When you wake up, he’s gone. Perfect; you hate it when they stick around for breakfast. If you had to feed all the guys you hook up with, you’d have to ask your parents for money twice as often.
You get up and walk across your studio apartment, remembering last night. He was pretty decent, you muse. Strangely quiet, but well-endowed. And he had nice eyes. Dark brown, almost black.
You’re about to open the fridge for some orange juice when you notice a note stuck to the door.
“In all my years, I’ve never slept with anyone as selfish as you. You took what you needed, while barely paying attention to your lover. Well, if touching me is such a chore, then by all means, touch yourself instead. Incidentally, I’ve left you a gift; it’s hidden now, but I’ve no doubt you’ll find it soon.”
“Touch yourself instead”? God, what a creep. You glance around your pigsty of an apartment, but you have no idea where he might have hidden his “gift.” He sounds pissed off… it better not be something disgusting. Oh well, no time to worry about it now. You need to stop by the pharmacy before your shift, so you’d better get moving.
On your way to the bathroom, you take a moment to admire your naked figure in the full-length mirror: you’re five foot three, ninety pounds soaking wet, with a toned stomach and surprisingly perky C-cups. Your long hair is dyed platinum blonde, but with two inches of dark roots. As for your face, your naturally youthful features have always made you seem younger than you actually are, an effect you happily reinforce via regular Brazilian waxes.
Less than an hour later, you’re heading out in one of your typically eclectic outfits: short, fitted unicorn tee you’ve had since middle school, black pleated miniskirt, combat boots, and an oversize army jacket left behind by a previous conquest. You’re going to get a morning after pill, an errand which for you is about as mundane as doing laundry. Yes, you should use proper birth control, but you tend to forget to take it, or lose your pills somewhere, or put off refilling it, and you hate sex with a condom. You just can’t be bothered with prevention – your style is “fuck first, fix later.” Still, after a couple of close calls, you now use a prescription-only morning after pill that’s a bit more reliable than the standard kind. The prescription part used to be a hassle, until you found a doctor who practically hands over his prescription pad in exchange for a blowjob in the examination room. Now, you always have a few in your wallet ready to go.
The drugstore is pretty busy today. You line up at the pharmacy counter with your creased prescription slip. While you wait, you look around and notice a heavily pregnant woman picking up an order at the end of the counter. The pharmacist is explaining something to her, and she’s listening to him while rubbing the bottom of her belly through her stretchy maternity dress. You wrinkle your nose. What is the deal with pregnant ladies and constantly groping themselves in public? Don’t they have any dignity? Ugh. You turn away and reflexively smooth your t-shirt down over your tight stomach, finishing with a self-congratulatory pat.
After dropping off your prescription, you find an empty chair in the waiting area. It’s metal and plastic, with awkward armrests, but you settle in and start mindlessly scrolling through content on your phone. Meanwhile, the fingertips of your unoccupied hand lightly stroke your abdomen through your shirt.
Only a few minutes pass before you feel a sudden wave of nausea. You get up and walk quickly to the back of the store, through a staff-only door and into a small bathroom, where you immediately throw up your Cheerios into the toilet.
Strange – you didn’t drink any more than usual last night, and you felt fine when you woke up. Maybe it’s some bug going around. Whatever it is, you don’t feel much better even after emptying your stomach. You drink some water from the sink and splash some on your face, then step back to look at yourself. Frowning, you turn sideways and lift up your shirt. It almost seems like you’ve put on weight around your midsection. Nothing drastic, but you could swear you’re a few inches thicker at navel height than you were this morning. It looks like the very start of a potbelly. Well, it’s probably just water weight… maybe you’re eating too much salt, and the nausea was related to that.
You still feel shaky, but since the dingy bathroom atmosphere isn’t helping matters, you decide to walk around the store for a bit. Maybe there’s a vitamin or something that can help with your digestion or ward off the flu. You slip a basket over your arm, find the nutritional supplements aisle, and start taking bottles off the shelves to examine the labels. As you concentrate on this, you absently slip your left hand under your shirt and begin caressing your stomach horizontally from hip bone to hip bone; it’s a comforting, almost hypnotic sensation. So much so that even though it would be helpful to use that hand to compare two products or to consult reviews on your phone, the thought of taking your left hand away from its caressing duties doesn’t occur to you.
