Blooming

Hey All,

Sorry for the lack of posts. I honestly didn't realize it'd been so long. Had a new, story complete and ready to go (this isn't it) but then I realized I'd created some logistical issues and fixing them turned out to be a lot more work than anticipated. Expect that story to be posted soon, in the meantime, here is something new.

Apologies, the formatting of this part got messed up, but I want to share it now anyway. Thanks for your patience and let me know what you think!

Blooming

By

Brimmingbelly04

Based on

Patient Status: Hostage + Heavily Pregnant

By

@Cassiecage999

with permission

PART ONE

~~~~~~~~~

Mehmed walked past the bar three times before finally working up the nerve to get in line. He'd never been to a gay bar before and finally, at the age of thirty-one, he'd decided it was time for that to change.

It took fifteen minutes of waiting to get in. As such, he shouldn't have been so surprised by how loud and crowded it was when he did. His anxiety returned full force and he thought about leaving, but then someone stood and walked away from a nearby stool and before he knew what he was doing, he was rushing towards it instead of the door.

He got it. Mehmed heard someone groan and then curse in annoyance behind him, but he stayed put. He kept his head down as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the bar, some of his curly, dark brown locks falling into his face. Usually, he hated when that happened but at the moment, he was glad for the coverage.

He felt bad about being there. Guilty. The thirty-one year old visibly winced as he imagined what his parents would think if they knew where he was and why he was there. He was their pride and joy, so his age and the distance between them didn't matter. What did was the shame he was bringing them, even if they were completely unaware of it.

Mehmed had come to America from Bosnia ten years ago. Actually, he'd been sent there by his parents, who wanted him to have a better life than they and their country could provide a young man like him. A young, “artistic” man, who was very creative… Mehmed could paint, draw, sculpt, you name it. Regardless of the media, he always created something beautiful.

Others at home had called him “soft.” Other than his incredible knack for artistry, he didn't exhibit any other “tendencies,” but calling him such was just a nice way of calling him gay. He and his parents’ all knew that.

Mehmed didn't know if they felt/thought the same, as they'd never questioned him. What he did know was that they'd sent him away from Bosnia to America, “to create.” He liked to think they'd do so genuinely, but sometimes, like now, now that he'd finally dared to go to a gay bar, he couldn't help but wonder if they'd sent him away to save themselves from (further) embarrassment or (additional) sullying of their family name?

Whatever the case, it shouldn't have mattered anymore. Mehmed hadn't been home since leaving, and his parents hadn't been over to visit, not even once. They still talked and emailed here and there, at least a few times a year, but their extended lack of physical visits only added to his concern of being a disappointment.

“Ohmygod… Look at your hair!” A lispy voice practically screamed, right in front of him. “Those curls!”

Naturally, Mehmed's head shot up, as did his thick brows and eyelids, the latter fully exposing his honey-colored irises.

“Oooh, and that face!” The effeminate bartender continued to coo as he too leaned in over the bar, their faces suddenly just a few inches apart. “What can I get you, hon?” He asked with a lick of his lips. “First round's on me!” He winked as he brushed his dirty blonde locks back.

Mehmed had yet to be with a man. He'd been flirted with by plenty, but none had interested him enough to take that very big step of reciprocating. Despite his lack of experience, while the attention the undeniably handsome thirty-one was suddenly receiving was appreciated, already, he wasn't interested.

He'd yet to physically confirm his type, but he knew the younger, dirty blonde wasn't it. And yet for the first time ever, he had the courage to flirt back, reasoning it would probably be easier giving it a go with someone he wasn't interested in. Baby steps…

“How ‘bout you surprise me?” He asked with a small smile.

“Ooooh!!!” The bartender cooed again. “And an accent? Pleeeease tell me you’re a top?!” He practically begged as his eyes rolled back.

Having never been with a man, Mehmed didn't know which position/role he preferred, and that he, no offense, didn't want to make that determination with this guy. He did, however, want that free drink…

“Maybe you'll find out after I get that drink?” He said with a couple wags of the naturally enviable and almost perfect brows he always got compliments on.

“Hard to get!” The bartender giggled as he fiddled with his hair again. “Total top, I knew it!” He confidently declared as he pushed himself back up off the bar and turned before adding loudly over his shoulder, “Be right back, gorgeous!”

Mehmed found himself smirking as he lowered his head back to its previous position. He hadn't come to the bar hoping to be noticed, but now that he had been, he had to admit it felt good to bask in a little glory, somewhere he could (admittedly uncomfortably) finally, slowly start coming out of his shell.

His heart started to race again, even as he just sat there looking down at the top of the sticky wooden bar between his elbows. Anxious as he was, Mehmed was just as proud he'd forced himself to do this…

He was learning, after all. Learning how far and hard he was ready and willing to push himself and even though he was belatedly taking his first gay baby steps so far, so good.

The bartender was back a few moments later. He set a cheap, flimsy coaster down, then a very large and full glass atop it, containing a beverage that looked to the thirty-one year old like a cherry Icee. Mehmed loved Icees…

