Poor little bird-folk who has a condition that makes their eggs grow unusually large. It means they almost always get egg bound and spend days laying a clutch when all their friends do it in an afternoon. It doesn't help that they're small and slight with narrow hips that strain against every huge egg.
As they get closer to laying their stomach swells up immensely, looking ridiculous on their small frame. Everyone else they know gets a regular, manageable bump in the weeks before they lay. Usually only restricting their movements in the last few days. But their stomach is huge and obvious and horribly sore for weeks. They spend almost a month too heavy to fly and by the last week they can barely walk. You would think that going through this every year would mean they're used to it, but every time they are caught off guard by how heavy and sore and uncomfortable their giant eggs make them. Their fragile pelvis wasn't made to carry so much weight. Their skin stretches so far that they start to lose feathers on their belly and red, angry stretch marks are visible on the exposed skin. It's miserable but they know the worst is still yet to come.
Their body is designed to lay quickly. Half a day of laboring, an hour of pushing and you've got a clutch. But with their eggs three or four times bigger than they should be that timeline is simply impossible. They dread those first contractions. Once they start they are trapped in a horrible storm as their body shoves the first egg down brutally hard and fast. The pressure in their hips increases ten fold. They squawk and cry, paralyzed by the intensity and trying desperately to find a position that will ease some of the pressure.
It's not long before the tip of the first egg begins to press down through their cloaca. This is when the real trouble starts. They are gripped with the urge to push. The first push begins to stretch their hole, the heavy egg bulging out the skin between their legs, the very tip visible just inside. But there is not enough space. Two, maybe three pushes should be enough for a regular egg. But their egg is so, so big. It gets stuck almost immediately. A few desperate pushes might bring it down just a bit more, enough than the stretch of their cloaca really starts to sting. But then it lodges itself and won't budge no matter how much they push.
No matter how many times they're forced to do this they are always gripped with horrible panic when they realize the egg won't move. The pain of contractions, the spasming of their stretched hole, the mind numbing pressure, all make it impossible to think. They'll thrash and scream, crying that it's stuck! It's stuck! Oh god please, it won't come! By now they know to have a healer on hand. But during their first lay they cried alone for hours, sure they were going to die.
There isn't actually much the healer can do. The bird-folk must now go through a horrible process of slow stretching. The healer takes some oil and rubs it around the rim of their hole, gently stretching the already taught skin, trying to work them open. They moan as their tortured hole is stretched. The burn is constant and terrible and they feel like they could rip open at any second. The healer stretches them and then they are forced to stand on shaking legs and hobble back and forth, bowlegged around their crowning egg. They shift their hips as best they can, trying to work the egg down. They are still beset by contractions and every few the urge to push becomes too great and they have to squat down and push. On every fourth or fifth push the egg will inch out the slightest bit more.
The progress is glacial and agonizing. They are trapped in a desperate cycle. Once they collapse from exhaustion the healer applies more oil, wedging their finger in alongside the egg and making them stretch. Then after a fruitless push or two they are dragged back to their feet. They rock and sway and squat intermittently, pushing and crying, until their legs give out once again and they slump to the ground in an exhausted heap. Then the healer approaches with more oil.
This goes on for hour after miserable hour. Slowly the egg crowns out of their tortured cloaca. The liberal application of oil and constant stretching protects them from tearing but the burn is indescribable. They are stretched so tight around something much bigger than it should be. At a certain point they go numb, their nerves unable to keep up with the stretch.
It's usually at that point that they break down completely, going limp and weeping, saying the egg will never come out, just leave them, they're too tired to push anymore. Every time they're sure this is it, it's over. They just want the pressure and the pain to end but their will is completely broken. The healer lets them cry and writhe through several contractions then hauls them up on their hands and knees, forces some water down their throat, and tells them to get pushing. It's hard but they've done it every year and this won't be the year they die on the healer's watch. Still crying and hiccuping miserably they bear down and push again.
By the next day they are usually close to the widest part of the egg. The end is in sight but still so far away. The cycles of oil, stretching, and pushing have gotten shorter and shorter. They are no longer able to stand, the egg forcing their legs too wide. It looks obscene sticking out of their hole, taking up the entire space between their legs. They alternate between squatting and rocking back and forth on their hands and knees. By now they are in a kind of trance-like state. Their world shrunk down to just the giant egg holding them brutally open. They emit a constant quiet lowing, their broken voice peaking in distress with every push.
