thick pulse hit the back of Kalen’s throat.
And the world shifted.
It was like a switch flipped deep in Kalen’s core. As he swallowed the first rich, virile shot, his own belly, already round and heavy, gave a sudden, violent lurch. A wave of intense, heat bloomed from his center, spreading through his womb.
Oh.
He didn’t pull away. He kept swallowing, drinking Aizawa down as the hero emptied himself in great, shuddering spurts. With each swallow, the reaction inside him intensified. His stomach distended, the uniform fabric groaning in protest. The subtle movements of the one hundred and fifty within him were drowned out by a sudden, profound fullness, a rapid, cellular expansion.
Aizawa finally stilled, spent, slipping from Kalen’s lips with a soft pop. He was dazed, chest heaving, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Kalen sat back, panting. He looked down at himself. His belly was no longer just large; it was massive, a huge, taut dome that pushed his uniform jacket completely open. The strain on the shirt was alarming, the fabric looking ready to shred. He could feel them, new lives, hundreds of them, implanting and multiplying at a breathtaking speed, triggered by the potent seed he’d just ingested. The weight was immense, anchoring him to the floor.
He placed both hands on the colossal curve, feeling the incredible, rapid swell. A slow, awed smile spread across his face. He looked up at Aizawa, whose eyes had finally focused, now wide with shock and dawning comprehension.
“Sensei,” Kalen said, his voice filled with wonder, not fear. He gave his enormous belly a gentle, proud pat. “I think… I think you just knocked me up. Again.”