You browse the entire supplements aisle, dropping a few items into your basket. Before heading for the checkout, you feel the urge to adjust the waistband of your skirt, which feels quite tight. You look down… and the basket clatters to the ground. Not only is your stomach sticking out past your boobs, it doesn’t seem like a normal stomach at all: as you run your hands over it in disbelief, you feel a continuous curve from just below your boobs to just above your crotch. Why would belly fat stretch up to your boobs? What the hell is going on, and how did it get so bad, so quickly?
You’re still uncomfortable, so you tug your skirt down a bit so that the waisband sits right at the start of your belly. The pressure is relieved, but now, the underside of your belly is slightly visible because of your short t-shirt. Exposed abs are one thing, but a belly curve? You’re not walking around like that. You zip up your army jacket and quickly head back to the pharmacy, shopping basket abandoned. Forget your shift: as soon as you get this pill, you’re going straight to the gym.
The pharmacy is even busier than before. You approach the counter and try to catch a pharmacist’s attention, as other customers patiently lining up give you dirty looks and “tsk”s. When you finally make eye contact with one, you start to explain that you’re in a rush, and could your order maybe be hurried along a bit? The pharmacist looks annoyed: “Miss, please sit down and wait for your name to be called.”
There are no empty seats now. You go off to the far end of the waiting area and lean against a wall, feeling stressed. Your stomach looks normal through your baggy army jacket, but you can’t help placing your hands over it, mentally measuring it, estimating how many pounds you’ve gained and how many calories you’ll need to burn to lose them. Just when you think you’ve got it figured out, you have doubts, feel for your bump again, and realize you were being overly optimistic before – it’s clearly bigger than that – so you start over. You must look like a crazy person, furrowing your brow and muttering while pressing and cupping your stomach from different angles.
After giving up on your calculations a third time, you make an exasperated noise and dig out your phone to call in sick. It takes a few rings for your colleague to pick up, and then another minute on hold before your supervisor comes on. You explain that you’re having stomach troubles and that you won’t be coming in. You want to end the conversation, but your supervisor starts sharing her home remedies for indigestion and then tells you all about how she cured her husband’s heartburn. You’re staring at a random product display, not listening, but planning your workout in detail while saying “uh huh” every so often. Finally, she decides to “let you get some rest” and hangs up.
You put away your phone, and only now do you realize that you were rubbing your belly through your jacket with your other hand during that entire conversation. You’ve been doing this quite openly and thoroughly, working away at the entire enlarged area. Jesus, why can’t you keep your hands off yourself today? You force them to hang at your sides, telling yourself that all this rubbing clearly isn’t helping. Besides, you don’t need to feel yourself to know that you’ve somehow gained even more weight while talking to your boss. The jacket is still baggy on your arms, but it’s being pulled forward just enough at the front to make your excess mass detectable, at least if you know to look there.
What the fuck is going on with that pill? It’s never taken this long before, or at least it’s never felt like it. Your stress levels keep rising, and you feel the overwhelming urge to soothe yourself by stroking your bump. You resist as long as you can, but finally, you decide that cupping the bottom with both hands is discreet enough. You place your hands there, fascinated by the springy resistance of the curved form; it really doesn’t feel like fat, does it? It’s incredibly difficult not to move your hands along it, so you concentrate on just moving your thumbs, tracing little circles into the canvas material where it starts to cling to the bump. You’re glad you wore this jacket today, but somehow, you also kind of wish you hadn’t…
“Miss? Would you like to sit down?”
A young man is touching your arm and gesturing to his seat. You almost refuse, but then you realize that it might be easier to disguise your belly if you’re sitting down, so you accept. You’re not sure why he offered you his seat, though – is he hitting on you or something? Apparently not, because he gives a warm smile and walks away. Strange.
You sit down and arrange the jacket so that it hides the curve as much as possible. It actually doesn’t look too bad, although you’ll have to keep your hands away from it to maintain the illusion. The urge to place your hands on or under your bump is intense, but you’re not going to ruin your concealment strategy by doing that, so you clutch your phone in both hands and start Googling aggressively: rapid weight gain, stomach sticking out, long belly boobs to crotch, can’t stop touching belly, belly growing fast why… Most of the search results are about pregnancy, which isn’t helpful at all, since this is happening too quickly to be a pregnancy. A few other possibilities pop up, but they don’t seem to match your symptoms that closely. Or maybe they do… you’re having trouble concentrating on what you’re reading. Your brain feels foggy and easily distracted. It takes most of your attention just to keep both hands on the phone.