“I went with something sweet and fruity!” The bartender happily announced as he leaned in to whisper and giggle in his ear, “Just like me!”

“Thank you,” Mehmed said as he looked up from the drink and back to him.

It was the least he could do.

“Try it!” The blonde nodded. “Tell me what you think!” He enthusiastically nodded some more. “But first, tell me your…”

“BRANDON!!!” Another guy suddenly loudly shouted from halfway down the bar. “QUIT FUCKIN' FLIRTING WITH SOMEONE WAY TOO CUTE FOR YOU, AND GET ME MY NEXT DRINK!!!”

Brandon, the bartender, groaned, rolled his eyes and shook his head as he pushed himself all the way back up.

“Sorry, gorgeous,” he apologized. “Seems like you're making the regulars jealous,” he winked before turning around again with an exaggerated flick of his (too) slender hips and nonexistent ass. “I'll be back as soon as I can!” He promised with a little cutesy wave. “And that drink better be gone when I am!” He shouted over the loud music and chatter.

Mehmed grinned, happy to be left alone again. His expression grew as he leaned further forward, aimed his lips at and over the straw in his frosty beverage, wrapped them around it, and took a big sip.

The moment the slushy liquid hit his tongue, the handsome Bosnian visibly winced again. As much as he loved Icees, and even after having been in America for a decade, he'd yet to fully acclimate to how sweet their sweets could be. How sweet anything could be really, this icy drink included.

Much like its maker, it was a bit too much for him. It wasn't disgusting, but it would've been more enjoyable with about half as much sugar. At least it was free.

Mehmed sighed knowing that next he'd have to work up the courage to ask the bartender for something different next time. Naturally, he worried about hurting his feelings. He couldn’t help it. He was a sensitive artist, after all.

Sweet as it was, the fruity drink was also strong. After a few more sips, the thirty-one year old already felt the alcohol starting to hit him. Mehmed didn't drink much, so if all the drinks the bartender made were this potent, he was going to have to be careful. He'd been in a rush to finish his drink as instructed, but reminded himself he was a grown, desirable man, whose parents didn't know where he was or what he was up to and could therefore do whatever the hell he wanted.

This was his night out. His first. He didn't want to get too drunk to remember it, so with a small sigh, Mehmed pressed back from the bar, straightened up and looked down again.

It'd taken him ages to decide what to wear. He wanted to look good, but not too flashy, which wasn't very difficult. By now Mehmed was slightly better off than a starving artist, but he was still careful with his funds, especially when it came to things like clothes.

For his first gay frolic, he'd kept it simple, going for an all black look. Black went great with his hair and skin tone but it also didn't typically draw attention, especially not in dark spaces such as a bar. But despite the dim lighting, now that he was sitting back and his cute curls weren't obscuring his face, the handsome thirty-one year old quickly started drawing attention from more than just the bartender and that one, overly attentive regular, and rightfully so.

Mehmed was 5'11” tall, with a thick but trim beard to match his curls. His facial features were strong, masculine and classically appealing, even if he sometimes thought his nose and ears were a little too big. At the moment, he was only half as tan as he could get, which made his skin pop in the darkness and against his all black ensemble that consisted of a tight t-shirt and jeans, both of which showed off his strong but not too bulky build, and a pair of black loafers he wore sans socks.

Mehmed may've thought he hadn't “dressed to impress” or for too much attention, but even if inadvertently, he had. To most others who were now noticing him, he looked dark, sexy and maybe even a bit dangerous. He didn't look at all like the totally inexperienced virgin he was.

After reaching up and casually moving a couple ringlets back down in front of his eyes for “protection,” he cautiously looked around the bar, hoping it appeared as if he was looking for a friend and not that he was looking to make a new one. As he did, Mehmed noticed all the eyes now on him, and did his best to avoid making contact with any of them as he continued slowly scanning the room. What (or who) he was looking for, he couldn't even say.

Of course the one person he ended up making brief eye contact with was Brandon. Quick as he could, Mehmed broke it, leaned forward, and went back to work on his drink, which thankfully, now that it had melted a bit more, was slightly less sweet and a little less strong, but still not entirely tasty.

All of a sudden, he felt a hand on his left shoulder. The pressure it applied was gentle but undeniably firm, as if it had no intention of moving until it wanted to.

Oh, God. This isn't happening, is it? Mehmed silently asked himself, his pretty, honey-colored eyes widening in panic as they stared down his (slightly too big) nose at his drink, of which half still remained.

“I didn't mean to startle you,” the hand's owner said just beyond his ear as he loosened his grip a little after noting the sudden tension in the shoulder he was touching. “I just wanted to let you know, you dropped something.”

Mehmed's eyes widened some more. He hadn't brought much with him to the bar, just the necessities: his key to his apartment, his smallest wallet containing a couple cards and some cash, his phone and his passport.

Why his passport? Because that was the only ID he had that was still valid. Why? Because the now thirty-one year old had overstayed his visa by six years (and counting) and now wasn't the time to lose it. Now obviously wasn't the time for it to be found out that he'd remained illegally in America.

