I received this amazing message from a follower, and I wrote up a long reply, but no matter how many times I try to post it, it gets auto-censored. So I'm trying this instead:
I've been never been jealous and proud at the same time before until reading this ask: jealous because I'm not ever going to be the man lucky enough to find you in those bars you frequent, but also proud because you are that special woman pushing through every stop sign that society and conventional wisdom throws at you on your quest to reach the fulfilment that your body craves.
There are a lot of women out there who want to be bred, to experience the growth and the gentle fullness and the utter satisfaction, and you are one of those--but you're also different, and special. You're also a huntress on the prowl looking to find and take exactly what you want.
I'm imagining you walking into one of those bars and lots of male eyes turning your way. You're wearing something classy and seductive but not slutty, because as desperate as you are to be meet the curvier, knocked up you, you are absolutely not going to allow yourself to be impregnated by just anyone.
For your first couple of drinks you probably sit alone at the bar, your eyes and ears scanning the crowd for the most eligible candidates to seed the egg that is currently in prime position inside your uterus. One man with close-cropped hair is positively chiseled, but you can tell from his loud and obnoxious conversation that he's lacking far too much in the brains department to be deserving of you as the mother of his child. There's a well-groomed middle-aged man in a fancy suit making eyes at you, but he hasn't even bothered to take off his wedding ring while he's blatantly hitting on anyone with a vagina. No thanks.
At last you spot your prey: he's maybe 30, with good hair, wearing a simple but well-fitting black t-shirt and jeans. He's in a group that appears to be co-workers, and they aren't being too obnoxious, and there are a few women in the group but none of them look uncomfortable around him. So far, so good. You make your move when he wanders off to the bar for a refill, sidling yourself right up against him while he's waiting to place his order with the bartender. You're shorter than him, and from the angle you're both in he can easily see down your shirt to the swollen, slightly oversized pair of breasts that your frequent pumping has blessed you with. When his eyes linger on your tits even longer than the usual male response calls for, you smile and lick your lips.
He's about four drinks in, same as you, and nobody notices or complains when you pull him off to a booth in the corner. Even when tipsy he maintains his quiet, respectful manners, not once daring to touch you even though his eyes lost the ability to stare at anything other than your chest a good 20 minutes ago. And up close, those shoulders of his are even broader than they'd looked.
You once again smile that huntress' smile, because you've got him exactly where you want him. Slowly, naturally, and inconspicuously, you slide a hand down your own dress, the movement of your breast being squeezed visible through the clingy fabric. A moment later it returns with a single white drop that you place on your own lounge. While his eyes bulge, you get up from the table and walk past him to the bathroom.
"If you want your own taste, follow me in 1 minute," you whisper into his ears.
Inside that single-person bathroom, it's a long and heart-pounding minute. As confident and seductive as you looked--and were--there's always a chance he could run for the hills. But, almost exactly 60 seconds later, the door opens and he slides in, locking it behind him. He goes in for a kiss and you plant a hand in his chest. For a brief moment he looks confused and terrified, at which point you smirk again and yank off your dress over your head. Your right hand goes to your right breast and you express a tiny stream of milk, and that's all the guidance you need.
You've been inducing and pumping for a year now, and while you have an impressive supply (and amount of growth) for a woman who's never been pregnant, realistically you only have enough supply for him to suck for a minute or two. Soon--hopefully tonight--the process will begin to turn your tits into huge, swollen, legitimate mommy milkers, the kind that makes so much it can fill a man's stomach if he's lucky and drown him if he's not careful.
You potential (future?) baby daddy is sucking ravenously and you're nearing the end of your supply on your right side. Quickly, forcefully, you yank that tit out of your mouth and force the left one in, and he doesn't miss a beat. Your ability to lactate is the parlor trick that gets them in the door, but now it's time for that champion pussy of yours to finish things up.
