It's been a while but like can I say that I CANNOT FUCKING STAND the tumblr update. I couldn't stand it ever since they did it where I click on a fucking notification and I can't scroll through someones blog afterwards. WHY ONLY SHOW ME ONE FUCKING POST!!!! I hate it I hate it I hate it. FUCK.
Iâm not usually into hucow or similar scenarios but your work has really scratched an itch on my brain ngl-
Saw the last ask mentioned the forced preg hucow boy one, and it got me thinking of another punishment, perhaps for a different rebellious boy or AU, idk? No need to write or draw anything off this of course, I just wanted to share. I love your work, please keep at it! <3
Though my bad if I got carried away a little, I just wanted to share an idea but I often end up kinda- getting in the zone fjjdjfk
-
To teach this rebellious hucow boy a lesson, instead of bull like you were planning to, you decide to use moose semen instead. Moose often give birth to twins, rarely triplets, and their calves average up to 35 pounds, though a singleton can reach up to 45. It all depends on the female mooseâs, the cowâs, diet, and of course, in your farm, your livestock is fed only the highest quality foods, so he just like itâd happen in the wilds, he gets pregnant with twins. You only get the best quality boys, and combined with your care, those calves end up weighing that impressive 45 each, hell, maybe even more in the end. In another farm, maybe he would have made great breeding stock⊠But here, this is his punishment.
You never tell him heâs pregnant with a mooseâs brood of course. For those eight months, you make him believe he is carrying 80 pounds of common cow calf. His qrotesque, bloated womb certainly looks the part, pinning him down with its weight, keeping him from even standing up. And it being his first pregnancy, you can easily tell him all the kicking heâs feeling is commonplace for heavy calves. His body unwillingly feeds your lies, as its not as his hucow womb, made to be bred by bull, doesnât know the calves within him arenât that. So you get to milk his engorged, heavy breasts all the same.
Heâs broken and pleading already when heâs barely pushed once or twice, trying to force the first of the calves through his frail hips. But you know you the peak of your pleasure will be, hours, days laterâŠ. When he finally realizes the lies you forced within his womb, and that he now has to push out a twin he saved no strength for; a twin somehow heavier than the first, grown impatient from being denied its entry onto the world. But all the boy can do is push, weakly, through overstretched, tortured, hips⊠Somehow still too small, forced to part again for the gargantuan calf being shoved through. His body, no matter how exhausted, will refuse him rest, until heâs pushed out all the life you forced into his womb.
He never had a choice. He learned that way too late.
But you know, as he screams, as his pussyâs lips burn, opening, breached by the emerging, twin calfâs head muzzle, every inch of his insides to his womb stretching with the rest of its head and body, soon to follow⊠That heâll never defy you again.
(the forced preg hucow boy one (graphic creature birth art warning))
Oh this goes crazy anon. And donât worry about getting carried away cause I uhhhh well this made me insane (positive) đ”âđ«
It would easily take him at least 48 hours to birth the first calf. He keeps falling into the trap of pushing too hard and exhausting himself, being tormented by long periods of no progress as he struggles to re-gather his strength, then pushing with all heâs got and starting the cycle over againâŠ
The best part is, as you watch him struggleâinstinctively trying (and failing) to close his legs around the painful bulge, only to snatch his own thighs and pry his legs apart moments later, turning purple as he tries to pushâyou know he fully believes heâs pushing out an 80lb calf, with no clue that heâs only birthing about half that. He doesnât believe itâs possible to struggle herder than this, that his hips could ever get any wider, that his hole could ever withstand more.
And you see your cruelest desires fulfilled as the first calf finally crowns, its skull and knees forcing his body open, and you identify it as the smaller of the two. You hadnât shared the results of his ultrasounds with him, of course, but you estimate this smaller calf to be a healthy 45lbs.
He screams about how heâs going to tear as he struggles around the crown, pussy lips spasming futilely, his face blotched with red. You give him a jovial slap on his little boy clitârelishing how his full-body flinch makes the calf heave forward then back into his holeâand tell him he only has himself to blame for this.
