I want a guy to promise me that he'll wear a condom and for him to reassure me that he has a whole box of them because he knows that I don't take birth control. We start having sex and I make sure that he puts one on before we start. After that, it's amazing. His dick is huge and it hits all of the best spots and he makes me feel safe and comfortable when I'm with him.
Two or three filled condoms later and I'm confident that he's not gonna stealth me, so I ask to get a little more kinky. He's good at shibari so he ties me up tight and puts on another condom. Only after another round of rough sex and another filled condom is he sure that the ties will hold tight no matter how much I try to move.
That's when he takes off the condom and looks me in the eyes as he spreads my pussy lips and squeezes it out inside of me. My eyes go wide and I scream for him to stop as he reaches for the others. I hadn't even noticed that he wasn't tying them off before. I beg and plead and try to squirm free as he empties the rest inside me one by one, then notches his fat cock back at my entrance again, harder than he ever was before, and fucks the cum deeper into my womb. His soft whispers cut through my desperate screaming and crying as he reassures me that I'll make such a good mother.
(Content Warning: Unwanted pregnancy, reproductive abuse, talks of abortion and neglect, trauma)
The first time, he insisted it was an accident.
My boyfriend said he loved me, that he would stay with me. Obviously we were too young to get married. But we would stay together, raise the child together.
Yet, I often felt like I was alone. Struggling with classwork, dealing with my changing body, even things like getting dressed and cleaning my room getting more and more difficult.
Watching the way the pregnancy completely took over my body, my life, was painful on a different level. The fact people no longer asked me about me. They only asked about how the pregnancy felt. How the baby was doing. When I was due. If I knew who the dad was. Not about my interests or hobbies or shows we enjoyed. If we even got there, it was a distant step after every question down to what I want to name it.
The entire time, I kept telling myself I would learn to love it.
Labor came, and I was so scared. Hunched over in my bedroom, shocked by how quickly the contractions were growing closer. How every time I walked around it felt like this new person would just fall out of me. I was still struggling with the thoughts that I was about to GIVE BIRTH. I was still in school, how could I possibly push a baby out of that tiny, sensitive slit?
Painfully, it would turn out. Slowly. Alone. Mom and dad had gone out to grab last minute baby supplies. My boyfriend had told me he was trying to get to me, but there was traffic. I would find out years later he was playing a game online and assumed he had time.
I didn't realize how hard I was pushing until my panties and pajama bottoms had started to push down my hips, the head crowning hard into them. I screamed for help, for mercy.
In the end, I wailed that I didn't want this baby. Didn't want to be a mom.
Then it slid out, filling my soiled clothes. All my fear and denial meant nothing. My consent, my reluctance to be a mom. Powerless. The baby was here, my willingness wasn't needed for a single step.
I reached down, lifted it up. Looked at its face as it began to cry. Let my eyes trail down along the umbilical cord. Down where it vanished and I knew it lead inside me. Still attached. My baby, that I had just given birth to. And I felt...
Nothing.
No. No, this is when the hormones were supposed to take over. I was supposed to fall madly in love with this little accident, never want to let go of it, realize this was the unconditional love and care I'd always craved and happily let myself be reduced to nothing more than "mom" for the rest of my life to raise it.
Not just... Numbness. Shock. Despair, even, as I realized that love wasn't coming. "Mom, dad... Where are you? I think I'm broken..." I whimpered, letting the baby latch to me as I waited to deliver the afterbirth.
What else could I do?
)----------
The fifth time, he promised me the condom broke.
I was pretty sure he was lying, but I couldn't prove it. And of course, my body happily conceived for him again. Somehow he always knew when the right time was, and always found just the right way for me to tolerate him fucking me. Usually we would have sex three or four times in a week, then stop. And in a few months, another positive test.
My belly was a mess of stretchmarks. I hated what these pregnancies had done to me. Most of my friends were tired of insisting I was glowing, that my breasts weren't constantly heavy and sagging and leaking, that most of the maternity clothes I wore mostly only highlighted what a mess I constantly felt like I was.
I had tried to be positive about it. Put on makeup. Find nice clothes. Try to be cute pregnant. But that stopped half way through the fourth pregnancy.
My boyfriend was home constantly. He was a streamer or worked leveling people's accounts for money or SOMETHING like that, and made precisely enough money to keep our heads above water. So he claimed, at least. But somehow we always had just enough set aside to pay for HIS health insurance and buy whatever stupid things HE wanted for his man cave.
The cave he barely ever left, other than to eat, shower, fuck me, or sleep. Even then, half of those often got migrated there.
"Mom?" My oldest would ask. I hated that word. Nobody called me my name anymore. Not my boyfriend. Not even my parents. That's all I was anymore, Mom. "Can I go play in dad's room?" And I'd have to tell him no. He's busy, and he thinks it would make people angry if they saw anyone else in the background.