Quickly, he whipped his head around in the direction of the voice while frantically angling it down at the ground. “What?! Where?! I…”

“Oh!” The man behind him said in surprise, still very close but now slightly less so as he'd backed up some following Mehmed's frantic movements. “I was kidding! Trying to flirt!” He chuckled anxiously.

“What?!” Mehmed repeated as he continued to scan the floor while simultaneously checking his tight pockets.

“I was trying to flirt,” the man repeated. “You didn't actually drop anything,” he said as he added some pressure back to his still present palm. “Aside from my jaw.”

“Your jaw?” The thirty-one year old said, still in some panic as he raised his gaze and turned back further to finally see who'd caused him such great and sudden anxiety.

As soon as he saw the source of his near panic attack, before he could stop himself, Mehmed let out a small gasp. He was his ideal. He was whom he'd eventually, hopefully, someday (not today, though) go on to find.

“Everything OK?” The guy asked slowly, raising his brows as he gave Mehmed's shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You really didn't drop anything,” he stressed. “I swear,” he shook his head.

Mehmed just stared for a couple seconds before giving him a slow, jerky nod. “Everything's fine. I just…”

“That wasn't my best pick up line,” the very handsome older man admitted with another chuckle.

“It was bad,” Mehmed emphasized with confidence that surprised him.

“Can I get you a drink to try and make up for it?”

“You might need to make it two,” he replied, further surprising himself.

Smirking, the older man squeezed between the stools and stood next to him. He wore a crisp white button-up with the sleeves rolled halfway up his arms. He had broad shoulders, clean-cut salt and pepper hair with a bit more of the former, while the trim stubble lining his face remained darker.

When Brandon came back over and saw him standing there, he didn't look happy. “Looks like I left you alone too long,” he sighed and frowned at Mehmed.

“He'll have another,” the guy nodded towards his drink, which he'd yet to empty. “Me too.”

“Actually…” Mehmed said quietly. “I'd like something else.”

The guy looked down at him and raised his brows.

“Something less sweet,” he continued, feeling some color go to his cheeks as he refused to look at Brandon, who let out a small huff.

The guy took the cue. “Two Grey Goose doubles on the rocks, with extra lime,” he requested of the bartender before turning back to Mehmed. “Is that good?”

“That's perfect.”

Brandon huffed again as he spun around and went off to make the drinks. Mehmed looked up when he was sure he was gone, then looked up and over at the older man.

“Do lines like that awful one you tried on me usually work for you?” He asked with a small chuckle and smirk.

“Shit…” the guy grumbled, looking away from Mehmed and lowering his head. “It was pretty bad, wasn't it?”

The thirty-one year old confirmed it was with a nod and another laugh.

“And I'm a doctor…” the guy grumbled some more. “That's supposed to mean I'm smart, so I should've been able to come up with something better.

“What kind of doctor?” Mehmed asked.

“I don't wanna bore you or further annoy you.”

“Alright, well then tell me your name.”

“Alex. Dr. Alexander Norgard. And you are..?” The older man asked as he turned and offered out his right hand.

“Mehmed,” he replied as they shook.

Alex's grip was warm and firm. It felt good.

“Mehmed,” He repeated with a smile. “I like it.”

“Thank you.”

“What do you do?” He asked.

“I'm an artist.”

“What kind?”

“I try not to limit myself,” Mehmed shook his head as Brandon returned with their drinks and he grabbed his and raised it. “Cheers,” he offered as he held it out. “To a good night.”

“To a good night,” Alex repeated with a smile and nod as their glasses clinked and Brandon scurried away in disappointment.

Now, Alex's voice was low and confident, no longer cocky or nervous. Smooth, but obviously not rehearsed.

“So…” Mehmed exhaled after taking a sip which he very much enjoyed, despite the almost unmasked strength of the alcohol. “Now that I know you're a doctor, I hope I don't have to worry about any other lame lines that have to do with any ‘examinations…’” he rolled his eyes.

“Ouch!” Alex playfully winced as he gripped his chest. “But no,” he shook his head. “You don't have to worry about that. Only if you want me to,” he winked.

“Well what can I worry about then?” Mehmed asked with a wag of his thick brows.

Alex raised his. “Are you always this bold?”

He shook his head slowly as he took another sip. “Honestly, this is the first time.”

“Is that so?”

He nodded. “Still waiting for an answer…”

Rough and awkward start aside, Alex was undeniably smooth and sexy. Potentially, very dangerously so, as in he might very well end up being Mehmed's first, and yes, he was already thinking in those regards.

The thirty-one year old's stomach fluttered as his heartbeat got going again. Alcohol was part of the reason, but so was attraction. He hardly knew Alex, but after years of waiting for the “right” guy, even if he hadn't, that no longer mattered, at least not then.

Five minutes later, they were on their second shared drink, sharing it in a private booth in a back room that Alex had paid $200 for them to have the privilege of accessing for fifteen minutes. Mehmed refused to let him pay for another fifteen, even as the doctor's large right hand was stroking his left thigh beneath the table.

“He'll settle the tab now,” Mehmed informed the waiter when he came to ask if they wanted to extend their stay.

“He will, will he?” Alex chuckled, even as he reached into his pocket to retrieve his wallet and do as he'd just been told.

A few minutes later, they were outside the bar holding hands. Mehmed looked down at their joined appendages and smiled as they waited for their Uber to arrive. The Uber which would take them back to his place, where hopefully, their already good night, would come to an even better conclusion.