You’ve only been sitting for a few minutes, but the hard plastic chair is becoming seriously uncomfortable. Your butt hurts, your thong is cutting into your bikini line, the armrests are hurting your elbows, and your bare thighs are sticking to the chair seat. You sigh and throw your phone back in your purse, trying to squirm your way into a more comfortable position without touching your bump. Your movement slightly disturbs the way you arranged the jacket earlier, so you try to recreate the effect. It looks fine, but… isn’t your belly a bit itchy? Now that you think of it, yes, it does feel quite itchy. Well, there’s nothing weird about a quick scratch in public, when necessary. You look around to make sure no one is looking at you, then quietly unzip the jacket.
Your bump doesn’t seem to have grown much since you sat down, which is a relief. Still, now that the jacket is open, you can see the extent of the problem. It’s almost like some kind of huge watermelon has been inserted vertically under your skin. One half bulges outward, stretching your perfect skin, while the other half presses into your internal organs. Your t-shirt is riding up now, exposing your navel, which you notice is unusually shallow. You’ll have to Google that symptom too. Still eyeing your situation, you begin to scratch the itchy underside and sides of your mass with both hands. The sense of relief is immediate, but you continue scratching yourself all over, even under your shirt, just to make sure the itch is really gone.
You’re considering making yourself stop when you feel movement inside your bump. It surprises you so much that you jerk your hands away. What a weird sensation! It feels like something is… swimming?… inside you. The movement subsides, then starts up again, then stops. You stare at your belly in amazement. Well… you’ve never been fat before, so maybe this is what all fat girls experience all the time. You never would have guessed that fat could move around, but you suppose it’s possible, at least if it’s this weirdly firm kind of fat you’re carrying. You’ll have to ask your trainer about it.
The strange sensation starts up again. You quickly place your hands over your belly, trying to feel the movement from the outside. The cool, taut skin quivers faintly under your fingertips. The vibrations feel incredible, and against your better judgement, you let yourself caress your belly while the movements continue, feeling endorphins spread through your entire body. You close your eyes to concentrate on your hands and their belly-stroking magic.
Then, something truly bizarre happens. You feel a little poke… from the inside of your belly. You gasp and place your hand on that area. There’s no mistaking it: something is pressing against your palm! Just as suddenly, another small shape appears next to it. And then the shapes start to… kick you. That’s the only word that seems right to describe it… kicking. You don’t understand what this means, but it’s a little scary. You want it to stop. You knead the area with the heel of your hand, hoping the kicks will calm down, but they only seem to get more excited under your touch.
You decide to ignore the kicks, but you’re too stressed and scared to stop comforting yourself. You bring your left hand down to your underside and cup it gently as you stroke from side to side, feeling the belly’s density and weight. With your right hand, you can’t help but finger your navel, which, sitting at the furthest and tightest point on your bump, is so stretched it looks like it’s disappearing. You’re not sure why, but you know it needs your attention now. And sure enough, after barely thirty seconds of teasing it with your thumb and index finger, it suddenly inverts with a supremely satisfying pop.
Your fingertips graze your freshly made outie, then tickle their way outward, back in again, then down, then to the side. Your left hand, too, starts to wander more freely, discovering the navel, encouraging it to inflate even more, then circling back to the underside. Closing your eyes and sighing, you let yourself slide forward in your seat and lean back, head resting against the wall, legs spread wide to give your hands better access to your underside, where a hard, round shape presses against your hand. You’re dimly aware that other customers can see up your miniskirt and are probably grossed out by your deformed body, but you can’t bring yourself to care; the kicks are becoming painfully violent, and the only thing you want to do in response is keep restlessly running your hands over your smooth, ever-increasing girth.
The t-shirt finally rides up as far as it can go, tucking itself in just under your boobs. You’re glad you didn’t have to waste a split second doing this yourself, because your hands are just too busy, having to cover more and more surface area. The idea of stopping is now totally inconceivable. The thing inside you gets bigger and stronger by the minute, and you know on some level that you should get up and seek medical attention, but your feverish rubbing feels so good that you’re not too worried about it. The skin on your belly is now so stretched that it’s gone numb to the touch. It’s almost like the enormous mound between your boobs and pussy is no longer a part of you, but is now a master you must keep fondling, no matter what…
Somewhere in the distance, someone calls your name.
