Chapter 9: Anvil Feeding
The regimented world of Thursdays at Dr. Holloway’s clinic was one reality. The forge was another.
Here, there were no fluorescent lights or soft-spoken directives. Here, the law was heat, iron, and the punishing swing of Kaelen’s hammer. Finn came often now, drawn by more than just the scheduled need. He found a strange solace in the chaotic rhythm, in the way the soaring, open space mirrored the expanding reality of his own body.
His sweater was stretched tight over the pronounced curve of his stomach. He’d taken to wearing Kaelen’s old thermal shirts, the soft fabric the only thing that didn’t chafe. He watched from a stool by the quenching trough as Kaelen worked a billet of steel, each strike sending a shower of orange sparks into the shadowy reaches of the rafters. The muscles in Kaelen’s back and shoulders corded and released, a symphony of raw power. Finn’s mouth went dry.
The hunger wasn’t a sharp crisis yet. It was a low, insistent thrum, a building pressure that had begun to simmer in his blood over the past day. Dr. Holloway had said ‘frequent dosing.’ They were still learning what that meant.
Kaelen plunged the glowing metal into the water with a furious hiss, the cloud of steam engulfing him. When it cleared, he was looking at Finn, his gray eyes reflecting the banked fire in the forge. He didn’t need to ask. He could see it—the slight sheen on Finn’s forehead, the way his hand was absently massaging the underside of his belly.
“Now?” Kaelen’s voice was rough from disuse and smoke.
“It’s… starting,” Finn admitted, his voice small against the cavern’s echoes.
Kaelen nodded. He didn’t lead Finn to a bed, to some softened, private space. The anvil stood between them, a solid, scarred block of iron still radiating residual heat. He gestured with his chin.
“Here.”
A tremor went through Finn, part fear, part a dark, yielding excitement. He shuffled off the stool, his movements unconsciously gravid. He stood before the anvil, the smell of hot metal and old soot filling his nose. Kaelen came behind him, his body a furnace at Finn’s back.
Large, soot-stained hands pushed the thermal shirt up, baring the pale, taut dome of Finn’s abdomen. The contrast was shocking: the vulnerable swell of life against the industrial strength of the anvil. Kaelen’s calloused palms rasped over the skin, and Finn flinched, then pushed back into the touch.
“Cold,” Finn whispered.
“You’ll warm it up,” Kaelen murmured, his lips against Finn’s ear. He guided Finn forward, bending him over the anvil’s face. The metal was indeed cold, a shocking contrast to the heat flooding Finn’s skin. His belly pressed flat against the solid surface, his ass tilted up. Kaelen shoved his sweatpants and boxers down to his thighs.
The exposure was total, humiliating, utterly necessary. Finn gripped the opposite edge of the anvil, his knuckles white. He heard the rustle of Kaelen’s work pants, the clink of a belt buckle.
Kaelen’s cock, thick and heavy and already slick at the tip, nudged against him. There was no preamble, no gentle breach. He knew Finn’s body now, knew its purpose. With one firm, relentless push, he seated himself to the hilt.
Finn cried out, the sound swallowed by the vastness of the forge. The fullness was immediate, a stretching, burning possession that connected directly to the deep, inner ache of his pregnancy. Kaelen didn’t wait for him to adjust. He set a pace that mirrored his work—powerful, measured, deeply impactful.
Each thrust slammed Finn against the unyielding anvil. The cold metal bit into his belly, his thighs, his hardening cock trapped between his body and the iron. With every drive forward, his swollen stomach jumped visibly, a rippling wave under skin.
“See that?” Kaelen grunted, his hands gripping Finn’s hips hard enough to bruise. He rocked into him, deep and punishing. “See how you jump? They feel it. Every fucking pump. They know it’s coming.”
He leaned over, covering Finn’s body with his own, his chest a hot, damp wall against Finn’s back. One hand slid around, splaying possessively over the curve of Finn’s belly, pressing down.
“You’re just the pipe,” Kaelen growled, his voice thick with effort and a dark pride. “My pipeline. This anvil’s harder than you are. You think you matter? You’re just the hole I use to feed them. My fucking breeding ground.”