~~~~~~~~~

Mehmed groaned in pain as his stomach twisted violently, once again sending him sprinting for the bathroom with a hand clutched over his mouth. This time, he just barely made it to the toilet before the intense nausea overtook him and he started unloading.

As his knees hit the cold, cracked tiles of his humble bathroom, his messy hair fell into his flushed face as he retched, stomach already empty but protesting nonetheless. Same as it had the previous two mornings…

Once he finally stopped heaving, Mehmed knelt there for another minute. He breathed in and out slowly through his nose as his lightly shaking right hand braced him against the toilet.

Stomach bug, he silently said to himself. Food poisoning… Something like that.

The thirty-one one year old really didn't want to think (any more) about the alternative. Still a little queasy and now drenched in sweat, Mehmed pulled himself up, went over to the sink and splashed cold water on his face.

When he looked up, his reflection looked even worse than he felt. His skin was pale, there were dark circles under his eyes and his lips were dry.

The good thing about being a (struggling) artist was that at moments like this, he didn't have to worry about going into work. The bad thing about it was he didn't have health insurance, meaning unless he wanted to schlep down to the free clinic and spend time amongst the even less fortunate and likely more sick masses, he was going to have to keep toughing whatever this was out.

Mehmed moved his wet right hand from the counter up to his forehead, which felt clammy and warm. Too warm. All of a sudden, he felt very nauseous again and was rushing back over to the toilet.

This time, even though there really shouldn't have been anything left, something came up. A lot of something…

“OK… nope,” he muttered, pausing to spit the residual into the toilet. “Something's wrong,” he needlessly declared aloud.

Once he could, he stood again and went back over in front of the mirror. This time, the thirty-one year old didn't focus on his face, but further down.

Was his belly… bloated? Wait… Since when had he even had one?!

That was another indicator something wasn't right. Mehmed slowly and gently poked the bulge he'd just noticed. It felt and looked like he'd just eaten way too much, but he'd hardly had anything since he'd started getting sick, even if the nausea had been passing by mid-morning.

He'd hardly eaten and had been throwing up what he had, so why did he have a belly, let alone such a relatively prominent one..?

Mehmed had a good idea of the reason, he just wasn't ready to admit it yet, and wouldn't be till he had proof. Still in just a tiny tank top and briefs, he headed out of the bathroom to his kitchen, where he'd left the box of pregnancy tests he'd purchased the day before.

He'd hated wasting the money on them, but told himself they might come in handy, just to get some peace of mind. Now though, Mehmed suddenly highly doubted that's what he was going to get when he utilized them.

The thirty-one year old brought the box containing three tests back into the bathroom. His hands shook as he forced himself to urinate on the proper point of each, all three.

He let the allotted amount of minutes pass and then a couple more, just to be sure. When he picked up the first of the three tests he'd lined up in a row and saw the result, it felt like heart dropped down into his sour stomach.

The test was positive. So were the other two. He didn't have a stomach bug or food poisoning… He was definitely pregnant.

Mehmed's knees shook as he eased himself down onto the side of the tub. He kept staring at the three tests he was still holding, willing their results to change but of course, they didn't.

All of a sudden, the thirty-one year old let out a loud, dry and humorless laugh. There was nothing funny about this, but he found himself laughing anyway.

“Of course…” he said aloud in the otherwise empty room.

That night at the gay bar came rushing back to him in pieces… Meeting Alex, connecting with him physically, twice, both times without protection.

Call him naive, and rightfully so, but Mehmed hadn't thought that people actually got pregnant when they lost their virginity?! Obviously, he'd been wrong.

***

Later that afternoon, after spending hours in a crowded waiting room at the free clinic, Mehmed finally found himself waiting again in the sparse exam room he'd been shown to. He'd already provided a urine sample and blood and was now waiting for the results. For the (unnecessary) confirmation he was pregnant.

He had on the biggest hoodie he owned, which he now realized wasn't as loose as it normally was around his middle. Every second that passed between giving his blood and urine samples, the harder it got for the thirty-one year old to breathe, because if he was pregnant (which he knew he was,) what was he going to do?!

He felt like a child again. A pregnant child. Ugh… Gross. Not like THAT, but still…

“Mr. Kovacevic,” the doctor said after entering the room and looking over his chart and test results with a puzzled expression. “Are you sure you have the date of conception right?” He asked.

Mehmed nodded while not making eye contact. “I'm sure. One hundred percent.”

The doctor sighed. “Well then if that's the case, your hormone levels are very high, which indicates you're likely expecting multiples.”

“Multiples,” Mehmed blinked. “Like twins?”

The doctor smiled politely as he could. “That could be it,” he said aloud, while his eyes said more.

Something he evidently didn't want to say aloud as following their brief exchange, he sent Mehmed on his way with a referral to see a covered specialist for a sonogram, and a plastic bag full of pregnancy literature and various prenatal samples.

He didn't look at any of it. There wasn't a point. Mehmed wasn't going to keep the babies, however many he was pregnant with. He couldn't.

Not only could he not afford to raise them, he couldn't afford the disappointment and shame they'd bring his parents. The thirty-one year old made the difficult decision to have an abortion. He hated having to do so, but it made the most sense. He'd discuss it with the specialist.

***

It took a few weeks to get an appointment, by which time Mehmed was eight weeks along. His belly no longer looked bloated, like he'd had a very big meal, it looked round. Bigger, tense and firm, like a balloon filling under his skin.

He couldn't suck it in anymore, even when he tried, which he did. Every morning when he looked at himself in the mirror, his belly was bigger than the day before. A growing, undeniable bulge just above his pelvis.

Finally, the day of his appointment with the specialist arrived, during which Mehmed would be getting his first and last sonogram. He wished he could've been excited, but he wasn't. In fact, he wished he didn't have to have it. He just wanted to get the abortion done and put all this in the past so he didn't have to think about it anymore.

Ever again, really.

It would've been nice to imagine a life where he and Alex could be together and raise their babies, but Alex was out of the picture. Mehmed had texted him a few days after their encounter, but hadn't heard back. He'd tried again after finding out he was pregnant, thinking maybe the two of them could work out something together, but still no response.

The specialist told him he was having triplets. Three babies. He also told Mehmed that there was no way he was only eight weeks along. That he must have been mistaken about the timing because the size of the babies put them at just past sixteen weeks.

Just past the cut off for an abortion.

Mehmed swore up and down that he knew when he'd conceived. He even admitted to the doctor it'd been the night he'd lost his virginity, so he knew without a doubt. But his body, his growing babies, said otherwise. As such, an abortion was out of the question.