Deep down, I knew it was because if they saw me having back to back pregnancies, there would be concerns. People would ask questions, possibly call for wellness checks.
Part of me knew this was wrong. But what else could I do? My belly wasn't going to stop growing. I couldn't just leave the other four kids with him.
I kept waiting for the surge of love to hit. For me to realize these were MY babies, and I loved them, and I was glad they were here, and I would do anything for them. But it just never came.
Of course, I had basically given up everything for them. I'd finally dropped out of college, unable to keep up with the work and raise four kids while growing a fifth. Any dreams or goals I'd had were long gone by the time I was a mom of three.
I tried to be kind and sweet. Play games with them. I never wanted them to know the real feelings that age away at me, boiling like vile acid. The anger at them for being living chains shackling me to my manchild of a boyfriend.
I couldn't leave them here, though. As we had more kids his true colors had shown. He wasn't just not there for me, not interested in helping with his little burdens. He would lash out, at me, at them, any time we got in his way or distracted him from things he would rather be doing.
I couldn't just leave though. Especially as I got so far in that my back hurt, belly feeling too full, kicks a constant reminder of what was happening to me, that this was unfolding all over again, my consent not needed for even a single step. Two of the babies had been girls now, and the thought of leaving a man like this alone with a pair of daughters... It sent shudders up my spine.
Inevitably though, my pregnancy reached an end. My boyfriend was passed out drunk at his computer in his stupid man cave as I paced back and forth around the house, trying to ignore my deepening labor as the previous four constantly demanded my care, my attention.
My waters broke as I used the toilet. A small mercy, at least I wouldn't have to clean them up as the kids babbled at me and got in the way or made more messes.
I started feeling pushy as I worked on dinner. I'd gotten so used to ignoring my own pain that I didn't realize how bad it was getting until I had braced myself against the kitchen counter, lifted up on tip-toes as I squatted slightly, and let out a deep, guttural grunt of effort as I unconsciously pushed.
Of course, once I realized, the urge got even stronger, and I couldn't fight it for even a second. I strangled "Noooooo!" Forced its way out between grit teeth, as my panties began to bulge around the head, hidden by my maternity dress.
"Mama's doing poopy!" My oldest said, pointing at me, smiling. The agony of childbirth the funniest thing he'd ever seen. "No... No baby... Mommy is... Ngh.. your sibling... Is... Coming... Out of me!" I didn't want to push, I didn't want to give birth like this. I felt so dirty, so trapped, unable to move or stop delivering this child I never asked for. Unable to leave my shitty boyfriend.
Unable to even stop getting pregnant.
I never wanted to be pregnant.
The head gushed out of me, and my eldest son laughed, clapping his hands. "Mommy go pee-pee! Mommy pee on the floor!" His sister wandered over, curious about the commotion.
"Please..." I groaned, panting, shuddering as the head rotated. "Please... Don't... Go away... I don't want you to see... Fuck... I DON'T WANT YOU!!!"
I had to push. The pressure, the pain, they couldn't be fought or denied. I felt my underwear pull down my hips, but my legs were spread so wide, the head just couldn't find enough space...
Something yanked my panties to the side, and I cried out in shock as the shoulders slid from me, and the newest baby I would have to raise all but by myself emerged into the world.
Carefully, I picked it up, held it. The newborn was crying. The mobile kids gathered around, laughing, smiling, meeting their squalling sibling.
I didn't have the energy to be angry at my oldest for pulling on my underwear or making the baby fall out onto the floor like that. I was so tired from all this work, the labor, motherhood, and processing my reality.
I still waited for the love to overcome me. For the endorphins to hit. For me to realize this is what fulfilment is.
I still waited.
==)--------
The tenth time, he told me he didn't think I could be ovulating again already.
It was a blatant, obvious lie. I knew he'd been poking holes in the condom. I'd caught him microwaving my birth control. But it didn't matter anymore.
What could I do? Call him on it? It would just start a fight. Nothing would come of it. The cops wouldn't care. We weren't married, but we'd had nine kids together now. What's a tenth? Maybe I should learn to keep my legs closed, they would tell me.
I’d learned a while back that it was too late for me to get help now. My parents said this was my own fault. His actively enabled him. CPS thought that the children seemed happy and healthy enough, refused to step in. I told them we couldn't afford this many kids, but they refused to see it.
He, of course, wanted to keep them all. He said if I had such a problem with it, I could have the baby somewhere else and leave it at a shelter of some kind. But if I was going to give birth here, to his kid, I would be raising it.
We were passed the point of pretending on that front. I was the birth giver. I was mom. I was here to raise the kids and give him food and sex. He was here to get money however he saw fit, and had no other responsibility beyond that. At this point I honestly didn't know how he was getting enough money to make ends meet anymore, and he wouldn't tell me, insisting it was none of my business.