The words were filth, degradation. They ignited something in Finn that pleasure alone never could. He sobbed, pushing back desperately to meet Kaelen’s thrusts, his own cock leaking a steady stream of precum that dripped onto the soot-blackened floor beneath the anvil. The mixture of pain from the hard surface, the brutal fullness, and the terrifying rightness of Kaelen’s claim shattered him.
Kaelen’s rhythm became erratic, furious. The forge’s heat seemed to gather around them, steam rising from their sweat-slicked skin. The only sounds were the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh, Kaelen’s ragged grunts, and Finn’s broken, pleading cries.
“Gonna fill you,” Kaelen promised, his voice a ragged scrape. “Gonna pump this nutrient-rich fucking cum right up into your greedy womb. They’re drinking it. You feel them drinking it?”
Finn did. Or he imagined he did. A deep, internal pulling sensation, a welcome syphoning of the pressure building inside him. His orgasm tore through him without a hand ever touching his cock—a raw, pulsing release that left him trembling and hollow, his spend adding to the mess on the floor.
Kaelen followed seconds later, a final, brutal plunge as he buried himself and roared. Finn felt the hot, violent rush, the familiar infusion that seemed to seep directly into his bloodstream, a palpable warmth spreading through his lower belly. The simmering hunger quieted, replaced by a heavy, satiated fullness.
They stayed like that for a long moment, Kaelen’s weight pinning him to the anvil, both of them breathing in the smell of sex and fire and iron.
As Kaelen softened and withdrew, he turned Finn around with surprising gentleness, sitting him on the still-warm anvil stool. Kaelen crouched before him, his eyes scrutinizing. He pushed the shirt up again, his thumbs stroking the stretched skin. Then his gaze caught on Finn’s chest. The thermal shirt was damp, two small, dark circles of wetness blooming over his nipples.
Kaelen’s eyes darkened. He tugged the neck of the shirt down, exposing Finn’s chest. His nipples were darker, puffy, and a bead of clear fluid welled from one.
“What’s this?” Kaelen’s voice was low.
“I… I don’t know,” Finn stammered, a flush of shame heating his face. “It started yesterday. It’s… sore.”
Kaelen leaned in. He didn’t ask. He took the nipple into his mouth, his tongue rough and hot.
Finn gasped, a sharp, electric jolt shooting straight down to his groin. It wasn’t sexual, not exactly. It was a profound, biological relief. Kaelen sucked, gently at first, then with more firmness. A sweet, thin stream of fluid hit his tongue.
He pulled back, licking his lips, his gaze locked on Finn’s.
“It’s milk,” Kaelen stated, wonder and a fierce, possessive gleam in his eyes. He moved to the other side, repeating the action, drinking until the slight let-down sensation eased Finn’s discomfort.
When he finally pulled away, he cupped Finn’s face. “The book said this might happen. Hormones.” His thumb stroked Finn’s cheekbone. “But that’s not for them. They’re fed through the cord. This…” He looked at Finn’s chest. “This is mine. You understand? You produce this for me.”
It was a claim as absolute as the fucking had been. Finn, dizzy and spent, could only nod. His body was no longer his own. It was a divided country: one territory claimed by the growing lives within, another by the man who sustained them all.
Kaelen helped him dress, his hands oddly tender. “We’ll need to get you some pads for your shirts,” he said, practicality returning. “And you need to eat actual food. I’ll make stew.”
Finn nodded, his hand drifting to his chest, where the fabric already felt damp again. The forge fire crackled, casting their elongated shadows against the wall—a twisted, single silhouette of a man bent over, and another, larger figure connected to him, drinking. It was a new pattern being forged, not in iron, but in flesh and need and a terrifying, binding love.
The stew helped. So did the brutal, scheduled feedings in Kaelen’s sparse bedroom, which were somehow less violent than the forge but just as functional. Yet Finn’s body was writing its own schedule, one that ignored clocks.