Finally after one push they feel it, on instinct they know that one more push will get them past the widest point. They suck in a breath and push with every desperate ounce of strength left in their exhausted body. The egg moves. The pressure gives. In an almost orgasmic gush the egg bursts through and slides out of their spasming hole. They slump to the ground and sob in relief.
They get maybe an hour of rest. Then the pains return and their body starts working the next giant egg down to their hole. They're stretched now so this one will not take quite as long but they still have hours more of pushing ahead. And after that two more eggs lie in wait.
When all of the eggs are finally out they sleep for days, completely drained. The relief of finally being empty is always tainted by the knowledge that they will have to do it all again next year.
The following story contains: explicit birth, birth denial, twin birth, and enough information about Mormon temples they'd be upset with me. But hey, it was my experience too and I have every right to it. Some creative liberties were taken with the temple stuff. It's my first attempt at sharing something like this. So I'm happy to get feedback.
Story behind cut:
Mariah groaned, reaching down and wrapping around her large stomach as the car went over a bump and into the Mormon Temple’s parking lot. Her husband, Mathew, glanced over.
“Almost there, honey,” he said. “Just keep breathing, and soon God will bless us with a pair of new children.”
The latest contraction eased, and Mariah eased back into her seat, breathing hard as her stomach visibly relaxed under her hand. The new prophet, President Oaks, had revealed that there was a new covenant and ritual that women had to participate in during the birth of their children. It was still new enough Mariah didn’t know anyone who had participated in it, but the prophet spoke for god so she and her family would obey. Surely a birth (or two) in God’s house surrounded by holy men would be far more blessed than a birth in a hospital surrounded by doctors who had been corrupted by fake-science like vaccines, gender ideology, dinosaurs, and other such satanic lies.
The car came to a stop, and Mathew got out, dressed in his nice suit. Then he came around and opened the door for Mariah. As she stood, another contraction seized her. She clutched the door handle and moaned through the pain, curling in on her stomach instinctively.
“Come on, hon,” Mathew said, grabbing her hand. “We’re gonna be late.” Then he pulled, dragging her up out of the car with zero warning.
Mariah stumbled, still mid-contraction. Her back screamed as it took on the weight of her twins. Mathew managed to catch her, as her legs gave out, keeping her from face planting in the temple parking lot.
“Woah careful there,” Mathew said, smiling, completely oblivious. He did however stay long enough for the contraction to end and for Mariah to get her footing back. The shoes she wore had a slight heel to them. She thought it wouldn’t matter too much, and she didn’t have anything completely flat that was nice enough for the temple, but the way her hips ached, she already fiercely regretted her choice. Even more so when she looked up and saw just how far away the temple was. Her husband had parked in the furthest parking stall from the main doors.
With a sigh, Mariah began the trek, pressing one hand to her back to counteract the growing pain there. Everything felt strange down below, both open and tight at once, her hips oddly shaky, which led to a distinct waddle in her walk. It took almost no time at all for Mathew to catch up to her, both temple bags slung over his shoulder.
They made it to the temple doors without further issue, the massive white building standing out starkly against the blue sky, stain glass windows gleaming. A patron exiting opened the door for them, smiling and greeting them. Then their eyes strayed to Mariah’s belly. “Congratulations,” the man said. “Are you excited about the new revelation from our prophet?”
“We are so lucky to be some of the first to experience it,” Mathew replied, proudly resting his hand on Mariah’s belly.
Mariah didn’t say anything, anxiety twisting in her chest. She just wished she knew what she was getting into. Neither man noticed her silence however, and exchange a few more quick pleasantries before they continued inside.
Once inside, both Mathew and Mariah produced their temple recommends from their wallets, then Mariah produced her special recommend for a live ordinance, given to her after extensive interviews with both her bishop and her stake president to prove she was worthy. Another contraction came as they checked over her paperwork. She grabbed onto the desk, circling her hips and breathing hard, feeling the pressure increase.
“Has your water broken yet?” the man at the desk asked.
Mariah shook her head, unable to say much else in the midst of the contraction.
Mathew answered for her. “She’s been having regular contractions for the past two hours, one minute on, four minutes off. We’ve come as instructed. And we called ahead.”
“Yes, yes,” the desk worker said, then he handed her a little piece of paper and a pin. “We’ve got your guide waiting for you. Just put this on and head into the main room. She’ll meet you inside.”