His sons were starting to take after him, and I hated it. Talking down to me and their sisters. Acting like they owned the house, like they should come first be default. I’d been trying to teach them better, but it was so hard, and my heart wasn't in it.
To be honest, my heart wasn't in much. All these kids drained my life force from me, I was just so tired constantly. Having a moody nine-year-old at the same time as a newborn, both wanting attention and care, and every other kid in between…
And of course, another swelling my belly. Again. I hadn't had a period since highschool. Somehow, some way, he always seemed to know just the right time to plant the next burden inside me.
I was in constant pain. My teeth had started falling out, my bones were getting more frail. These babies were draining me of every reserve, every bit of everything left of me. I often barely had time to make myself food, usually ate while breastfeeding.
We couldn't find babysitters. Who wants to watch nine kids of wildly different ages? I hadn't had a nice, relaxing night out to myself almost since my last period. I felt like a spectator to my own body, my own life.
My formally modest chest had become heavy enough that it hurt my back. My hips were wide and constantly hurt, spine throbbing fully with pain that could spike sharply if I moved just wrong, especially as I neared due with the latest burden. My entire belly was red and sore with stretchmarks, my navel all but permanently an outie at this point.
I kept waiting for even a tiny bit of the happiness promised me. When everyone kept telling me that parenthood was so fulfilling, so gratifying. That it lead to the highest highs you could achieve.
Instead, it just felt like disappointment. One kid having a speech impediment. Another constantly getting sick. Mostly sitting around and watching TV, or creating bad pictures, or singing poorly. Smashing toys together.
I had given up everything I ever wanted to be. Every dream I’d ever had. For this. For these little parasites I’d let utterly drain me. All to feed the ego of their lazy, drunk, bastard of a father.
This time, I realized it was getting serious late at night. The pressure was getting bad, contractions just a few minutes apart. My boyfriend was asleep in his man cave again, but for once, all the kids seemed to be asleep. The whole house was quiet.
I hadn't had this kind of peace in… it felt like years. Of course this would happen now, ruin it like this. I told myself I wouldn't let it. I was going to give birth on my own terms, for once.
Carefully, I shifted, trying to be as quiet as I could. I was so scared even the faintest sound would set the others off, any one of the younger kids breaking out crying would lead to a chain reaction. It wouldn't be the first time I’d had to try to soothe a handful of kids even as a head was inching down my birth canal… but not tonight. Not tonight.
My labor progressed steadily, the pressure mounting, pain growing. I let one little whimper of pain escape me as the force of the head pushing through my cervix throbbed through my lower body.
I had at least hoped, with time, the labors and births would get easier, simpler. But they never did. It was always so powerful, intense, utterly overwhelming. My body wrenching control and choice and decency away from me, reducing me to a desperate animal.
That familiar, primal, intimate urge came, and I knew better than to fight it now. I gripped the sheets as I opened my legs and grunted, deep and guttural with effort. I was rewarded with the feeling of a massive head slipping into my birth canal, inching down as I struggled, another of His little burdens torturing its way through my body and into the world.
But at least this time I was alone. No kids pulling at my legs or babbling annoyingly as I struggled to give them a new sibling I’d begged my boyfriend… my rapist, at this point… not to put inside me, not force me to create more life he couldn't care less about. Not asking if it hurts, the girls pale as they watched my privates bulge and part, and the boys annoyed and impatient, asking why it's not here yet.
Just me, my body, and this parasite I needed out. Another one, what I prayed was the last one, but knew deep down wouldn't be. All I could do was focus on my needs, my body screaming at me to push with all my might with every squeezing pain.
I reached down as the pressure spiked. Felt myself bulging hard, my lips swollen and soft with a hard, round head just behind them. I curled my toes and pushed again, feeling myself open under my fingers, the burning spreading as it began to crown, the emerging newborn slimy with my fluids.
“I hate this I hate this I hate thisss…” I groaned into my pillow. It was always so much, that feeling of birth, of life emerging from inside my body. I want d it to stop, to go away, I wanted this little brat OUT of me.
All I could do was push. All I could do was bring yet another reward for this lying prick into the world, no matter how badly he didn't deserve another child to neglect.
My body didn't care what I wanted. How I felt about it. He had claimed me, utterly and entirely. I knew I was trapped. Couldn't leave, couldn't move on, wouldn't find peace in my house, my body, my life. I couldn't.
I pushed.
I was a mom. He had taken everything else from me.
I pushed.
This was what I was for, even if I hated it.
I puuuuushed!
A scream escaped me. Pain and despair and shock, as the body slithered out of me with an audible gush of fluids.