Once again, Mehmed was sent on his way with pregnancy literature and samples, more of both this time. Following his second appointment, not only was the thirty-one year old upset, he was scared.

Scared about what he was going to do next, how he was going to get through the coming months, but also because obviously, something wasn't right… The babies were too big, too soon.

Mehmed knew the so-called specialist was wrong, but also that he unfortunately couldn't afford to pay for a second opinion. Naturally, he turned to the web, hoping for some answers. Hoping to find something legitimate but free he could take back to either doctor and convince them to terminate.

But nothing he found online helped. He found nothing that discussed showing so soon. Nothing at all that he could use to his benefit.

At the moment, the only thing Mehmed was in possession of that might help him going forward, was the pamphlet he'd been given by the specialist's office, referring him to an adoption agency. The thirty-one year old hadn't looked at it yet, still hoping for a miracle, even if he knew it wasn't coming.

A few days later, Mehmed was in the shower. He looked down at himself, at his belly mostly, but now other parts of his body were drawing his attention as well. His thighs looked to have gotten a little thicker, even though he hadn't been to the gym in over a week. His chest seemed to have gotten bigger too, definitely more… puffy, especially his nipples.

After the shower, as he dried off, the struggling artist thought he was going crazy. He swore up and down that he'd already dried his chest off, but it kept getting wet. Following another gentle swipe of his towel, Mehmed realized it hadn't been errant drops of water he'd been wiping away, but milk. Breastmilk, or something along those lines…

It wasn't actual milk yet, but it was something. Whatever it was, it was way too early for it to be coming in, that much he knew. He wasn't even nine weeks along yet!

Mehmed stayed up for hours, Googling his condition again as he lay in bed, his belly causing the sheet over it to tent. He searched and searched and searched, but nothing could explain why or how his pregnancy was progressing at such a rapid rate. Even if he'd been as far along as the specialist insisted he was, he was already experiencing changes he shouldn't have been…

Not only had his milk started to come in, Mehmed had noticed in the last couple of days, his hips ached when he sat too long. That was a sign that they were (already) expanding.

Topping all that off, he'd already been “congratulated” twice. People could clearly tell he was pregnant even though most would've still considered it “too early” to share the “good news.”

The more he read, the more concerned the thirty-one year old became. He considered reaching out to the adoption agency, hoping maybe they could refer him to someone with some better answers, but he'd have to wait at least till the morning.

Mehmed was about to give up and try to get some sleep, when he saw it. In the middle of the latest useless article he was reading was an ad.

It was simple enough: a white block with clear black text, which read-

Are you a man pregnant with multiples, experiencing unique growth patterns? Are you concerned about the financial impact of your condition?

If so, we're here with help and answers. We are offering top-notch, 24/7 care, including room and board and excellent financial compensation for participants of our study.

Confidentially is guaranteed.

Interested?

Apply below

At the bottom of the ad was a glowing blue icon that said, APPLY NOW! Mehmed stared at it but didn't click. His heartbeat quickened.

The ad was tailor-made for him. Whoever had placed it was looking for someone exactly like him.

“Unique growth patterns…” he said quietly as his right hand came to rest on his belly. “You have no idea…”

The thirty-one year old was too amazed at his sudden “luck” to consider the ad might be clickbait or some other sort of scam. He moved his mouse over the blue icon, let it hover for a few seconds, and then clicked.

A new web page automatically opened to a rather simple electronic application form. Mehmed stupidly didn't bother looking at the address of the page, or even for a company name or an icon he could click for “More Information.” He just started filling out the form.

Name

He paused. Considering his immigration status it probably wasn't a good idea to use his real name even if confidentiality was guaranteed. Still, he needed help and answers, so if he lied, was found out and got disqualified, he'd be right back where he was now.

Mehmed typed in his full, real name and then proceeded along with the rest of the application, feeling slightly hopeful for the first time in weeks.

***

Mehmed had been accepted into the study. A day after submitting his application, he received a call from an unknown number, spoke with a recruiter, and set up an interview via Teams.

Two days following the interview, he got another call from an unknown number letting him know he was in and how much he would make. Mehmed was relieved. So relieved…

He was given instructions and time to complete them before the study began. Since he would be staying at a facility till he gave birth, he was given the option to extend the lease on his apartment and set up automatic payments for his rent to be paid in his absence, or to terminate his lease and have his things moved into storage while he was away.

Mehmed decided on the latter. With the money he'd earn from the study, he'd be able to afford a bigger place, one with space he could use as a dedicated studio for his work. Movers were sent over to help him pack and then take his belongings, and a cashier's check was couriered over in the amount he needed to pay to break his lease.

When he was twelve weeks to the day, the time came for him to make his “move.” Not that there had been for a while, but now, there was really no denying he was pregnant.

His belly wasn't huge (yet) but it was most definitely there to stay. A rounded bump that had him already looking more than halfway along in a singleton pregnancy, even though he had two months to go before he actually reached that point, and two more (big) babies inside him.

Mehmed had only picked up a few bigger things to wear. Had he not been going to participate in the study, where clothing would be provided, he would've sized up some more because now, even his biggest shirt wasn't big enough, leaving an inch or so of the underside of his belly exposed.

The shirt didn't fit correctly up top either. The thirty-one year old's chest had continued to grow as well, but remained “pec-ish” for the time being. His pecs and belly all moved some when he walked, swaying slightly beneath whatever he had on.

Every step Mehmed took made him aware of his changing center of gravity. Every glimpse in a mirror reminded him he was growing faster than he could understand, but soon, he'd have some answers.