Gratefully, Mariah took the paper and pinned it onto her dress with shaking hands, then she and Mathew headed past the white wall of the reception area and into the main temple area. Green plants and pastel green and gold couches lined the walls and filled the center space of the area. A woman and man saw her name tag and came over, shaking both Mathew and Mariah’s hand, and introducing themselves as Sister and Brother Wallace.
Mathew handed Mariah her temple bag, and then was swept away to the men’s changing room by Brother Wallace, leaving Mariah with Sister Wallace, who led her to the other side of the foyer where the sister’s dressing room was.
“We’ve already set aside one of the larger dressing rooms for you,” Sister Wallace said. “There will be a white jumpsuit in there. Put it on, just like if you were getting ready for a baptism for the dead. Then I’ll take you into an instructional room for a short video.”
Mariah nodded, and entered into her dressing room. Though it was definitely larger than the normal stalls, it was still small, barely enough room for her to move around with her massive stomach. She had just enough to to place her bag on a small wooden bench that protruded from the metal doors before another contraction hit. She hissed and groaned, working through it. Once it was through, she awkwardly reached down grabbed the hem of her dress which was significantly closer to her fingers than it would have been pre pregnancy, and dragged it up over her massive belly. It was a bit of a struggle, but soon it was off. Next went her wired bra and her white pregnancy garments, which were soaked with sweat.
Not caring much, she threw the clothes and her old shoes in a locker, then began the momentous task of putting on the silky zip-up garments which barely fit over her massive belly, the tiny sports bra that did very little to contain her leaking breasts, and a large zip up jumper than definitely was not made for a pregnant woman. She barely got the zipper up half her chest, leaving the white undergarments visible. As she sat down to put on the grippy socks, breathing heavily from the effort of changing clothes, another contraction took her she groaned, practically collapsing the rest of the way onto the little wooden bench. The unyielding solidness pressed against her privates which felt much more exposed in the tight white jumpsuit, zipper straining.
Sister Wallace knocked midway through the contraction, asking if she needed any help. Once the contraction released her, Mariah leaned over awkwardly and undid the latch. No way she was getting on those stupid socks without help, not in her condition. Wallace helped her easily enough, getting the soaks on her swollen feet, then helped her up.
The instruction room wasn’t far, and she was sat down in a cushy chair, Wallace at her side, and a video of the prophet showed up. “In order to ensure our families our celestial, God has revealed a plan for his children. As the child is being birthed, the mother will go through each of the ordinances on the path to the celestial kingdom, doing them in proxy for their child. That way, no matter what path the child takes in life, they will already have their work done for them. It is like baptisms for the dead, but for those who have not yet come into this world.”
Mariah stared as yet another contraction hit, the pressure building. The heavy ball of her first child’s head sitting in her hips. All the ordinances? But the baby was coming soon, and that would take hours!
“Best get a move on then, right?” the sister said.
The elevator was broken, so they had to take the stairs down to the font. Midway down another contraction hit, and Mariah was caught with legs on separate stairs, clinging to the bronze railing for dear life as the pressure mounted, and mounted and mounted. She needed to push, she realized suddenly. But no, that couldn’t be right. Her water hadn’t broken yet. And she had to get through these ordinances so her children would make it to heaven with her!
Mariah gasped in relief as the wave of pain eased away. Already her white suit was near-see through with sweat in some areas. But Wallace didn’t seem to mind, she just grabbed Mariah’s arm and helped her hobble awkwardly down the rest of the stairs, her legs forced just a bit further apart than they had been earlier.
Teens waiting to be baptized stared openly as Mariah hobbled down the hall, one hand on her back, the other trying to support her massive twin stomach. They walked into the main font, a white pool on top of twelve golden oxen, the air heavy with the scent of chlorine, then waited for the teen who was currently being dunked to finish their set of baptisms. Mathew was already waiting on the other side, dressed in a similar white jumpsuit. He smiled and waved, his escort at his side as well. Once the teen finished, him and his adult baptizer exited the font and were handed fluffy white towels, then Mariah and Mathew entered.
The water was warm, a welcome relief to her straining body, and Mariah couldn’t help but groan in relief as Mathew walked her to the center of the pool. He took her wrist in his hand, holding her hand up by her face, then held his right hand to a square behind her. “Sister Johnson,” he prayed. “Having been commissioned by Jesus Christ, I baptize you for and behalf of, Nephi Johnson, who is not yet born, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.”
In the midst of his prayer, another contraction wrapped its way around her belly. As he put his hand to her back and pressed her down into the water, the pain and pressure mounted. She tried to scream with the pain, but water flooded into her mouth. Down, down, deeper into the water, as her husband tried to get her whole massive body completely submerged. Then she was up again, spitting up water, ears ringing, barely aware her husband was saying the prayer again, until she was plunged unsuspectingly back into the water.
