I feel great, pregnancy is perfect for me, 8 months along, a big baby, and I'm still studying and working as always! I'm a little heavier, but that's normal, all my clothes don't fit anymore hahaha.
Me siento optimo, el embarazo esta hecho para mi, 8 meses, un bebe grande y sigo estudiando y trabajando como siempre! Estoy un poquito mas gordo pero es normal, no me entra toda mi ropa hahaha.
I look at you like this because you don't understand that I'm 9 months and 2 weeks pregnant. I can't clean, cook, and take care of you all at the same time. Please understand. When you're rough with me, my back hurts all day.
Te miro así porque no entiendes que estoy embarazado de 9 meses y 2 semanas pasado, no puedo limpiar, cocinar y además atenderte, entiéndeme por favor. Cuando me das muy duro tengo dolor de espalda todo el día.
Julián’s body, transformed into an altar of excess, had become a battlefield where life and toxicity danced in an agonizing choreography. Each craft beer that paraded down his throat was not merely a drink, but a slow architecture of his own perdition. Under the influence of alcohol, his metabolism had fractured: his abdomen, distended and heavy with artificial weight, not only housed the little one but swelled with an unwholesome roundness—a bloating that stretched his skin to cruel limits, turning him into a caricature of a gestation he himself was sabotaging.
Julián observed himself in the mirror with a lucidity that pained him, watching how his features lost their harmony; his face, marked by fluid retention and perpetual fatigue, looked swollen and bore a waxy pallor that contrasted with the unnatural turgidity of his belly. There was a dark sensuality in that decadence: the way his body denied health while he, with a magnetic negligence, caressed his own ruin.
The toxic stagnation: The accumulation of fluids not only disfigured his silhouette, rendering him heavier and more vulnerable, but created an environment of constant pressure within his womb, slowly suffocating the vital space the fetus needed to grow.
The aesthetics of collapse: The swelling of his face and extremities was the physical signal of an organism unable to filter the poison he consumed, turning his skin into a canvas of exhaustion where every pore exuded the malnutrition and systemic stress to which he subjected them both.
This forced corpulence, this excess volume provoked by his own obstinacy, became his prison. Julián was, at once, the executioner and the victim of a corrupt beauty; as he consumed himself in that toxic lethargy, the baby, trapped in a matrix that had become an incompatible and hostile environment, languished until the absolute silence, after hours of struggle, confirmed that the refuge he had "nourished" with his excesses no longer held life. The tragedy was not only the loss of the baby, but the final realization that Julián had buried the possibility of that encounter under layers of a decadence that he himself, with every sip, had decided to sculpt.
We were perfectly fine with just the one baby, but my fool of a boyfriend got me pregnant again. He’s over the moon—he absolutely adores children and is a spectacular father—but, of course, I’m the one carrying them. And he’s incredibly fertile; he managed to plant two this time.
Next week, I enter the third trimester, and I suspect his joy might be tempered when the doctor lays down the law: no more intimacy for us. It’s a high-risk pregnancy, and we have to be extremely cautious. But look at him—he’s a total powerhouse, radiating this intense, insatiable pride at having knocked me up yet again. Tomorrow is his birthday, so I promised I’d squeeze into that jockstrap he loves so much. Honestly, I’m not even sure it’ll fit anymore; my backside has grown so much lately, and with the way my body is rounding out, it’s going to be a tight, delicious struggle.
Con un bebé solo estábamos perfectamente, pero el tonto de mi novio me volvió a embarazar. El está feliz, ama los bebés y es un gran padre, pero el que se embaraza soy yo. Encima es súper fértil, me metió 2 esta vez. La semana que viene entro en el tercer trimestre, ahí no va a estar tan feliz cuando el doctor le diga que ya no vamos a poder tener relaciones, es un embarazo de riesgo y hay que tener cuidado. Igual miren lo que es, una bomba, super orgulloso de haberme preñado nuevamente, mañana es su cumpleaños así que le prometí ponerme el jockstrap que le gusta, no sé si me va a entrar mi cola creció mucho.
I woke up with my abdomen swollen and hard, like the twins had pulled an insane growth spurt overnight. At 22, the difference from just a week ago was ridiculous; my skin was tight, and my core muscles felt stretched to the absolute limit.
When I got up, my boyfriend—the coach—looked me up and down, dead-set on stopping me.
"You’re huge. You can't play, you're gonna snap," he blurted out, staring at my stomach with that mix of anxiety and control.
I didn't bother arguing with words. I pressed myself against him, driving my belly into his hip, feeling my still-defined abs tighten under his touch. I grabbed his hand and forced it down, dragging it across the hard, hot curve of my stomach so he could feel the firmness for himself. I whispered right in his ear, using my body as my only leverage. He went completely speechless when he felt that heat and the pressure of my skin against his. He dropped his guard, totally surrendering.
On the pitch, the ache low in my stomach was constant—a dull throb that spiked with every sprint. But I didn't stop. I scored two goals, moving with that raw power I'm known for, ignoring how heavy and stretched my body felt. By the time I finished, my jersey was glued to me with sweat, outlining every single ripple of my abs and the disproportional roundness of my belly.
Now, off the field, the pain is sharp and stinging. I’m touching the area, feeling my muscles trying to pull themselves back together while the swelling just drains me. I’m absolutely spent, pushed to the brink, needing him to take care of what’s left of me after those 90 minutes.
Me desperté con el abdomen hinchado, duro, como si los gemelos hubieran pegado un estirón salvaje durante la noche. A mis 22 años, el cambio de hace una semana a hoy era ridículo; la piel me tiraba y los músculos de la panza estaban estirados al límite.
Cuando me levanté, mi novio —el técnico— me miró de arriba abajo, frenándome en seco.
—Estás enorme. No podés jugar, te vas a romper —soltó, mirándome la panza con esa mezcla de ansiedad y control.
No le discutí con palabras. Me pegué a él, presionando mi vientre contra su cadera, sintiendo cómo mis músculos abdominales, todavía marcados, se tensaban bajo su tacto. Le tomé la mano y la obligué a bajar, deslizándola por la curva tensa de mi panza hasta sentir el calor y la firmeza de la piel. Le susurré cerca de la oreja, usando el cuerpo como única herramienta de persuasión. Se quedó sin argumentos cuando sintió la presión y el calor de mi piel contra la suya. Aflojó la guardia, rendido.
En la cancha, el dolor abajo en la panza era constante, un latido sordo que se intensificaba con cada pique. Pero no paré. Metí dos goles, moviéndome con esa fuerza bruta que me caracteriza, ignorando cómo mi cuerpo pesaba y se estiraba. Al terminar, la camiseta estaba pegada por el sudor, marcando cada relieve de mis abdominales y la redondez desproporcionada de la panza.
Ahora, fuera del juego, el dolor es punzante. Me toco la zona, sintiendo cómo los músculos intentan volver a su lugar mientras la hinchazón me vence. Estoy fundido, con el cuerpo al límite, necesitando que él se haga cargo de lo que quedó de mí después de los 90 minutos.
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