Already, his navel was changing too. It was beginning to flatten out and starting to hint at the fact it would eventually become an outie.

The physical changes were a lot, with many more still to come. Probably more than Memhed even knew to expect yet… He was a little anxious about not knowing exactly where he was going, but glad it was somewhere that would know how to handle his unusual pregnancy, even if it was being studied in the process.

Right on time, a blacked out SUV pulled up in front of Mehmed, who was waiting outside his now former apartment with a solitary bag slung over his shoulder. All he'd brought along with him were some clothes, toiletries, his phone and laptop, and some sketch pads, pencils and pens.

Everything else had been put into storage. Anything additional he might need during his stay, he'd been promised would be provided.

Not long after getting into the SUV, Mehmed suddenly felt very tired. To be fair, he'd had a busy few days getting ready to leave and of course, he was pregnant with triplets, which he was finding to be increasingly draining.

Before he knew it, the thirty-one year old was out like a light.

~~~~~~~~~

Mehmed didn't know how long he was out, but when he woke as the SUV slowed to make a turn, he felt well-rested. The sun was setting as they passed through a tall gate and then whizzed through some rolling, open fields for a minute before a large building came into view.

It looked more like some sort of tech campus or headquarters rather than a clinic. The building was long and low, immediately surrounded by dense but perfectly manicured trees. As the SUV made its final approach, it passed through another gate, which surprised Mehmed enough that he failed to notice that the building they were pulling up to lacked windows.

Had he been paying attention, he wouldn't have seen a single one. Had he been paying more attention, the thirty-one year old also would've noticed that the large, circular driveway in front of the building was void of any other vehicles, and that there was no sign on the building to announce what it was.

Somehow, Mehmed missed all of that and the fact that there were no people around either. To be fair, he was still waking up from his unexpected nap. Before he noticed nobody was there, somebody suddenly was, and they were opening his door.

“Good evening, Mr. Kovacevic,” a young, handsome man in a crisp white and very form-fitting jumpsuit greeted him in a professional tone. He offered Mehmed the smallest of smiles as he said, “Welcome, please come with me.”

“Yes, thank you,” Mehmed said as he climbed out, grunting quietly as his feet touched the ground.

His hips ached, meaning he'd been riding for at least an hour. As he fiddled with his shirt and got himself situated, Mehmed swore he felt a little bigger and heavier than he had when he'd been picked up however long ago.

“I just need to get my…” he started to say as he turned to look at the back of the SUV.

“Your bag will be delivered to your room,” the younger man gently interrupted. “Now please, follow me,” he said with another small smile as he started walking off.

“Um..?” Mehmed said in confusion as he hurried along behind him.

Why was he confused? Because it looked as though the man he was following (whose butt he couldn't help but notice, looked amazing in his jumpsuit) was about to walk smack into the wall ahead of them…

But then at the last second, “the wall” slid open. Once again, Mehmed was too surprised (and now, a little amazed) to realize things were sort of amiss.

“Welcome to the Bloom Research Center, Mr. Kovacevic,” the younger man said. “We’re very pleased to have you here with us,” he went on as the “wall” silently slid closed behind them.

“Thanks…” Mehmed said as he looked around.

Every and anywhere he looked, everything was white. The ceiling, the walls, the tiles on the floors, everything was seamlessly white. Bright white. Even the light panels incorporated into the ceiling were white, giving what Mehmed had seen of the Bloom Research Center so far, a very stark look. And sterile, like a hospital, but notably emptier.

Finally, Mehmed realized no one else was around other than his greeter/guide, whose name he hadn't caught.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I think I missed your name?”

“You didn't,” the guide replied. “And no need for it. I'm just intake and discharge,” he continued as they continued along down another starkly white hall. “You won't be seeing me again till you leave.”

“Oh,” Mehmed frowned, wincing at how loud his voice suddenly sounded.

He thought for a moment that for some reason, he was shouting. He quickly realized he wasn't, it was just eerily quiet at the Bloom Research Center. So far, anyway…

A few moments later, his nameless “intake coordinator(?) led him into a small room, where the thirty-one year old was given a brief intake exam. This included having his blood pressure and pulse taken, him giving a urine sample, and then him being moved into a different room where he was to complete some waiting paperwork.

“But I filled out a bunch of stuff online after my interview,” Mehmed said as he sat down at the single desk in the center of the room.

“We like to be thorough.”

“I see…” he exhaled as he looked down at the papers.

“Standard consent form, better explaining everything,” the younger man explained with a sigh. “ Lists the specifics of your room and board, your care, the nutrition you'll be provided, and various examples of delivery methods we offer but prescribe,” he said. “Also explains that you'll receive the remaining sum of your agreed compensation upon the completion of the study, assuming no self-withdrawl and/or noncompliance on your part. All quite standard, really. Everywhere you need to sign and initial has been marked,” he nodded as he stepped back and waited.

Waited for Mehmed to start signing and initialing, which he didn't. Not right away… First, even though he knew he wouldn't everything, he started to read. Not even halfway down the first page, his interest and attention were piqued.

The phrase, “You consent to full physiological monitoring and 24/7 surveillance/supervision,” made him pause.

Was that “quite standard” in a situation like this? He had no idea… Did it matter anymore? He was already here and he needed to be, right?

Mehmed thought so, so he got to work initialing and signing. There were many places he needed to do both so it took a while, but eventually, he reached the last page, where he signed his real name one more time and then sighed.