As her knees bent, something popped inside her, and the pressure was gone. She came back up spluttering, wiped away the stinging chlorine from her eyes and stared down at the red tendrils spread from her into the holy water.
She blushed, but Mathew didn’t seem to notice. He pulled her to him instead, then helped her back out of the font. The stairs were slippery. A towel was wrapped around her as the cool air made her tremble in her wet clothes.
Then she found herself in a shower, her legs spread, panting, struggling to get her white jumpsuit off while the shower spread the chlorine off of her. She managed to get the zipper undone with shaking hands, but she couldn’t get the fabric off her hips without closing her legs, and that just didn’t seem possible. Groaning with the effort, she put her legs together despite her body screaming at her, and pushed the suit down. Then came the too small bra, which clung to her chest, and then the zip up garments, which present similar problems. Once they were down around her feet, she eased down, groaning as her necked butt rested on the plastic shower seat, to try and kick her clothes off the rest of the way.
As she curled forward to try and get them off, another contraction struck. She groaned panting, trying to spread her legs to give the baby’s massive head room, but couldn’t. Her feet were caught by the restrictive material bound around them. She panicked, reaching blindly downward, kicking frantically, trying to get a leg free, because she needed her legs free.
Finally a leg slipped free, and she eagerly spread her legs, pushing hard as the contraction ebbed, thankful for the warmth of the shower water dripping over her. Perhaps I should just stay and birth in here, she thought as the water cleansed her sweat. But no, she had to follow through. Had to make sure her children were saved.
Heaving herself to her feet she grabbed her towel from her hook, did her best to dry herself off, then tried to wrap it around her. It was made for teenagers, so it wasn’t the best modesty shield for a full grown, very pregnant woman, but she got the important parts covered. Barely.
Sister Wallace met her outside the shower, all smiles, and handed her a white poncho. “This is a shield,” she said. “We’ve brought it back for innititories, go ahead and put it on.”
On the plus side, it was just a giant rectangle with a hole in the head, incredibly easy to put on compared to the earlier clothes, on the other hand, Mariah was left nearly completely exposed, the fabric hanging down only to mid-thigh in the front because of her massive belly, and left completely open on the sides.
Those attired, with shaking legs, she was led into a room and told to sit down in a chair. Mathew and Brother Wallace awaited her, they placed their hands on her head as another contraction began and began the confirmation prayer. Mariah tried not to moan as her legs spread apart, her massive belly sinking between them, covering her parts as her clothes seemed to do very little of that. She couldn’t help but push, and felt the massive baby within move further down. The contraction let up, then another came, and she pushed with it again, trying to stay quite so she wouldn’t disrupt the prayer.
Gosh, the baby was right there, right between her legs. It needed to be born. But she’d been grabbed by the arm and yanked to her feet before she could fully process the change. “Hurry now,” Sister Wallace said.
Practically naked, she was led through the temple, and back to the stairs. “No,” she moaned, leaning forward as another contraction started and she felt her nethers begin to sting. Her hand shot to her pussy, although she wasn’t sure if her intention was to support the baby or hold it in.
The contraction ended before she had to make up her mind, the stinging easing as the baby slipped back inside.
“It’s coming,” Mariah moaned.
Sister Wallace frowned. “Hold it in, or it will never be able to be in the celestial kingdom with you.”
Nodding, Mariah steeled herself, staring up at the spiral staircase. She’d do this.
Up and up she went, one stair at a time. Each time her leg went up and separated to reach the next step, she could feel the sting of the baby settling against her holds, then she’d bring her feet together and the stinging would ease. One contraction stopped her midway up, and she breathed hard. Do not push, do not push, she chanted to herself, as she pressed her hand against the head, supporting it, keeping it inside.
The top of the stairs opened to the women’s locker room, and inside that the initiatory. Another sister met her inside a curtain and told her to sit in the small waiting chair. Wish shaking legs, she sat, purposely tilting her pelvis so the chair put counter pressure on her baby, keeping it inside. Her hand when she finally pulled it away, was wet.
“Sister, having authority, I wash you preparatory to receiving your anointings for and behalf of Nephi Johnson, who is yet to be born, that youmay become clean from the sins of this generation,” the sister in this room said. Then with wet hands she placed her hand on Mariah’s head, blessing it, then her ears, then her eyes, then her nose, then her lips. A strange game of reverse head, shoulders knees and toes, each body part its own blessing.