Your head jerks up. Right – you came here to get the morning after pill. It seems like a distant concern now, but you don’t need a pregnancy on top of everything else, so you bring your legs together a bit, centre your feet under your knees, and sit up.
Or at least, you try to. Your belly is so full and dense, and its top and bottom curves are so far apart, that it forms an obstacle. Your back bounces back from the sudden resistance, hitting the plastic chair painfully. You try again, more slowly, but find you can’t do much. The top curve of your belly begins right at the bottom of your sternum, pushing your boobs up and out of its way and projecting forward in a dramatically horizontal arc, the large popped navel reaching just past your knees. The bottom curve, meanwhile, is already pressing into your thighs as much as it can; try as you might to bend forward, you can’t compress the belly at all. You try rocking your pelvis forward, hugging your mass, but it’s no use; the laws of physics keep you pinned to your seat. You fall back again and try to catch your breath, but soon gasp as powerful kicks threaten to crack your lower ribs; your energetic movements must have angered the thing that’s been steadily growing inside your bump.
You’re about to lie back and resume your delicious fondling when you hear your name called a second time, and again, you remember why you’re here. The only way out, you realize, is to pull yourself forward with the armrests. This will surely mean worse kicks than ever before, but you have to do it, and it’s now or never. Before you can change your mind, you seize both armrests and, in the same motion, drag your entire body forward until enough of your belly is past the edge of the seat that you can swing it downward. Once you’re able to bend at the waist, you use the armrests to push your ass up and off the chair. Having found your footing, but still bending forward from the belly’s weight, you place both hands at the small of your back. Finally, you slowly straighten your knees, engage your core, and lift.
The extent to which your spine arches backward to accommodate the weight as it shifts takes you by surprise, and you stagger back a bit, nearly falling backwards but managing to stay upright. It isn’t easy, since you now realize your feet are painfully swollen in their tightly-laced boots.
As predicted, you’re treated to furious kicks again, so you stand still for a moment, rubbing the sides of your enormous bump. The foot-shaped indentations that appear with each kick have tripled in size since you last saw them; they’re nearly as long as your palm. Does that mean the rest of what’s in there has tripled in size, too? The thought should horrify you, but doesn’t. Despite your fear, the pain of the kicks, your aching feet, back, hips, everything, you can’t help but moan softly as you firmly stroke your bloated flanks, eventually working your way down past your hips, cupping and massaging your incredibly full underside, then brushing back up the high dome and around your swollen breasts… You could keep doing this forever…
Suddenly, you feel a sharp pressure in your pelvis. You’re so shocked you can’t even react. You begin to rub again… and it happens again, even harder. This time, you let out a small wail as it happens. The pain in your back is worse than anything you’ve ever felt.
You blink back tears, wondering what to do, why this is happening.
You start to panic. Only one thing can calm you down. You place a trembling hand on the dark line stretching down from your navel, and very lightly caress the front of your naked bump…
The pain is beyond excruciating this time. Your knees nearly buckle under you, and your face contorts in pain as you let out a low, bovine moan.
When it ends, you want to rub so bad, but you stop yourself – you’re not sure it’s a good idea. Touching yourself made the pain happen, didn’t it? Your foggy brain tries to understand what’s happening. Yes, it does seem like touching yourself is what caused it. And come to think of it, the more you’ve touched yourself, the more you’ve… the more you’ve gotten…
But I’ve no doubt you’ll find it soon.
It can’t be. Please, God, not that. It has to be something else… obesity, a tumour, anything…
Something hard suddenly grinds against your cervix. You yelp. Without thinking, you press a hand into the side of your belly.
A fourth contraction clenches your pelvis. Your knees buckle, but you manage to fall into the wall and support yourself at the last second. You cry out helplessly as the pain crests, much higher than last time, and then finally subsides.
The same voice calls your name again. Shaking, you look up at the counter.
The morning after pill… if you take it soon enough, it prevents pregnancy.
