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Steve came to in some kind of dark cave or basement, vaguely aware of the cold, damp stone beneath him. There were thick ropes keeping him spread eagle on the ground, coiled around each wrist all the way up to his elbows and both ankles up to his knees. He was naked, which was disturbing, but he put that out of his mind and focused his senses around him. Wherever he was being held was pitch black which would make things more difficult, but his ears were unencumbered and he couldn't hear anything that suggested his captors were anywhere nearby. Since he was still a little fuzzy headed, he assumed they'd shot him up with something to keep him unconscious but were unaware how quickly he burned through drugs thanks to the serum and thought he'd be incapacitated by it to the point that simply being tied up would keep him their prisoner.
Had they done no research into him at all? He was almost embarrassed on their behalf, thinking some simple ropes could keep him from escaping. One sharp tug and—
And nothing.
The ropes seemed to… respond to his movements, coiling around him further. Undulating. Tightening as they curled further up his arms, his legs. Then another came out of nowhere to wind itself around his throat, shifting and squeezing, forcing his head back and jaw up. He tried to cry out but the second he opened his mouth something shoved its way inside. They weren't ropes, he realized suddenly, they couldn't be. Ropes didn't move on their own like this. Ropes didn't pulse.
Whatever they were—tentacles, appendages, determining exactly what didn't matter—they were alive and they wanted him and he couldn't break their hold. They were leaking some sort of slime, rubbing it into his skin as they moved, dripping it onto his tongue and down his throat. He tried not to swallow but they gave him no choice, his mouth filled with it and eventually it was either swallow or choke. Whatever was in the liquid it made him hazy, pliant, and he found he no longer had the strength, or perhaps the will, to struggle against the things that held him.
More of the things came and started exploring his body, almost caressing him as they rubbed the strange viscous slime into his skin. It was slightly warm and tingled almost pleasantly. He felt disjointed, like he was floating above his body, oddly detached from it while at the same time very aware of something sliding between his thighs, stroking his perineum as it made its way into his hole.
He was no stranger to anal sex, but this was nothing like anything he'd experienced before. Something had breached him and was steadily not only slowly filling him with that strange liquid but also something else, something small that wriggled and shifted and moved on their own as they entered his body and he could feel the skin over his stomach and pelvis start to stretch to accommodate the girth they caused. It should have been painful, he was coherent enough to be aware of that, but instead it just was warm, filling.
Eventually the pulsing stopped and the large tentacle that had been in his ass withdrew. He expected whatever he'd been filled with to immediately follow but it must have left a plug or something to prevent it because instead the things inside him just shifted and squirmed, seemingly quite content in their new home. Then he lifted up off the cold floor and carried, the tentacles embracing him, soothing away cramps and discomfort before he could more than register the feeling, coming to a stop somewhere slightly warmer, still as dark but with an aroma of sand and salt water that somehow reminded Steve of the smell of Coney Island back when he was young.
As they moved him the tentacles began writhing, stroking him in a way that felt impossibly good. It was only when one wrapped around his cock that he realized he was hard and leaking and it began jacking him off with just the right amount of pressure that despite the situation he was soon moaning with pleasure. Between the tugging and stroking and the way it teased his slit he shuddered and orgasamed, coming harder than he ever had before.
He must have passed out because the next thing he was waking up, lying on his side, and the tentacles were gone. Whatever had been in the slime must have worn off because while he still felt loose limbed and slightly woozy, he could move.
To an extent, anyway.
He reached out, planning to plant his hand on the ground and push himself to his feet, but instead became aware of how incredibly distended his stomach had become. Without light it was hard to tell exactly how large it was, but he was big enough that as muddled as he still was, he knew he wasn't going to be able to lever himself up. He was pinned in place by his mass, helpless against whatever had been implanted inside him.
Although, maybe he wasn't completely helpless? Weaponless, sure, but helpless? He had his fists, his fingernails, maybe he could—
Suddenly screams filled the air. No, his mind. Terrified wails filled his head, cutting through his thoughts. Visceral, all encompassing fear tore through him and, of their own volition, his hand uncurled, dropping to his sides before he could even a single blow. Somehow, someway, the things inside him had known what he'd planned and had figured out a way to stop him. With growing dread he began to suspect they would always stop him. The sense of revulsion over what he'd almost done was so strong he was nearly sick. Before he realized what he was doing, he began running a hand over his side, patting the teeming mass below his skin. "Shhhhhh.It's all right. Shhhhh. Everything's going to be okay."
The terror subsided. Contentment bubbled from within him.
It was the strangest sensation, being utterly repelled and repulsed by whatever horror was now growing inside him but at the same time being flooded with a desire to protect and care for it. Idly, he wondered when it would stop, if it would stop. While, at the same time, wondering if he really wanted it to.
Time passed, although Steve had no idea how much. Normally he had no issue following his own internal clock; tracking his heartbeat, his breathing, but he found himself completely unable to do so. His thoughts skittered past him, causing him to continually lose count but he was pretty sure it wouldn't have mattered since his heart sometimes raced and other times seemed to slow to the point he idly wondered if the pulse he was feeling was even his at all.
He wasn't left completely alone though; every once in a while the tentacles appeared to check on him. There was never any warning—no noise, no disturbance to the air—suddenly they would just be there to rub more of their slime into his skin or force more of it down his throat. The first few times he tried to keep his mouth clamped shut but they covered his nose and simply waited until he passed out to force his jaw open and begin to feed him. After a bit though he stopped fighting it. He was thirsty and besides, both he and the things inside him needed the nutrients.
They seemed to thrive and his stomach, impossibly, continued to swell until its weight pressed down on him to the point his limbs went numb and it became difficult to get air into his lungs. They grew more and more agitated, perhaps from sensing his thoughts or his failing body, but he didn't have it within him to reassure them anymore. He couldn't lift a hand to stroke and soothe them and he didn't have the breath to shush them. Was this to be his fate? Dying in the dark, turned into some sort of broodmare and crushed by the babies he'd been forced to bear?
At some point he was vaguely aware of tentacles wrapping around him and lifting him up, wrapping him in their embrace, providing gentle support and easing the strain on his stomach, back, neck and head. The pliant haze from earlier returned, his body was no longer his own, but theirs, and he had no say in what they were going to do with it.
Suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain rippled through his abdomen. Knives, no, claws, no, teeth… teeth tore into him, through him, as the babies fought their way out of him. He screamed as the skin ripped open, screamed as writhering creatures, viscera and blood burst forth, screamed until a tentacle forced its way down his throat, cutting off his air and began pumping slime into whatever was left of his organs. While the babies swarmed over him other tentacles began pushing the pieces of his skin back into place, as if to try to stem the amount of blood he was losing.
Whether it was a result of the serum or the slime, or both, he didn't know, but he could feel the shredded bits healing together, reforming, creating a sort of grotesque patchwork quilt out of what had been his midsection. He could tell this pleased them; the babies skittered over and around the folds of the misshapen skin while tentacles patted, poked and prodded. There was nothing for him to do but lie there, too weak, too drugged to move, unable to do anything but swallow when and what he was prompted to and wait for infection or blood loss to kill him.
What he didn't expect was to feel his hole being teased and then breached as the whole process began yet again.