“Your neck, that it may bear up your head properly,” the woman said, then she reached down inside the shield, resting her cold wet hands on Mariah’s shoulders. “Your shoulders that they may bear up the burdens that shall be placed thereon.” Then the hands moved further down, onto her back, then they slipped and rested on Mariah’s ample, aching breast, blessed to be a receptacle of pure and virtuous principles.
A contraction came as the hands rested on her stomach, and she zoned out, focusing on putting her weight against the head of the baby, keeping it inside as she tried and failed to not push. The hands were back on her contracting stomach, blessing her loins that “they may be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth, that you might have joy in your posterity.” It was all so much. She needed to give birth, she needed them to stop touching her.
She tilted her hips, lifting them up from the chair, and pushed. The crown grew. Her lips stung. Then another set of hands rested on her head and shoved her down. The growing crown hit the chair and was shoved back into her. She screamed as the second officiant sealed the blessings of the washing upon her.
Her ears rang through the next prayer, her body lost in the need to push. But then the touching started up again, though this time instead of cold water, it was slick oil. The anointing, preparatory to becoming a king and a high priest unto God.
Slick oil open her head, nose, her eyes, her neck, her breast, her back, her stomach, her loins, her feet. The hands lingered on her massive belly, caressing it, slathering it in slick oil.
Her body, frustrated with the denial, initiated another contraction. It seemed stronger than the others, desperate. And Mariah didn’t even try to stop it this time. As the hands rested on her head to seal the anointing upon her, she pushed. But she couldn’t get off the chair, couldn’t get it to move, the hands held her steady, pushing her down into the chair. A whine escaped her as the contraction ended and the baby remained just there.
Instructions were given, about the garments to wear, and then a new name was placed upon Nephi, though he hadn’t even officially received his first name.
It was over, finally. She could move on to the next step. Except—
It started over again, with the blessing. With the wet touching. Twins. She was having twins. She had to do everything twice. She gave in to the touching, groaning as the hands caressed her breasts and belly with both water and oil a second time. The touch turning from foreign to comforting as she searched for anything grounding, anything positive to help her through this.
Three contractions later, the babies still safely within, the initiatory was over. Mariah stood from the chair, legs spread wide to accommodate the head which lurched forward as soon as she stood. She barely wobbled out of the room, catching Sister Wallace’s shoulders to stead herself and instantly crouching and barring down.
The head eased forward, the stinging increased. The head was massive. Twins were supposed to be small. How was she supposed to get this out?
Then the contraction eased and the head went back inside, leaving her panting and sweaty, but with no progress to show for her efforts.
“Oh dear,” Sister Wallace said. “You seem quite far along. Don’t worry. I’ll help you get dressed for the next step. I’ll be with you each step of the way.”
Then Mariah was forced to walk the short way to the dressing room, gasping for breath, feeling the weight of the head between her thighs, her hips protesting the constant movement while being spread so far apart.
“We have special garments to help in situations like this,” Sister Wallace said. “Step in.”
Blind with pain, Mariah managed to get a foot up, then the next one as Sister Wallace pulled on some sort of white undergarment. It was a bit of a wrestle, but finally it was on, tight as can be and pure white, nestled just under her belly. Mariah paid very little attention as Sister Wallace put on her white temple dress, her long white socks, and white shoes, focusing on not passing out or throwing up from the pain.
“You’ve just got the endowment left,” Sister Wallace said, patting her on the shoulder.
If the endowment ceremony wasn’t two hours long, if she didn’t have to do it twice, that would have been more reassuring.
At least she didn’t have to climb another stairs, as she was led into the endowment room, women on one side, men on the other, the seats full except the one at the front nearest the white alter that sat in the front of the room, a man standing behind it, ready to officiate.
Mathew sat in the seat closest to the alter on the men’s side of the aisle.
They were to be the representative couple. No. That meant standing up and kneeling and. . . gosh, how was this possible? Why would god ask this of her? No. Obedience. It was a test of obedience. To prove she and her family deserved the blessings. She would do it. She would prove she was strong enough.
With Sister Wallace's help, she waddled down the aisle, legs spread, crotch stinging, and settled into the front seat. Instructions sounded on the speaker, then the movie began. It was a movie she’d seen hundreds of times, about the creation of the world and Adam and Eve, so she quickly lost herself in the pain of the contractions. As each one came, she tried not to push, breathing through it as the head pushed through her tender folds, then eased back in as the contraction ended, too big to get all the way through or stay out without her help.