Two days after the forge, Finn woke at dawn with a feverish ache deep in his pelvis. His breasts throbbed, the soreness a constant, dull complaint beneath the new softness of the tissue. He pushed himself up in Kaelen’s bed, the sheets damp with night sweat, and looked at the man asleep beside him. In the grey light, Kaelen’s face looked younger, the harsh lines of concentration smoothed away.
As if sensing the weight of his stare, Kaelen’s eyes opened. He was instantly alert. “Time?”
“Not the… the big one,” Finn whispered, his voice raspy. “It’s different. My chest. It feels… full. Tight.”
Kaelen sat up. He didn’t speak, just pushed the t-shirt up Finn’s torso. Finn’s breasts were visibly swollen, the nipples dark and erect against the pale skin. A faint, blue tracery of veins was visible beneath the surface. Without a word, Kaelen bent his head and took a nipple into his mouth.
The relief was instantaneous and profound. A sweet, sharp pull seemed to connect directly to the cramping in his lower belly, easing both. Finn’s head fell back with a gasp, his fingers tangling in Kaelen’s short hair. He could hear the soft, gulping swallows.
Kaelen drank deeply, diligently, switching sides when the first stream slowed to a trickle. He worked until Finn’s breathing evened out, until the painful pressure subsided into a soft, emptied ache. When he finally pulled away, his lips were glistening.
“Better?” he asked, his voice gravelly with sleep.
Finn could only nod, his body limp with a strange, post-feeding lethargy. “It’s like a release valve.”
“It is,” Kaelen said, lying back down and pulling Finn against him, spooning around the curve of his belly. His hand came to rest on Finn’s chest, over his heart. “Your body’s making too much. For them, for me. We’ll have to stay on top of it.”
We. The word vibrated in the quiet room. Finn placed his hand over Kaelen’s, feeling the rough calluses against his knuckles. The terror was still there, a cold stone in his gut. But wrapped in this heat, this pragmatic care, it was bearable. He drifted back to sleep to the sound of Kaelen’s steady breath against his neck.
The clinic waiting room felt different now. Finn didn’t see the other pregnant women with curiosity or detachment. He saw potential complications, judging the sizes of their bellies against his own accelerated timeline. He caught one staring at his chest, at the obvious, soft swell beneath his sweater, and he folded his arms quickly.
Kaelen noticed. He shifted his bulk, blocking the woman’s line of sight, a silent, territorial wall.
Dr. Holloway called them back. Her eyes swept over Finn, taking in the new fullness in his face, the more pronounced waddle in his step. “You look… better hydrated,” she noted.
“He’s eating,” Kaelen said simply.
On the table, the ultrasound gel was cold. The probe moved, and the familiar shapes appeared. They were undeniably babies now, with spines and skulls and limbs that flexed. Finn’s breath hitched.
“Growth is still accelerated, but it’s linear now. No more exponential jumps.” Dr. Holloway turned the screen toward them, pointing. “See here? The placental attachment is… unprecedented. The vascular network is incredibly dense, threading through tissues that normally have no business with reproduction. That’s your direct line.”
“The milk started,” Finn blurted out.
Dr. Holloway didn’t look surprised. She put the probe down and handed him a towel. “Lactation in male pregnancies is rare, but documented. Prolactin levels must be soaring.” She fetched a small, handheld pump from a cabinet. “You’ll need to express regularly to avoid mastitis. Every four to six hours, or whenever you feel uncomfortably full. It will signal your body to produce only what’s needed.”
Kaelen took the pump from her hand before Finn could. “I’ll manage it.”
The doctor’s eyebrow arched slightly, but she nodded. “The nutritional composition will be unique. Tailored. It’s waste not to use it.” She looked at Kaelen with frank appraisal. “Your… contributions are clearly effective. His bloodwork is the best it’s been. But we need to start thinking about the final stretch. Your pelvic structure isn’t designed for this, Finn. A C-section is almost a certainty.”
The words pelvic structure and C-section landed like lead weights. The clinical detachment evaporated. Finn’s palms grew slick with sweat.