And this situation is… well, obviously, it can’t be a pregnancy, but it’s similar enough, right? The morning after pill could probably make it go away. It’s actually a pretty crazy coincidence that you came here today of all days.
You should definitely take that pill. Right now.
You push yourself away from the wall and begin to waddle toward the counter, one hand supporting your lower back, the other resting on your aching hip. The short, slow journey to the counter makes you short of breath, but you get there.
“I’m here,” you gasp as you reach the counter. Remembering your manners, you tug the hem of your shirt down your upper curve as far as you can – it barely covers anything, but at least you made an effort.
The pharmacist looks startled. He looks at his computer, then back at you, and repeats your name, unsure.
“Yes, that’s me. I’m here to pick up my morning after pill.”
He still looks skeptical. “Can… can I see some ID, miss?”
You dig through your purse and hand him your driver’s license. He frowns as he hands it back.
“I… I don’t think I can fill this prescription. I’m not sure why you decided to buy it today, but…”
“I got it today because it’s the morning after pill, and today is the morning after,” you say, a note of hysteria tinging your voice. “Can you please just give it to me?”
“I’m sorry, miss, but… I think there’s been a misunderstanding… You’re supposed to take it the day after you—”
“I know how to take it!” you shout. “I’ve taken this pill like fifty times! Just give it to me!”
He takes the paper bag with your name on it and places it securely under the counter. “I’m afraid I can’t let you take this in your condition. I think… I think you may need some rest, miss.”
At this, your last nerve snaps.
“Give me the fucking pill, asshole! I will get you so fucking fired if you don’t—ohh!…”
An audible pop is followed by the sound of water hitting linoleum. It happens so fast that you reach for your belly protectively.
Your fifth contraction is so sharp, and lasts so long, that you nearly pass out. When it’s over, water is still dripping down your skinny legs. Your breathing comes in short gasps.
“Oh my god,” you manage to say, gripping the edge of the counter so as not to slip in your own fluid. “What the fuck…? Look, can you please just give me the pill already, for fuck’s sake!”
“It’s too late, miss,” the pharmacist says kindly. “Your water’s just broken… please, let me drive you to the hospital.” While you’re still panting, he disappears, then returns on your side of the counter and tries to take your arm. You fling it away.
“I don’t want to go to the fucking hospital,” you growl. “Give me my pill.”
He says nothing, but makes another move to grab you.
“No! Stop!” You back away, again clamping a hand on your low-hanging belly.
The sixth contraction is merciless. Blinded by pain, you surrender to raw, animal fear, and before you can even register what’s happening, you feel yourself sink into a squat and push. After what seems like an eternity, you feel the massive head somehow force its way through your underdilated cervix, and then the contraction abruptly stops.
For a brief second, you think you might get some relief, but once your mind clears, you realize that the head is only halfway through your cervix, trapped between your womb and your birth canal. It’s in such an uncomfortable position that your thighs begin to spasm rapidly. You instinctively drop forward onto all fours, numb belly pressing into the ground, and try to shift your cervix around the head by moving your pelvis, but it’s no use – it’s jammed in place. The baby’s thick arms and legs thrash furiously behind it.
Hot tears drop from your eyes as you stare at the floor, moaning in pain between sobs. You continue rocking your pelvis back and forth – it doesn’t help, but stopping hurts more. Only a moment ago, you were at least able to stand… but now, you’re completely helpless. All because you pushed. You can’t believe you pushed. What came over you? You don’t want this. Whatever happens, you can’t push again. You need to end this whole nightmare before it’s too late.
Still trying to shift your hips around the unyielding pressure, you crane your neck up and find the pharmacist’s gaze. He’s standing a few feet in front of you, regarding you with a mix of pity and confusion.
“Hey,” you manage to croak out.
You clear your throat, trying to sound casual. Reasonable. Sweat drips from your pain-twisted face.
“The customer is always right,” you declare. “Th-that pill, it’s—m-mine. I have a prescription, right? You’re supposed to—anh. To give it to me. I need it. Like… now.”
“No more fucking excuses!” you snap. “It’s fucking coming out, okay? That’s your fucking fault! Get me the pill now so that I don’t get pregnant! Hurry the fuck up!”
“Are you deaf? I s-said I need the—need the pill! So go fucking g-g— shhhhh, ohh, god, it hurts…” You feel your desperation rising as the spasms intensify. “Just go get it… please… oh god, please…”
He looks at you for a moment, then turns away. “I’m going to call an ambulance.”
