MPREG for Lily
Okay, so, I don’t read MPREG. I have no idea what constitutes proper MPREG. I apologize to MPREG writers everywhere for my unintended gaffs in this genre. But Lily needs an MPREG examination, so she will get one.

Lily, prepare for an episode in which:

 

Aragorn Finds Nothing Wrong

 

“Aragorn, nothing is wrong with me!”

Aragorn glowered. “We can’t know that, unless you let me examine you.”

Looking younger than his years in his flimsy gown, Frodo crossed his arms, a little higher than usual because of the budding bulge in his belly. “You never believe me.” Frodo tipped his face towards Aragorn, the candlelight falling across that magical blend of softness and angles that resulted in (to Aragorn’s eyes) indescribable beauty. Aragorn felt a familiar stirring, despite the fact that Frodo himself appeared to be feeling rather clinical. The hobbit enumerated his various points emphatically. “I am making excellent progress. My appetite is excellent. My energy is excellent. Even my complexion is excellent. Aragorn, there is not a thing wrong with me!”

In answer, Aragorn patted the bed bedside him. “Up.”

Frodo glared at Aragorn. Then, grumbling, he clambered onto the bed. His condition was not so advanced as to make the maneuver impossible, but Aragorn felt he had better reduce the risk of a possible fall by placing a protective hand on the hobbit’s pert bottom. He had intended merely to give his reluctant patient a boost. But with the material so thin, and with it molded so snugly to such a perfectly shaped posterior, that Aragorn couldn’t resist giving the fleshy mound just a little grope – all in perfect taste, of course.

Frodo jounced onto the bed, and then gave his would-be examiner a wry look over his shoulder. He let himself collapse onto his side, then propped his curly head with a hand, and leveled a look at Aragorn across his hip. “Is it customary for a doctor to manhandle his patients so, as if he was tossing a sack of grain onto a cart?”

“Oh, no.” Aragorn crawled onto the bed. “If I were tossing a sack of grain onto a cart, it would have to be much better wrapped.” Aragorn slid his hand from Frodo’s knee to his thigh, pushing the skimpy cloth towards the hobbit’s hips. “This grain sack appears imperfectly sealed, to me.”

“Hmm.” Frodo smiled. “Are you trying to tell me that something is not perfect about me?”

Aragorn kissed his thigh. “Let us see.”

With firm but gentle pressure, Aragorn pushed Frodo against the pillows. Frodo smothered a giggle, and focused on the ceiling.

“Hmm.” Aragorn nibbled up the inside of Frodo’s thigh, whilst his hands continued to work the simple gown higher over Frodo’s hips. “Breathing seems a bit elevated. Heart rate, too.”

Frodo licked his lips. “I’m sure it’s all within normal levels.”

“Excellent levels, don’t you mean?” Aragorn’s hands positioned the gown over Frodo’s belly above the bulge. Aragorn kept his eyes shut, nibbling the soft skin of the inner thigh. A pleasant heat warmed his left cheek, though he did not turn to address it yet. He situated himself more comfortably upon the bed, and brought up his left hand to nudge the other thigh. “Legs open, please,” he murmured.

He felt a distinct quiver, as Frodo eased his legs apart. Aragorn caressed the inside of the left leg with his palm, and continued nuzzling the right with his lips. As his lips approached the juncture of hip and thigh, Frodo twitched. Aragorn mumbled against his skin, “How long have you been experiencing these spasms?”

“Oh…” Twitch. “Not long.” More frantic breaths. “A few months. Minutes, I mean.”

“Which is it?” Aragorn moved his lips from the thigh over Frodo’s hip, avoiding the pillar of heat that radiated against his skin. Eyes still closed, he let his lips wander over the smooth skin that bulged over the hobbit’s belly. He planted a kiss. “Is it months?” Another kiss. “Or minutes?”

“Er, minutes I think. Yes, decidedly minutes.” The hobbit moved restlessly, bouncing evidence of his interest in this examination repeatedly into Aragorn’s neck.

Aragorn smiled, but did not relent. Continuing to kiss with his eyes closed, he swept his hands over Frodo’s belly. He rested them there, palms flat and fingers splayed. “Breathe,” he said.