She was jerked from her pained breathing and the rhythm of the heading coming in and out, by a tap on her shoulder. Sister Wallace sat beside her, pointing toward the altar where Mathew waited, the rest of the audience waiting impatiently, staring at her.
With a groan she eased herself to her feet, stumbled the few steps to the altar, and kneeled beside her husband. There she promised the officiant, who was standing in for God, that she would obey Adam (Mathew)’s law so long as he obeyed the Father’s.
Kneeling hurt her knees, and her huge stomach pressed into the altar. She had a skirt of fig leaves on under her belly, but she didn’t remember putting it on. Sister Wallace must have done it earlier. A contraction came as she kneeled, and with legs forced apart and with gravity helping, the baby came down. She couldn’t help but push, and gasped as the head shot out further than it had yet. Agony tore through her pussy and she couldn’t help but let out a gasp, barely muffling the full scream of pain that surged from her throat.
As soon as the contraction ended, however, the massive head began going back inside. The baby kicked, the feeling was wrong. Revulsion and agony surged through her body, and she tried to catch it, engaging her core muscles, stopping the baby in its tracks. There was pressure, something pushing back against the baby. As she slowly stood from the alter and headed back to her seat, the baby’s head brushing the inside of her thighs, she lost the push. The baby eased back inside her all the way. Tears filled her eyes.
She would have sunk to the floor right there in pain and despair, but Sister Wallace caught her and brought her back to her seat. “Don’t worry,” she whispered in Mariah’s ears. “Those special garments will keep that baby in, no matter how hard you push. It will be saved.”
The next contraction brought the baby to a full crown, then the garments immediately began pushing it back in once the pressure released. Desperately, Mariah kept pushing, trying to keep the head there so she wouldn’t have to experience the agony of it returning. But eventually, she had to breathe, giving up the fight. Nausea filling her chest and throat.
She had to stand again, to put on a hat and robe and other holy emblems. Then again to kneel at the altar. Then the altar again. The third time, as she knelt the baby’s head completely popped out, slipping off to one leg of the garment. As she stood, her cheeks red with embarrassment and exhaustion, the head pressed against her leg. She felt it as she walked, bowlegged back to her seat, but before she could sit down, Sister Wallace caught her arm.
Right. It was time to go up the stairs to the terrestrial room. Each step was agony, the shoulders shifting in her hip, her legs spread awkwardly around the head, which touched her thighs. A line of people waited behind her awkward shuffling, impatient. When a contraction hit, Sister Wallace kept pulling her up the stairs, not giving her time to push.
Her legs shook, each step torture, then they were at the top, and she was being pushed into a seat again. Sister Wallace frowned at her, and reached subtly under her dress as the rest of the people found their seats. Her hand slipped to the baby’s head that had somehow escaped the restrictive garment.
In a horrible flash, Mariah knew what was coming. “Please, don’t” she whispered. “Please.”
“We have to save your baby,” Sister Wallace responded, then her hand pressed on the babies head, forcing it inside.
Mariah opened her mouth to scream, but Sister Wallace’s other hand grabbed her jaw and forced her mouth closed. “This is a holy place,” she reminded Mariah. “You must be quiet.”
More standing and kneeling and contractions. Endless pain. Torture of another kind. She needed to push. Needed to give birth. How could she play Mother Even for this long, making covenants for her, and yet not be allowed to give birth?
The prayer circle finally came, the last bit until the end. Mathew grabbed her arm, and hauled her to her feet. Her legs trembled, the world swirled. “I can’t,” she whispered.
“This is for our babies,” Mathew said. “Please?”
Before she could say no, but how could she when she’d just promised God she’d obey him?, she was dragged to the front of the circle. The officiant said a prayer, she repeated what she said with the others in the circle, her legs spread awkwardly, the baby’s full crown bulging against the worn garments. Agony.
Then she was standing against the veil, making the tokens, with Sister Wallace whispering the right answers in her ears. She normally had these memorized, but she had no more brain power, no awareness except for the bulge in her pants and the desperate need to birth. Finally, it was over, she was through the veil.
“Very good,” Sister Wallace said, “just one more time through the endowment.”
“No,” Mariah begged, falling to her knees. “Please, I need to give birth. Please. To one of them. At least.”
Sister Wallace hesitated, then nodded. She reached out and pulled Mariah to her feet, in through the celestial room with its giant mirrors and massive crystal chandelier, then off to a small room to the side. It was all white, a single altar in the center.