“Excellent,” the other man sighed back. “Now you can be shown to your room, but first, I'll need your phone,” he said as he held his hand out.

“My phone?” The thirty-one year old frowned as he looked down at it in his hand.

It was only then he realized he didn't have any service. It wasn't even searching for any. It was in airplane mode.

“To connect it to the Wi-Fi. For security and privacy reasons, other services have been blocked.”

“Oh… OK,” Mehmed nodded again as he hesitantly handed it over.

“Thank you,” the younger man smiled as he took it and turned. “Someone will be in to show you to your room shortly.”

***

As promised, not long after his departure, long after, another handsome, younger man, wearing an identical white jumpsuit, whose ass (and body as a whole) looked incredible in it, entered, didn't introduce himself, and told Mehmed to come. Literally, that's all he said, “Come…”

As the thirty-one year old followed his second nameless guide down another unmarked, unremarkable aside from its vagueness, white hall, he noticed something he kind of wished he hadn't…

Any door they passed didn't have a doorknob or handle. Mehmed had to pay attention to even notice the door frames, as the doors weren't framed at all, each almost perfectly flush with the wall. Looking up, Mehmed also noticed small black bubbles lining the ceiling, but mostly located in corners. Cameras.

The thirty-one year old tried to ignore the chill he felt slowly making its way up his spine as he realized they were all watching him. Maybe/probably even recording his every move, but he'd consented to that while completing that plethora of paperwork. Fuck.

Mehmed tried not to freak out. He told himself he'd just gotten there. Obviously, he was going to meet and be seen by other people and maybe he could tell them just how uncomfortable and anxious the intake process had made him feel. Surely, that couldn't have been their intention…

He was there for their help, but also, to help them. They'd want him to feel comfortable, wouldn't they?

The second young man used a keycard to buzz him into his room, which was nice and spacious, and actually contained some color, albeit mostly tan and beige. It looked like a very basic, clean and fresh hotel room.

There was a bed, on which a folded gown sat, a dresser with a small TV atop it, and a full bathroom off to the side. What the room didn't include was a phone or any windows.

“Please take a few moments to get acclimated,” the young man said with an artificial smile. “Then please change into your gown and leave your clothing by the door for laundering.”

Mehmed nodded. “My other things?” He asked.

“Are still being checked for security purposes.”

“And my phone?”

“Still being connected to our secure Wi-Fi. Someone will be by shortly to take you to your first evaluation,” he “smiled” again before turning and offering over his shoulder sans any feeling, “Welcome to Bloom, Mehmed,” before the door shut behind him with a soft hiss.

As soon as it was closed, Mehmed noticed there wasn't a knob or handle on the inside. On his side.

This wasn't good. Not good at all!

Mehmed started to panic. Started to hyperventilate, but somehow managed to somewhat calm himself, because what good would panicking do him now? None.

He needed to focus. To think. To try and convince himself that maybe, despite every single sense he had, and every hair on his body standing up at attention, that maybe, he somehow was still getting it wrong?

Even if he wasn't, what could he do? He was stuck in his room, supposed to be acclimating to it before changing. The room wasn't big or furnished enough to take up much time exploring, so despite his better judgment, Mehmed got changed into the gown and then sat down on the bed.

After a while, he stood and looked for the TV remote. When he couldn't find it, he returned to the bed and sat again.

After a while, he laid down. After another while, he passed out.

***

Mehmed woke to the sound of the door opening. It was a soft hiss, followed by the mechanical click of a seal breaking.

He sat up quickly, heart pounding as he instinctively gripped the sheet he'd worked himself under at some point during the previous night. A moment later, another handsome young man entered his room, wearing the same jumpsuit as the others, but also a pair of gloves as he wheeled in a slim medical cart.

“Vitals check,” he said without a greeting or hint of emotion. “Please lie back and lift your gown.”

Mehmed wasn't having it. As he physically complied, his stomach twisted, feeling similar to how it had before he experienced that awful morning sickness, and yet he knew he wasn't going to throw up.

“No hello? No, how did I sleep? No, what do I want for breakfast or even a name tag?” He listed off.

The newest handsome young man didn't respond. He just waited for Mehmed to finish getting into position.

The thirty-one year old sighed and shook his head as he leaned back, kicked the sheet down to his feet, and then pulled his gown up over his firm, rounded belly, exposing it and his bare crotch. As he looked down at it, his belly appeared slightly bigger than he remembered it being.

It was tight now, the skin warm to the touch, with a hint of veins starting to show beneath. It was much bigger than it “should've” been and Mehmed still didn't know why?

The “nurse” checked his vitals, then pressed various cold instruments against his belly. Every once in a while, he'd note something on the thirty-one year old's electronic chart but never said anything aloud, not even when Mehmed asked,

“Will you be giving me a sonogram?”

“An ultrasound?” He tried again, in case he'd gotten the terminology wrong.

Still nothing. When he was done, the nurse took his cart and left without a word, leaving Mehmed staring up at the ceiling wondering what he'd gotten himself into and if it was too late to get out?

He knew it was.

***

Breakfast was delivered shortly after his exam. It was bigger and tasty and at least eating gave him something to do for a while because he'd yet to find the TV remote and he still hadn't gotten his phone back.

Sometime mid-morning, he realized he probably wasn't going to. Great…

Around noon (maybe, because Mehmed had no idea what time it was,) he was silently escorted down the hall to a new room labeled the “Common Wellness Room” next to its nearly hidden door. Basically, it was a wide, windowless lounge area, with large, padded chairs, soft (still white) lighting, with soothing music playing from speakers hidden throughout.