Frodo did the best he could, but the breath was definitely sketchy, interrupted midway by a hitch, and cut short by the need for more bouncing.

Aragorn’s fingers pressed gently against the firm globe beneath the skin. “Again,” he whispered, his lips touching the skin.

The second breath was a repeat of the first, followed by what could only be called wiggling. Aragorn stroked the burgeoning belly, glorying in the tangible evidence of his love.

“I see nothing extraordinary here, save that you seem to have partaken of an excellent dinner.”

“Oh, yes. Quite excellent,” Frodo babbled.

Aragorn’s right hand descended – again bypassing the obstacle that Frodo was trying desperately to place in his path. It brushed the tender sac, now pulled close to Frodo’s body, making him flinch. Gently, slowly, Aragorn reached below.

Some days ago, a slit had begun to form in the swollen bulb. Now Frodo shuddered when Aragorn touched it. So sensitive. Aragorn brought his fingers to his lips and thoroughly wet them, then returned to the spot. Gently, he eased a finger inside.

“Aragorn!” Frodo arched against him, his face contorted. But the buck in his hips told Aragorn that the movement, while urgent, indicated nothing unpleasant. On the contrary, Frodo rocked insistently against him. Aragorn let Frodo drive the movement, holding his fingers steady so that, with each bounce of Frodo’s hips, they eased farther and farther in. This was deeper than he had ever gone before; the passage was certainly progressing. At another urgent thrust of Frodo’s, his fingers passed entirely through the sensation-fired tissue of the penile organ, and plunged into moist heat beyond.

“Aragorn!” Frodo writhed beneath him. “Oh, Aragorn! What are you … I’ve never felt – Don’t stop doing it!”

Keeping his fingertip in contact with the interior volcano, Aragorn flared the rest of his fingers, so they pressed along the inflamed tissues that comprised the sides of this developing passage. His own member grew painfully tight, as he imagined what it might feel like to be stimulated inside his erect organ, as well as along the exterior.

Ah yes, the exterior. Aragorn dipped his head, sought with his lips – and found. In moments that delightful firmness was inside him, all plump and needy and already tasting pungently of seed. Frodo bellowed at the contact; his arms flung wide, hands grasping at the counterpane. Aragorn suckled luxuriously, never ceasing the jiggling stimulation with his right hand. He could feel what it was doing to Frodo; the vibrations were transferred to the organ in his mouth, stimulating it from base to tip, inside and out, as his tongue swept round and round its lovely length, and his middle finger pressed into a molten heat that he had never felt before. In time, would the passage be deep enough? Would Aragorn be privileged to experience the delicious intimacy of his partner, in yet another way?

With a scream and a shudder, Frodo spurted into his mouth. Aragorn swallowed quickly, thoroughly, thoughtfully – delighted to caress and clean and soothe this thing which brought such pleasure to his dear love – and which caused Aragorn no small amount of satisfaction in return.

Frodo subsided. Aragorn embraced him with a lingering tongue, then gently raised his head. The hobbit lay splayed upon his back, eyes shut tight. Candlelight played across his exquisite features, shining on the gloss of his parted lips, limning the sheer cloth on his chest as it rose and fell with his rapid breathing. Gently Aragorn slid his fingers from the newly formed orifice. He wanted to climb higher and fold Frodo into his arms – but not just yet. Just now, Aragorn drank in the sight of him, lying sated before him like some voyeur’s dream.

Those unearthly eyes cracked open. A large-pupiled eye rotated beneath the lowered lashes, fixing on Aragorn’s face. His breathing slowed, though he still jerked sporadically, between starved breaths.

“Well, you are certainly making progress,” said Aragorn. “Pardon me: excellent progress.”

“Ungh blugh,” said Frodo.

“On the other hand,” Aragorn kissed Frodo’s belly again, “this grain sack is indeed faulty. It let a sizable quantity of seed escape just now, unless I am much mistaken.”

“Guh,” Frodo panted. “Good … sack.”

Aragorn did slide up the bed then, and cuddled Frodo in his arms. He kissed his damp forehead. “I am forced to admit that I am rather fond of it myself. You see, I, too, Frodo, have an excellent appetite.”