“When?” Kaelen’s hand was on his shoulder again, grounding him.
“Given the rate? Four to six weeks, maybe less.” She looked at Finn with a compassion that felt more frightening than her cool analysis. “Your body is doing something extraordinary. But it’s also under immense, unnatural strain. We monitor. We adapt.”
The drive home was silent. Four to six weeks. The life inside him was viable now. He could feel them, not just as movement, but as presences. The ghost of the milk let-down tingled in his chest, a reminder of another layer of demand.
Back at Kaelen’s apartment, the blacksmith moved with a new, focused energy. He cleared a space in the living area, assembling the pump parts with a mechanic’s precision. “Shirt off,” he said, his tone leaving no room for debate.
Finn obeyed, sitting on the edge of the couch. The cool air raised goosebumps on his skin. Kaelen didn’t use the pump. He knelt on the floor between Finn’s knees, his hands warm and solid on Finn’s thighs.
“The machine’s for when I’m not here,” he said, his gaze fixed on Finn’s chest. He leaned forward, his breath a warm gust, and licked a broad stripe over one nipple before drawing it into his mouth.
Finn cried out, his back arching. This wasn’t the sleepy, relief-driven act of the morning. This was deliberate. Consuming. Kaelen suckled hard, one hand coming up to knead the other breast, his thumb working the nipple until it beaded and leaked. Finn could only watch, mesmerized by the sight of this powerful man on his knees, servicing him with a single-minded intensity.
Kaelen swallowed audibly, pausing to murmur against his skin, “Sweet. Thicker than before.” He moved to the other side, his attentions becoming almost rough in their efficiency. He drank until Finn was squirming, not from pain, but from a sharp, unexpected bolt of pleasure that speared down to his already-stirring cock.
“Kaelen…”
Kaelen pulled off with a wet pop, his eyes black with a hunger that had nothing to do with nutrition. He looked at Finn’s hard cock, then back up at his face. “The feeding’s not for hours yet. But you’re buzzing. I can feel it.” He shoved Finn’s sweatpants down. “This isn’t for them. This is the overflow.”
He stood, his own erection straining against his jeans, and pushed Finn back onto the couch cushions. He didn’t bother undressing, just yanked his jeans open and freed himself. He lifted Finn’s legs, pushing them back toward his chest, exposing him completely.
The first thrust was a claiming, deep and unyielding. Finn shouted, his hands scrambling for purchase on the couch fabric. Kaelen set a relentless pace, each drive aimed with a precision that made Finn see stars.
“You’re dripping milk for me,” Kaelen grunted, his hips pistoning. “And you’re dripping here for me. This tight, used little hole. You’re mine. Every function. Every fucking drop.”
He reached between them, his thumb pressing ruthlessly against the sensitive pucker of Finn’s entrance, rubbing where he was being stretched wide. The dual sensation was too much. Finn came with a shattered cry, his release striping his own stomach and chest.
Kaelen followed, hammering home through the convulsing tightness, his groan a raw sound of triumph. He collapsed forward, bracing his weight on his arms, still buried inside Finn. His mouth found a trickle of milk on Finn’s chest and he lapped at it, tenderly now.
“Four to six weeks,” Kaelen breathed against his skin, the words a vow. “Then we meet them. Until then, you’re my vineyard. My well. I’ll drink every drop.”
I’ll drink every drop.”
The words hung in the air of the quiet apartment, a vow that seeped into the cracks in the floorboards. Finn trembled beneath him, oversensitive and scraped raw. Kaelen finally withdrew, but his presence didn't recede. It intensified.
The following days developed a brutal rhythm. Kaelen’s life had always been ordered by the heat of the forge and the weight of the hammer. Now it was ordered by Finn’s body, a schedule more demanding than any contract.
Walking hurt. Finn’s pelvis ached with a grinding pressure, as if the bones themselves were softening too slowly for the weight they carried. His center of gravity was a foreign trick he hadn’t mastered. He waddled, a shuffling gate that made his face burn with shame whenever he left the apartment.