“Nnno… come back!…” You keep vainly rocking your pelvis, crying. People have gathered in the pharmacy waiting area to stare at you, but no one approaches.
The head trapped in your cervix feels hopelessly big. You feel the baby jerk its whole body impatiently, causing waves of pain to surge through you.
You can’t take this anymore.
You need to move the head. Just a little bit. Just until it’s fully inside your birth canal. Then, maybe you’ll be able to get up and find the pill behind the counter.
You’ll need another contraction, and probably some help from gravity. You lift your tear-soaked face and slowly rise to a kneeling position, legs apart, carefully keeping your hands away from your body. Pain flashes down your spine, but you manage to lift your torso up. Your huge belly rises with you. When you’re finally kneeling and stable, you pinch the bottom of your unicorn shirt and tug it back up under your boobs to once again bare your entire mass. As you adjust the shirt, you can’t help but look down and marvel at the sight of your swollen expanse: the impossibly distended skin, thin as air, somehow holding everything in place without bursting; the dense mesh of veins and scars marring your once-flawless skin; the great navel flaring out, round and plump as a poisonous mushroom.
You close your eyes. This will end soon; you just need to take things one step at a time. Just focus on moving the head a few inches, then go get the pill.
Not daring to trigger anything yet, you place one trembling hand just under your belly and the other just above. You take a series of deep breaths. Then you lower both hands, and…
Your caressing unleashes a contraction ten times more powerful than any before it. You howl, wanting to turn back, but your hands only rub faster and harder as the pain builds. You have no control over them; they travel faster and faster over your glorious curve, and the contraction keeps getting stronger and stronger in response.
Time dissolves, and at some point, you realize that you’ve been pushing with all your strength for quite a while. Later, you realize that the head is well past the cervix. You realize that this is the point where you should stop stroking; you realize that you can’t. You realize that your fifteen-pound abomination is dropping further and further down. You realize that you’re orgasming over and over through the pain; you realize that you don’t want this to stop.
The swift movements of your hands over your monstrous, sweaty bulge keep the contraction from cresting. You keep pushing with all your strength even as chills, hot flashes and orgasms rack your body in turn. Somewhere around the contraction’s six-minute mark, you feel your lips start to part. You force yourself to push harder, and you’re suddenly crowning, white-hot pain searing your lips and nearly making you lose your rhythm; you manage to hold on and rub even faster than before, moaning in delirious ecstasy.
The next push tears your labia by several inches, but this only sends you into a wilder frenzy. Another push, more tearing, and the head bursts out, rewarding you with another huge orgasm. You breathe deeply as you rub, then push again. The shoulders resist for a moment, then pop out without warning. You hear gasps from the assembled rubberneckers; the giant head is now dangling below your miniskirt.
You want to reach down and pull it out, but the contraction will stop if you quit rubbing, and nothing could make you stop now anyway. So you give one last push… and the baby pops free, landing on the tiles beneath you along with a gush of fluid.
You’re suddenly exhausted. Your hands stop moving, fall limply to your sides.
Still kneeling, you back up a bit so that you can see the thing writhing beneath you. You reach down slowly and clear the fluid from its airways. It’s a boy. He doesn’t make a sound, but stares up at you with dark brown eyes, almost black.
“Miss, the ambulance is on its way,” calls an approaching voice. “They’re just—oh, Jesus…”
You look up at the pharmacist. Without breaking eye contact, you calmly reach down and grasp the umbilical cord trailing from your bleeding cunt. Then you address him in a hoarse, emotionless tone.
“I’m not done yet… see? It’s not over. Now please, go get me that pill.”
After a moment, the pharmacist slowly nods.
“All right, miss,” he says, very gently. “I’ll… I’ll be right back.”
As he heads back behind the counter, you finally allow yourself to sit down. The baby begins to fuss, so you hoist him up to your breast. As soon as he sees your nipple, he begins sucking greedily, grasping your flesh in his strong fists to pull himself closer. His sharp fingernails make you wince, but you’re too tired to fight back.
The pharmacist comes back into view, paper bag in hand. You gaze up at him in relief.
“Thank you,” you say, smiling weakly. “I’m so glad it’s not too late.”
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