He tries to push out the head for another hour before collapsing into the hay, heaving for breath and groaning through brutal contractions. Itâs an intoxicating sight, his massive udders bouncing gently as they rise and fall around the unsightly mass of his huge breeder belly. In thin, shaking tones, he babbles apologies and begs you to just pull the calf out.
Instead, you tell him that itâs after midnight and youâre not about to put in any more overtime. You tell him heâd better be done pushing out his punishment by the time you get back, and step out of the stables to get some shuteye. Outside, you recline in your hammock, your wide brim hat tipped down, and your hand idly slips into your jeans to tend to the arousal thatâs been simmering since his labor began.
You wake when dawn begins to slip in pink ribbons over the high fences on your property. While blinking the sleep out of your eyes, you hear a low, animal groan warbling from the stable, and grin in anticipation. Your other hucow boys gather around the stable with worried faces, some of them nervously rubbing the pregnant bellies you gave them, while others ask, timid but desperate, for your helpâ on their hands and knees, their engorged breasts hang so heavy below them that their needy teats brush the dirt and make them wince. As much as youâd like to settle in to milk them, maybe suckle a bit for yourself, you tell them youâre busy and theyâll need to wait for the farmhands to arrive.
To your astonishment, your naughty boy still hasnât even pushed out the first calf. He managed to get the head and shoulders out at least, but itâs so big that it wonât be slipping out of its own accord, like offspring usually would after the widest point. He seems to have gotten stuck on the hips, his trembling legs sprawled open, pussy a raw maroon around it. His heavy eyes and drooling mouth make you wonder if he was trying to get some sleep, himself, but at the sound of your boots, he jerks to attention.
Before you can say anything, he starts panting that heâs sorry, and you watch as he desperately throws his whole body into a grunting, shaking push. The hips lurch out of him, and he jolts in pain, legs twitching as the calf flops between them. You drag its hind hooves out of him and heft the gangly creature into your arms.
You force him to look at it. The proof that his womb is your property to use as you please, that you control what grows inside of it, that heâs nothing more than an incubator to you. Heâs so dazed that youâre not even sure he realizes it isnât cattle. Heâs already learning that it doesnât matter whatâs growing inside him, just that he does his job and spreads his legs whether itâs going in or out.
You cut the cord and pass the calf off to one of the farmhands whoâs begun to trickle in for the work day. By the time you join your naughty boy again, heâs clutching his misshapen belly and wincing as it tightens. He mumbles that he still feels heavy, and you just smile at him, waiting for the realization. In the mean time, you pull a pair of flanges down from the ceiling and affix them to his puffy teats. You enjoy his raspy, needy moos as his taut, veiny udders begin to release spurts of thick milk.
Stupid thing that he is, it isnât until he finds himself bearing down again that he realizes his punishment isnât over. His eyes fly wide, the milking tubes wobbling as his chest begins to jump with panic. He bargains fruitlessly, his delirious ânoâs making you rest a hand on your crotch, tempted to please yourself right here and now. Instead, you pull on a glove and plunge your hand inside his gaping birth canal. You ignore his whimpers of discomfort, focused instead on the hoof-tips you find splitting his cervix. You tell him the rest of his punishment is on its way, and he starts to weep pitifully.
Heâs so cute as he idiotically tries to push, like heâs already forgotten how much more effort heâll need later in the birth. He uses what little remaining energy he has on a few pathetic, useless pushes, and then succumbs to hopelessness and goes limp.
With a roll of your eyes, you call in a farmhand to help you haul the still-hugely-pregnant hucow off the floor. You drape him against the chest-high fence separating this stall from the one next door, and tell the farmhand to grab some rope. You get him nicely set up, with his belly drooping below him, his tits hanging with the pumps still attached, and his quivering pussy nice and visible. A contraction hits him, and you appreciate the way you can see his belly lift and tighten from behind, and the abused red muscle clench inside his loose cunt, and tendons appearing near the base of his tail as it lifts instinctively.