Sister Wallace knelt down, under Mariah’s skirt, fumbling with the tight garment bottom. “You must push your legs together to get this off,” she said.
But the baby’s head was there, fully crowned. Her legs weren’t going anywhere. “I can’t,” Mariah whined.
“I’ll help.” Then once again, the worst feeling of her life, the baby’s head being shoved back in. Mariah did vomit then, falling to her knees, vision blanking. She woke up sprawled over the altar, her baby’s head in her pussy, the garment bottom’s finally, blissfully off.
“Push,” Sister Wallace ordered. “Quickly, the next endowment session is starting soon. Your husband is waiting.”
Exhausted, but relieved, she pushed. The head shot out, and she screamed at the sudden shift despite herself. Gasping for breath, she clung to the side of the altar, her fingers digging into the cushions to keep herself upright on her trembling legs. An agonizing few minutes of breathing as the shoulders turned, then more pushing, the first shoulder popped out, stretching her even more.
Big, so big. Mariah shifted, awkwardly on her knees forcing them further apart to make room for the second shoulder, then with a final massive push and gush of fluids, the baby fell from her, into the waiting hands of Sister Wallace.
Or no, another Sister in white had entered at some point. She came in, cut the cord, washed up the baby, while Sister Wallace was doing something down there. Mariah didn’t quite care what. She watched her baby, Nephi, as he cried, wrapped in a blanket, still smeared with unmentionables, but beautiful anyway. Perfect. And promised to her forever, no matter what he did.
Another contraction distracted Mariah from that holy moment. She groaned, feeling the next baby pressing down on her worn insides, already pushing through her dilated cervix.
Then something snapped shut around her waist and her eyes shot open. Mariah stared in betrayal at Sister Wallace as she stood back up and held a dainty hand to Mariah. The restrictive, birthing-proof garments were back on. “Come on then, you must save the other one still.”
“No, please. I can’t.” Mariah didn’t even think she could stand. Even kneeling was too much.
“You must, for your child. Come, you won’t be the witness couple this time. You can just sit through it.”
She had to drag Mariah to her feet. Mariah leaned on Sister Wallace heavily as they walked back down the halls, back to the first endowment room, the telestial room, painted with mountains and animals a plenty. Mathew waved at Mariah from where he sat, giving her a thumbs up.
The story of creation and Adam and Even droned on as the second baby dropped. It was moving much slower than before, the cramps having shifted to Mariah’s back more than her front. She leaned against the seat back, desperately seeking counter pressure as she pushed with each contraction. But it was getting harder and harder to do so.
Her body ached. Her head spun. She was so tired. Robotically, she obeyed the instructions from Sister Wallace to get through the session. By the time they needed to switch rooms, the second baby, the daughter presumably, was low again. This birth felt different somehow. Worse, slower. Maybe everything was harder because she was exhausted? Mariah wondered.
But as she stood and pressed her hand subtly to her bulging nethers, she felt something that was definitely not a head. Still it spread her apart plenty.
She was only two steps up to the next room when the next contraction hit. It was too much. Despite Sister Wallace’s support arm, Mariah’s legs gave out and she went down. She was too tired to scream, so she could only moan as something stretched her lips apart, only to be slowly shoved back in by the restrictive garments.
“Help,” she moaned. “Let me birth it, please.”
It took both Mathew and Sister Wallace to drag her limp, stumbling, exhausted body up the stairs and plop her in the seat for the next section. The contractions came and went, her body’s frantic, last push to get the baby out. The pressure and pain was awful, but the baby was stuck fast, spreading her lips wide apart, far wider than the son’s head. The garments were too worn by this time to push the baby back, it only held it, at the butt equivalent of a full crown, as the contractions continued on and on.
She zoned out in the pain, lost, distant. Until, at last she was pulled to her feet once more. The baby’s body brushed against her inner thighs as she was dragged to the front of the veil, muttered through the secrets, and was finally let inside. She didn’t have the energy to kneel, so she was laid across the altar.
Mathew was there this time, as Sister Wallace took off the garment bottoms, throwing Mariah’s skirts up, over her belly and out of the way.
Completely exposed, Mariah tried to look down to see what was happening, her legs propped up on either side of the altar on stools to keep them separate. She couldn’t have held them up, someone was doing it for her. Despite her efforts she couldn’t see over her misshapen belly.
“You are doing so good, I can see it,” Mathew assured her, from where he held one leg. “Push!”