The newborn began to cry. Then the babies. Then a bunch of the kids.
I hadn't even delivered the placenta before three of his children were asking when I was making breakfast. It was so common for them now. They knew I would be pregnant before long.
Their father was mad I hadn't told him the baby was coming. He wanted to watch, to indulge at my expense. I didn't care, couldn't care anymore. Maybe there would be consequences, but this… I had needed.
Re: your idea of having a trans bf during lockdown.
When quarantine starts, we've barely been together for a week yet. We're still very excited but also anxious about this new chapter of life, not knowing yet how long it'll last. Suddenly, the whole world changes and we have to make a choice: staying closely together or not seeing each other in person for who knows how long. Of course, we quickly agree on our decision, and I move in to your place.
Thanks to home-office and being literally forced to minimize contact with the outer world, we can spend a lot of time together, exploring both our relationship and each others bodies. Maybe it's an accident, maybe it's intentional, but after a few weeks, my body starts to change.
I might not understand these changes at first. The nausea and constant, slow bloating could stem from food allergies or stress - we're living through a pandemic, after all. I'm confused at how nothing seems to ease the bloating, and how my nausea eventually switches to ravenous cravings. I quickly gain some soft curves at all the good spots (which you can't get enough of), but the most of the gained weight seems to settle around my waist and stomach. I also notice that my stomach and bowels constantly shift and twitch, probably due to my chaotic diet. Maybe it's a side effect of the hormones I used to take (and have run out of quickly after the quarantine started). Together with my facial hair and previously fit and lean body from working out often, a stranger could easily dismiss my appearance as just letting myself go a bit due to staying inside and eating all day. At first, I think that's actually the case, trying to convince myself to at least start with a proper home-workout schedule.
Until one morning, while noticing how my favorite shirt strains against my rounded middle and rubbing the sensitive skin around my bellybutton, I feel a kick against the palm of my hand.
The idea of us both living in ignorant, consequence-free bliss for the entire first half of your pregnancy is ideal. At the beginning of lockdown we’re careful, but as the weeks go on we start slowly rolling back protection until we run of condoms all together. You’re not going to get birth control or plan-b if you’re not getting your hormones either. I tried and fail the pull out method a couple of times and we both just assume you’ll continue to not get pregnant. At that point I gained a few pounds too, who didn’t?
I’d love to hear you call me from the other room, to walk in on you nervously pacing in front of the mirror with your hands on your stomach. Sheepishly asking me to come feel. I’d reach out to brush past the thinning belly hair and press my fingers into the extra pounds you’ve put on, watching you tense up when my fingers barely sink in. Instead, I feel how taut and rounded your lower belly has become. I splay my hand across your domed midsection but before either of us can say anything, we watch as a ripple rolls across your belly. The unmistakable feeling of a kick echos inside you and against my palm. Oh, shit
The idea of a guy who is generally very conscientious and heavily controlled, even a little shy, having a weak pullout game is just endearing to me. He didn't mean to do that. He's very embarassed and a little ashamed now.
Later it's "Well, at least I used a condom this time!" and he pulls out and the condom is broken, and there's a sudden rush of panic but also thrill and a powerful urge to stick his cock back in there and drop another load inside them. And that is how he discovers his breeding kink.
I’m a big advocate for a gap year between highschool and college. If I hadn’t taken a gap year, I wouldn’t have met James, and he wouldn’t have fucked my brains out in the back of his truck. Then he wouldn’t have fucked me again the next morning without a condom, and I wouldn’t have swollen this big and round with his babies. I do think I might need a bit longer than a gap year, but that’s okay.
Four months ago I watched as Dylan rolled the dice. It landed on a four. He pulled out a pin, and pricked four holes into his condom. I struggled against the cuffs that locked me to the bed, and he leant in, pushing his cock into me.
When people ask me about it, I tell them it was a one night hook up with a frat boy. A guy too intent on fucking me that he didn’t notice the condom break.
I don’t tell them about me begging him to fuck me harder, to cum inside me, to fill me with his baby.
“Babe, come on. You’re looking so hot, and you’ve got me all turned on. Let’s just fuck bare this one time.” He said, pushing his cock into my wet, unprotected pussy.
I could feel his every being and ridge. Fuck no condom is so much hotter.
“Yeah, babe. You’re so fucking tight.” He leaned forward, his thrusting his last few inches in so that he bottomed out inside me.
He kissed me, and I closed my eyes as he started to thrust.
“F-u-u-u-c-k” I moaned, his cock slapping into me. We’d had sex before, but bare it was like another guy had taken his place. He pushed harder, deeper, into me. His pace increased while my orgasm was far away.
“Don’t come too fast” I said.
“Shut up, grow my fucking babies.” He sighed, and I felt him pulse his seed into me.
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