When you have the rope in hand, you begin to bind him to the slats of the fence. He shakes his head and pleads with you weekly, but you ignore him as you work. After a few deft minutes of looping rope around limbs and wood, you finish tying off an impressive series of knots that keep him bent at the knees and waist, a partial squat with just enough range for him to rock his hips backwards. He groans at the weight of his contracting gut as it pulls on his back. You give him a nice smack on his cunt and tell him he should be thanking you for setting him up to be aided by gravity. Heâll need all the help he can get with this one.
In a small voice, he asks you how big the one he already birthed was, and you proudly tell him it was 45lbs. And this next one? he asks. You grin. 50lbs. He makes a thick, senseless noise of despair and hangs his head. You tell him not to be so dramatic.
To his credit, the little breeder tries to push. He even tries really hard, sometimes. But he makes no progress. For days, the hooves poke grotesquely out of his pussy while the head remains heavy in his pelvis, the muzzle of the beast peeking through his cramping cervix, bobbing with his contractions but making no progress. His hips simply arenât wide enough. Even though theyâre noticeably wider now than they were even just before his labor began, they still have further to spread before the larger twin will fit through. He can do nothing but wait, body limp with despair as his muscles try to pry his skeleton beyond its natural limits. You make him useful, at least, and keep the pumps on his bulbous, sagging udders.
For five days, he labors on the second calf. You leave his stall door open and take special care to have your new purchases lead by so that they can all see what will happen to them if they step out of line. Your fresh hucow boys walk away from the sight looking haunted, flinching as they hear the broken groans of a naughty breeder echoing after them.
Youâre a caring farmer, so you hand-feed him, and care for his waste and his cleaning, yourself. Twice a day you soap him down in cool water, washing layers of panicked sweat from his laboring body, paying special attention to the delicately stretched flesh of his belly and the splay of his pussy. At first, his body keeps his birth canal nice and wet, naturally lubricating it for the birth, but as the days go on and his gaping hole remains exposed to the open air, he starts to dry up. So you take it upon yourself to push your fingers in around the legs of the calfâignoring his whimpers and yelpsâand coat his insides in industrial livestock lube. You make sure to get his pussy lips too, tracing your fingers liberally around his labia and even his swollen boyclit.
Youâre in the process of rinsing him off after a good scrubbing when a contraction comes, and instead of the lifeless moan of almost-numb pain youâve gotten used to, he whips his head up and wails, then releases a threadbare laugh. It moved, he starts to whisper, he felt it move down. You step back and survey his hips, finding the jut of his hipbones so extreme that you bet he wonât ever walk the same.
His horribly overdue belly, a deep purple from pressure and broken veins, tightens suddenly much harder than it has been, and the boy wheezes a low noise and his head drops down as he pushes for the first time in days. The atrophied muscles in his back shake, and his tail quivers as it struggles to lift. You push your fingers inside him, and feel the knees sink ever so slightly down. Barley any progress, but itâs something. He starts to whimper about his back, that it hurts, it hurts so bad, but you ignore him.
On his next push, you jam your hands against the tops of his hips, a counter-pressure technique that you read about. His deep, rumbling pushing sound spikes with a startled yelp as the calf surges down, and you laugh in triumph as you see the calfâs lower front legs dangling from his pussy. Shoving your hand inside him, you wriggle your fingers up and feel around. The muzzle is almost through his cervix.
With the help of your counter-pressure, his shaking, desperate pushes manage to ever so slowly move the calf forward. Distantly youâre aware that a naughty cow like him doesnât deserve the help, but youâre tired of dealing with this birth. Who knows how much longer it would take with just his meager pushing.