While he squeezes and feeds from your breasts with both hands and his mouth, you expertly yank down your panties with one hand and then get to work unbuttoning his jeans. You find that he's been hiding a rather perfectly sized cock, which is delighting but not surprising (the quiet ones always seemed to have good dicks, you've learned). In one quick and practiced move you pull away from him and lead him by the hand to the toilet, where you gently shove him onto the seat. Next you are turning and straddling him, preparing to lower yourself down on that eager cock, when you feel him resisting.
"Condom?" he gurgles, some of your milk spilling out of his mouth. He even makes a gesture towards the wallet in his jeans pocket. A bolt travels from your heart to your cunt: you really did pick a winner with this one.
"I don't need them," is your expertly crafted reply, and it clearly works.
The dominant and submissive are always vying for supremacy inside you, but in this moment they at last have a shared goal. The submissive side wants you to give in to your urges, to give up control of your body to a higher purpose, to literally become more womanly. The dominant side wants to be upgraded to the most powerful, sexy version of yourself, to be the center of attention as the roundest, curviest woman anyone has ever met, and is going to yank every single drop of cum from this man's body in order to make that dream a reality.
You ride him hard, standing up and dropping yourself back down on him with real force. The man matches your tempo and makes no effort to change it, with his deference making your nipples throb. He does show some initiative when he moves his hands from your hips to your tits and starts to inexpertly squeeze your swollen tits. Your muffled shriek and the subsequent spray make him feel rewarded.
After a couple of minutes you sense that he's getting close; by now you've done this with enough men to know. That's fine with you, because the goal here was not sex, or even getting fucked, but rather to be bred. Him cumming in your quickly just meant that you would now have more time to head to another bar, have a few more drinks, and find another sperm donor to double your conception chances.
But this time, something new and wonderful happens. From your position on the toilet you can see yourself in the mirror, and while your legs and core are burning from the exertion of fucking this man dry, your mind is wandering. Now in the mirror you see a different you, the version of you that you've always longed to be, the woman who is just one small spurt of cum away from you becoming. That you in the mirror is at her most gravid, 9-month size, a full 60 extra pounds of tits and ass and hips and baby bump added to your frame. Instead of bouncing violently, that version of you slowly jiggles, your enormous bump slapping heavily against thickened thighs while your vast tits (triple their current size) slap heavily against the vast bump.
It's that vision of yourself (or is it a prediction?) that does it, and surprisingly find yourself being with a crashing orgasm just as your nameless lover's own arrives. The sensation of hot wetness filling you is not new at this point, but each time it still feels like the greatest thing a woman can accomplish (until she gets to turn it into a baby). Maybe it's because you were lost in your own orgasm and couldn't count as well as you normally could, but it seems like he pumped a lot more cum into you than the usual guy.
When you get off him you immediately plug one hand into your cunt, but you laugh it off like you don't want to make the bathroom any harder to clean. He puts his clothes back on, and you tell him that you'll join him in a few minutes, after you clean up a bit. You know that he's the type of guy who will wait at the booth for the rest of the night for her to reappear, and it's precisely because he's that kind of guy that you're going to slip out the kitchen exit. Besides, you need to get home as soon as possible and get those legs of yours elevated, because this kind of quality sperm shouldn't be allowed to go to waste.
For him, you are always going to be a crazy, unforgettable story, maybe even a story he one day tells his wife. For you, you hope he's the seed good enough for your egg that you've been seeking. As you ride home in the cab, your legs eagerly squeezed together in an attempt to hold in as much cum as possible, you start to feel a faint warmth in your abdomen. Of course it would be sore muscles or heartburn, but you've read far too many stories from other women to believe it's one of those. In your heart of hearts, you know that at this exact moment, you are being impregnated.
The only downside, you think as idly stroke a stomach that may already be starting to grow, is that you'll have to stay away from that particular bar for at least the next 9 months.
Good luck, Ms. Anon. And if you feel like it, be sure to send me your own before and after photos so I can share them to inspire all my other female readers who want to be just like you.