Kaelen watched him constantly. The blacksmith’s gray eyes tracked every wince, every shift of weight, every unconscious touch to his belly or chest. It wasn't just observation. It was inventory.
“You’re leaning left,” Kaelen said as Finn trudged from the bathroom to the kitchen one morning. His voice was factual, like noting a flaw in a piece of steel. “Your hip is bothering you. Which side?”
“The right,” Finn admitted, surprised he’d noticed.
Kaelen guided him to the worn couch. “Lie down. On your side.”
He didn’t ask. He arranged Finn like a precious, complicated object, pillow between his knees, another supporting the monstrous curve of his stomach. Then Kaelen’s hands, those brutal, calloused instruments, settled on Finn’s right hip. He pressed the heel of his palm deep into the knot of protesting muscle and joint.
Finn yelped. The pressure was immense, a sharp, bright pain.
“Breathe through it,” Kaelen instructed, his voice low. He worked the flesh and ligament with a terrifying, intimate knowledge, as if mapping Finn’s anatomy through touch alone. The pain crested, then broke, melting into a warmth that spread through his lower back. A broken sigh escaped Finn’s lips.
Kaelen’s hands didn’t stop. They moved to the small of his back, kneading the tension there. “You need to be loose,” he murmured, more to himself than to Finn. “You need to be ready.”
For what, Finn didn’t ask. He knew. For the next feeding. For the next milking. For the eventual, terrifying end of this.
Kaelen’s fingertips drifted around the swell, tracing the tight skin where the babies moved in their frantic, liquid kick-boxing. He leaned down, his lips brushing the crest of Finn’s belly. “Settle,” he whispered, a command to the unseen lives within.
They did, eventually. A slow, rolling turn instead of a jab.
His attention shifted upward. Finn’s breasts were full again, tight and aching beneath his thin t-shirt, the fabric already spotted with two faint damp circles. Kaelen’s breathing changed, grew heavier. This wasn’t about relief for Finn anymore.
He pushed the shirt up. His gaze was predatory, a gleam of pure acquisition in his eyes. He didn’t use his mouth immediately. He cupped the swollen flesh, weighing it, his thumbs brushing roughly over the nipples. A thin, bluish stream pearled instantly.
A low, approving sound rumbled in Kaelen’s chest. “So responsive,” he muttered. He bent and licked the drop away, his tongue broad and hot. Then he took him in, sucking with a deep, rhythmic pull that had nothing to do with casual relief.
This was consumption.
Finn cried out, his back bowing off the couch cushion. It was too much. It was a direct line from his nipple to his cock, which hardened painfully against the pillow between his legs. He was nothing but a series of linked throbs: breast, belly, groin.
Kaelen drank for a long time, switching sides with a methodical hunger. He milked Finn with his mouth, his hands massaging and squeezing the other breast to encourage the flow. When he finally pulled off, his lips were wet, his eyes glazed with a dark, sated pleasure.
“Good,” he breathed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked drunk on it. “So good.”
The trip to the clinic the next Thursday was a silent parade of Kaelen’s newfound obsession. He helped Finn into the truck, his hand lingering possessively on the small of his back. In the waiting room, he sat turned in his chair, his knee pressed against Finn’s thigh, a wall against the world. He answered questions meant for Finn.
“His lower back is paining him. Right hip. The milk let-down is every three to four hours now. The flow is stronger.”
Dr. Holloway observed this with her sharp, clinical gaze. On the table, the ultrasound showed the twins in ruthless detail. They were crammed together, limbs tangled.
“They’re perfect,” she said, and the word felt alien. “Growth is consistent with their accelerated timeline. But Finn, your physiological stress markers are elevated. Blood pressure is up. Rest is not a suggestion. It is a medical requirement.”
“He rests,” Kaelen stated from his post by the wall, his arms crossed. “I make sure of it.”
“See that you do.” She turned back to Finn. “And the lactation? Any pain? Redness?”
“Just… fullness. Aches.” Finn avoided her eyes, staring at the grainy black-and-white screen.
“Kaelen manages it,” he said again, and the way he said it—manages—made it sound like a Craft, like forging or welding.