His grunting grows louder and wilder as the head fills his cervix. The legs dangle out of his pussy, and his cunt lips are just starting to spread for the muzzle. For three hours, you stay with him and push on his hips, feeling yourself pry them wide each time, watching your livestock come a bit further out. Your hands get tired around the time he crowns, so you take a break to stretch them, ignoring his shrieks and pleading as his useless cunt spasms around the gargantuan head and large, knobby knees. You see his face turning purple as he struggles to push without you.
Enjoying his desperation, you decide to save this moment, and take out your phone. What you intend to be a quick video ends up being forty minutes of pleading breeder boy, rising to hysterics with the pain of punishment burning his hole wide. For the camera, you trace your fingertips around the impossibly splayed gape of his lips, gently caressing his bulging asshole, one wrong move from prolapsing, and his clit stretched so tight against his pubic bone that he sobs in pain at the slightest brush. You command him to push, and watch his ears quiver and enjoy his pathetic straining whines as he fails to move the head at all.
When youâve had your fun, you reluctantly return to helping him. But even with your expert hands opening him more, heâs barely wide enough. He claims to be pushing as hard as he can, but you accuse him of being lazy. He sobs that it hurts, nothing has ever hurt this bad, he just wants it out of him, heâs doing everything he can! Heâs sorry, heâs so sorryâŠ
You tell him to shut up and push.
With your hands mercilessly angling his hips apart and his whole body bulging with tendons, he slowly moves the crown forward. The boxy head of the creature creates a delicious plateau of width, a crown that spans nearly 6 inches. Your breeder boyâs pathetic pushes move it so little that even though you notice progress every ten minutes or so, itâs too minute to observe in the moment with the naked eye.
Your forearms are beginning to cramp, so you warn him that youâre about to leave him to finish this on his own. He starts to thrash in his binds, simpering for your forgiveness and mercy, begging you not to leave him crowning. You chuckle and ask why not, when his pussy is so pretty like this? He gives no answer, breath growing too short to hold words.
But clearly he took your threat to heart, because he throws his birthing hips back into your hands and lets loose a primal, lowing grunt, his pussy lips and his asshole bulging and his belly shaking beneath him as he strains every muscle in his body.
Suddenly the head surges out with such force that you think the whole calf will come out of him. But only the length of its neck makes it free before it jerks to a stop on the hulking shoulders. The boy makes a sharp, broken sound, like he was trying to scream but he didnât have the breath for it.
You marvel at the size of the calfâs head, and the way your naughty boyâs pelvic floor strains, everything between his legs stretched dangerously away from where itâs meant to be. You trace the purpling flesh of his cunt lips, wondering that he hasnât torn wide open.
Itâs only then that you realize he seems to have passed out. Rolling your eyes, you lean over the fence heâs tied to and slap his tits around until his eyes struggle open. He whimpers incoherently at you before his eyelids and his head drop heavily. You decide to let him rest.
You retire to the farmhouse where you take a hot bath. Itâs hard work helping to deliver a calf that big, after all! After a good nightâs sleep, you indulge in sleeping until sunrise. You stretch out your sore muscles, treat yourself to a hearty breakfast with extra coffee, and stroll leisurely back to the breeding stables.
Somehow, yesterday, you grew so jaded to the concept of your boyâs punishment that it became commonplace. When you enter the stables this morning, however, youâre struck anew by the stunning, humiliating sight of a gangly creature hanging halfway out of the boyâs cunt. You take another leisurely video, sure to capture all of the grotesque detail of what this boyâs body is capable of, and make sure the camera knows that the great shoulders struggling just behind his clinging pussy lips have been right there for the past 12 hours.
When you end the video and check on the boy, you find him awake, eyes a puffy purple-red and floppy cow ears limp against his sweat-matted face. He suddenly twists with a desperate, ugly wince as his belly draws up and his body contracts. You watch in delighted fascination as the shoulders pull at his pussy, dragging his whole crotch so far forward that it hardly looks functional anymore. His perineum is nearly purple with straining tissue, and his rectum threatens to bloom, a bud of weakly throbbing red in the center of his puffy anus.