There were three other men already inside, each of whom was pregnant. Heavily pregnant.

The first was an African American in his very early twenties (if that.) He wasn't that tall or big in stature, aside from his belly and chest, which protruded out in front of him, pulling his gown taut over the mounds. He was young enough to still be considered cute, and looked a little anxious as he slowly paced the room, his hands braced against his lower back.

The second was older, but still younger than Mehmed. A white guy, somewhere in his mid to late twenties, with dark brown hair and strikingly bright blue eyes. He was much bigger than the first all around, especially at the middle. He sat in a chair with his bare swollen feet propped up on a footrest and his arms crossed atop his belly. The scowl on his attractive, slightly chubby, hairless face gave the impression he wasn't in the best of moods.

Given the size of his belly alone, Mehmed could understand why. If he'd been treated the way he'd been so far, then he really could…

But if the thirty-one year old thought the second guy's belly was big, he had another thing coming. As soon as he saw the third and final guy, he couldn't stop staring.

His gray hair indicated he was the eldest of them, while his enormous belly clearly indicated he was the most pregnant… Mehmed was still getting used to this whole pregnancy thing and had yet to clearly see someone else who'd experienced “unique growth patterns” till now.

Mehmed wasn't able to tell how tall he was as he was sitting as well, but he looked to be a good size. It also looked as though his gown may've been custom sized to accommodate him because not only was his belly absolutely enormous, he was also quite busty.

He gave off a dignified air as he sat there with his left arm draped protectively over his bump. He raised his gaze and met Mehmed's eyes, calm and assessing.

“Another newbie,” he said.

“First full day here,” Mehmed nodded as he walked over and sat down across from him with a quiet grunt as he felt more pressure added to his hips. “Mehmed.”

“Is that your real name?” The man asked, lowering his brows.

“It is.”

“You can call me John.”

“As in John Doe,” the first guy chimed in. “I'm JaMarius. Real name,” he smirked as he waddled closer while fidgeting with his gown, which ended just above his knees, same as Mehmed's.

“And I'm Tony,” said the other seated preggo. “Might be my real name, might not be?” He shrugged.

“Where are you from?” “John” asked Mehmed.

“Originally?”

He nodded.

“Bosnia.”

“Here legally?”

Mehmed hesitated long enough for John to roll his eyes. “You shouldn't have given your real name. None of you should have,” he said, looking at the others.

JaMarius rolled his eyes as he came over and placed his right hand on Mehmed's left shoulder. “Don't mind him. He's grumpy ‘cause they haven't let him go into labor yet,” he said with a pat.

“Haven't let him?” The thirty-one year old said as he looked over his shoulder. “Doesn't it just happen?”

Everyone, kind, young Jamaris, laughed.

“Sometimes, but not always,” Tony shrugged again.

“Hope you didn't come here hoping for answers, newbie,” John said. “They'll give you plenty of ‘supplements!’” He went on with a set of air quotes. “But not answers.”

Mehmed felt some of the color drain from his face as he turned to look back at John. Given what little he'd heard so far, it didn't seem like things were going to be getting much better, let alone be anything like he'd been hoping for.

Now, he knew that apparently, he wasn't going to be getting any answers from anyone who worked at the Bloom Research Center. That wasn't good to say the least, but at least he now also knew he and his babies weren't alone. There were other… “study participants?” Captives?

“How long have you all been here?” The thirty-one year old asked as he looked around the group.

Tony chuckled. “Your guess is as good as mine!”

“Seriously?”

JaMarius huffed as he gave Mehmed's shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Stop it, guys… You're scaring him.”

“So? We scared you when you got here and you're fine, aren't you?” Tony huffed back.

JaMarius opened his mouth to respond but John beat him to it. Not by speaking at first, but by raising his left hand, indicating he was ready to hold court again.

“I have an answer to your question, newbie, but I'm not gonna give it to you. Yet,” he said with a slow shake of his head. “Why not? Because if I did, then you would be scared.”

John paused for a few moments to let what he'd just said sink in. As he anxiously waited for him to continue, Mehmed swore he felt his blood start to run colder.

“What I will tell you now,” the eldest in the group finally continued. “Is that I was much smaller when I got here and had plenty of time to go, whereas now, I'm past due. Overdue. Way overdue…”

This time, Mehmed was the one to open his mouth and try to get something in, but once again, John beat him to it. “What did you do out there, before this?”

“I'm an artist.”

“What kind?”

“Many kinds. Every kind, almost,” Mehmed replied with a small smirk as he thought about all his various works, which gave him the briefest respite from his current surroundings and situation.

“Despite you ending up here and closing to make a living as an artist, I get the sense you're a pretty smart guy…” John went on.

“I like to think so,” the thirty-one year old nodded as he did his best to look him in the face rather than the belly.

“I know you're still very new, but then maybe you've already noticed what's missing around here..? Natural light, phones of any kind, and clocks…”

Mehmed nodded again.

“Your breakfast was delivered to you on a tray?”

“Yes…”

“No one's shared their name with you?”

He switched to shaking his head. “I've only dealt with a few staff so far, but no,” he confirmed.

“That's how it will stay,” John replied. “And you've noticed the cameras?”

“I have,” the thirty-one year old nodded again.

“Have you had an ultrasound yet?”

“Not yet…”

“Don't expect one, and then allow me to officially welcome you to Bloom, and let you know you're off to as good a start as you could hope for. But speaking of hope…”

“Yes..?” Mehmed hesitantly asked.

“Don't make the mistake of ever getting yours up again,” John shook his head. “Really, if you can avoid it, it would be for the best,” he concluded with a firm nod.