Dr. Holloway’s pen paused over her chart. She looked from Kaelen’s impassive, possessive face to Finn’s flushed, overwhelmed one. A flicker of something—concern, understanding—passed behind her professional mask. “The management seems effective. Your prolactin levels are stable. Just remember, Finn, you are the patient. Your comfort matters.”
But as they left, Kaelen’s hand firm on his elbow, Finn knew a disquieting truth. His comfort didn’t matter, not in the way she meant. His comfort was secondary to the function. To the feeding. To Kaelen’s solemn, obsessive stewardship of his body’s strange new outputs.
That night, the hunger came early. It was a sharp, twisting cramp deep in his womb, a vacuum that seemed to pull at his very spine. He gasped, curling around his belly in their bed.
Kaelen was awake instantly. He didn’t ask. He rolled Finn onto his side, spooning behind him. One arm hooked under Finn’s top knee, hiking his leg up to open him. He was already hard, his cock a thick, insistent pressure against Finn’s ass.
“It’s early,” Finn whimpered, even as he pushed back.
“They’re hungry,” Kaelen corrected, his voice thick with sleep and desire. He spat into his hand, slicking himself roughly before pressing the broad head against Finn’s entrance. He’d stopped using lube days ago. He preferred the friction, the claiming drag. “My greedy fucking offspring are starving.”
He pushed in, a slow, inexorable invasion that stole Finn’s breath. The stretch burned, a delicious, defining pain. Once fully seated, Kaelen didn’t move. He wrapped his other arm around Finn’s chest, his hand splaying over one full, milk-heavy breast, squeezing just shy of pain.
“You feel that?” Kaelen growled into his ear. His hips gave a shallow, grinding thrust. “They’re connected. This ache here,” he squeezed the breast, making Finn cry out, “and this empty hole here.” He thrust again, deeper. “It’s all the same system. And it’s all mine to fill.”
He began to fuck him then, with a relentless, deep-paced rhythm that shook the bed. Each thrust jolted through Finn’s swollen belly, each withdrawal left a aching void. Kaelen’s hand kept working his breast, pinching and pulling at the nipple until a hot trickle of milk leaked over his fingers.
“Fuck,” Kaelen hissed, bringing his wet fingers to Finn’s mouth. “Taste it. Taste what you make for me.”
Finn, mindless with the dual sensations, sucked his own milk from Kaelen’s fingers, the sweet-salty taste absurd and erotic. Kaelen groaned, his thrusts becoming harder, faster.
“You’re my dairy cow,” he snarled, the obscenity hot in Finn’s ear. “My broodmare. Fucked full and milked dry. Every fucking day. I’m going to keep you pregnant and dripping forever.”
The words unlocked something feral in Finn. He came with a sob, his clenching muscles milking Kaelen’s cock deep inside him. Kaelen followed, a roar muffled in Finn’s shoulder, his release a scalding flood that seemed to go on and on, directly feeding the yawning void.
After, Kaelen didn’t pull out. He stayed lodged inside, one hand resting on Finn’s belly, the other still possessively cupping his breast. His breathing slowed. In the dark, Finn felt full to bursting, a vessel pressed to its seams.
Kaelen nuzzled the back of his neck, a shockingly tender gesture. “I can feel your heart beating,” he mumbled, his voice drowsy. “Right through your tit. And the babies… they’re quiet now.”
They were. The frantic movement had ceased, replaced by a subtle, contented shifting.
“Shhh,” Kaelen soothed, though Finn hadn’t spoken. His hand on Finn’s belly stroked gently. “Just sleep. I’ve got you. I’ll always take care of what’s mine.”
And there it was. The quiet, terrifying core of it. Not love, not in any simple way. It was ownership. A relentless, all-consuming obsession with every process, every product, every function of Finn’s ruined and miraculous body. Finn closed his eyes, floating on a sea of endorphins and profound exhaustion. The line between care and possession had dissolved. He was no longer a man having a baby. He was Kaelen’s greenhouse. And the vines were growing wild.