Iâm sorry, he whispers. Iâm so sorry, Iâll be good from now on, please just get it out. Please.
You tell him heâll get the damn thing out himself. While he weeps, you grab supplies and a few farmhands.
Heâs limp as a puppet and pliant as a puppy when you untie him. It takes two farmhands to lift him and a third to support the calf flopping from his messy cunt. They carry him and his half-born punishment into the hall of the stable, where you have a pair of crates set up next to a pole.
With a bit of work, you manage to pose him in a deep squat, a foot on each crate and the calf bulging absurdly beneath him. You tie his ankles to his upper thighs, then his knees to his elbows, and rig him to the pole behind him with just enough tension to keep him from falling forward on hai face. Itâs an excruciatingly open pose, the calf dangling straight down beneath him. Heâs instantly overtaken by trembling, his face pale, his inner thighs spasming weakly.
Shouldâve done this in the first place, you chuckle, and pull up a chair.
Without the strength or leverage to push, the shoulders of the calf punish the naughty boy appropriately, forcing him wider contraction by contraction, so slowly that you canât even confirm any progress until late afternoon. The farmhands and other hucow boys stare at him in fascination and terror, respectively. He hangs his head and moans brokenly with each contraction, his still-round belly lifting his engorged udders and squeezing his lungs each time.
When the farmhands go home, you pull your chair up to the boy and take out the final supply you collected earlier: a high-powered vibrator. His eyes flash open the moment you turn it on, the sound making his ears flick back and his pupils shrink in instinctive terror. He starts to plead, sobbing about how sorry he is, but you simply press the buzzing head to his pulled-taut clit.
His broken screams echo in the stable. Other hucows lean out of their stalls and watch grimly as the stupid, disobedient boy struggles to even thrash properly in his bonds, the calf flopping disgustingly between his legs. He sobs desperate ânoâs, and you jam the vibrator harder against him, until finally he chokes and seizes with an unwanted orgasm.
The shoulders begin to bob furiously behind his cunt lips, so you keep the wand where it is. His ruined cries wash over you as you trigger orgasm upon orgasm, every time watching his cumming pussy ease the shoulders a little further.
Just when you think his little cow cunt will never let go of the shoulders, he lets loose a high, whistling whine of pure fear, and his lips are forced the last tiny bit apart as the shoulders burst through him. This time, gravity works in his favorâlucky little bastardâand the rest of the calf tumbles out.
He caves inward with a feeble sob, the core of his body sinking as it the calf had been what was keeping him together. As you tend to the calf, you enjoy the sight of his full udders jiggling and dripping with his pathetic gasps.
You drop the calf into the weighing sling, and put your hands on your hips. You tell the boy he should be proudâhe just birthed a 55lb moose, 20 whole pounds larger than average, probably a world record. He shudders with delirious, sniveling laughter.
Then he freezes and goes silent as you tell him you bet his next birth will be even bigger. His lip starts to wobble, and his nose runs as he tells you about how good heâs going to be, how there wonât be a need for a punishment, and all sorts of other things you donât listen to.
Youâre too busy wondering how hard it would be to get him pregnant with twin cattle.
pining is 100000% the most important aspect of pre-relationship fic for me. good-natured whole-hearted pining filled with lovelorn gazing and chest aching and fluttering touches, thatâs my top priority. i was put on this earth to watch characters suffer over the profundity of their love for another person. unrequited love is why god made me. characters finding out that their feelings are reciprocated after long months/years of suffering is why the universe was assembled from nothingness. amen.
aiming my wg beam at more characters...a/starion says he's a man of tremendous appetites and g/ale was a shut-in wizard who loves cooking...........i mean, the bellies practically fill themselves
let me take their abs away and heal them u///u
A Very Cummy- I Mean, Crummy Blog @eternityofdeath - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
areudirty
dailybridgerton
theartofmadeline
gracieabrams
izzy806
discoholicmusic
yousharknotpass
germansingergirl