The contraction came, and Mariah tried. The baby’s butt scooted forward a bit, then resumed its place, comfortable where it had been stuck for the last hour.
“Can’t,” she gasped out, head falling limply, once the contraction ended.
Then Mathew’s hand pressed down on her stomach, pushing hard. The increase in pain, the suddenly movement of the baby startled Mariah, she let out a squeak, and stopped pushing.
Mathew’s hand rested on her stomach. He leaned down, grabbed her chin, and forced her to look up at him. Then he forced his mouth on her, kissing her. She gasped at the contact, kissing back instinctively, unsure if it was too much or just the reassurance she needed. Then he pulled back. The next contraction came, contorting her stomach. She whimpered and tried to push, but she was too weak, too exhausted. The baby wasn’t moving!
“Keep pushing!” he commanded as he pushed.
Slowly, the baby’s butt slipped out of her straining, purpled lips. After three contractions, where she tapped out early, exhausted, heading spinning and he kept pushing on her stomach, the legs finally flopped out. She was too exhausted to even scream at that point.
Her world narrowed to pushing, to the sensation of her lips dragging across the stomach and arms of her baby. Until finally, it popped out, accompanied by another flash of fluids.
Done. No. The head. She still had the head.
Someone had grabbed the baby and was tugging at it from the other end, sending fire shooting all through her worn body. Her lips spread again, more and more. The lips, the nose, oozing slowly out of her. And then with a pop, and a final gush of fluids she was done. The baby was crying. Mathew was holding it, cooing. “Oh she’s perfect,” he whispered, holding the baby out to Mariah.
Mariah smiled. She’d done it. They were a family of four. Together. Forever.
🌲 forest
🏖️ beach
🏠 home
🚜 farm
🏢 office building
🏥 hospital
🛒 store
🚃 train/subway
🚗 car
🚌 bus
⛵ boat
✈️ plane
🧭 other (requestor specify)
MANNER OF DENIAL
🩲 tight clothing
🫴 holding head
🖐️ pushing baby back in
🔒 chastity belt
🪢 legs tied together
🤸 bad positions
💬 being told not to push
🛑 refusing to push
💊 medication
🔌 plug/other toy
🚩 forced denial
🏳️ willing denial
🃏 other (requestor specify)
POSITIONS
🧍 standing
🪑 sitting
🧎 kneeling
🙇 all fours
🛌 laying down
🦵 squatting
💧 water birth
🧘 other (requestor specify)
want to sit in your lap while you baby me through every contraction, want to cry into your chest while rub my swollen pregnant pussy against your thigh, i don’t know what’s happening but the urge to push is taking over me, want to tell you, whine that it feels weird daddy, somethings coming out-! would you ask me, so sweetly, if i’m pushing? would you scold me, ask me- did daddy tell you you could do that? would you help me push or do you think i look cute holding back?
-🐶
Mmmmmh, yes, I'd love to hold you on my lap while you labor, to press your head against my chest and whisper encouragement in your ear as I work you through the contractions one by one. I'd keep you in the dark about *everything* that's going on - about why your stomach has been getting bigger and bigger, why you've been having all these cramps in your belly, why you've been feeling all this pressure and what you can do to stop it. I'll just hold you on my lap, rubbing my hands on your belly and helping you rock your hips against me as the contractions come one after the other.
"Therrrrrre you go, baby. Are you pushing now? Is it too much for you?" I can feel your body stiffening against mine - I know what the answer is, but I want to hear you say it. Maybe you'll be good and admit it, or, maybe, you'll just stubbornly shake your head. "No, baby, we can't be doing that." I'll tip your face up towards mine, let my eyes meet yours. "I know it's hard, but I want you to hold back for me, okay?" I'll help guide your hips to move a little more against me. "Thaaaaaaat's it, baby, just pant through it. Just pant through it for me, there you go." I can feel your body struggling to hold back as you feel something *huge* and *heavy* moving down inside your hips, see tears leaking from your eyes as you fight so hard to be good for me. "Perfect, perrrrrrrrrfect, just grind on my thigh, baby." I'll pull your head close to me again, let your tears soak into my shirt. "Just keep panting and grinding alllllll that pressure away, just pant and grind, baby."
As the contraction ends, I'll slow your movement down a little to help you relax against me, run my fingers through your hair, whisper softly in your ear how well you're doing, how you're being so, *so* good holding back for this long. Then, for the next contraction, we'll do it all again. And the next one. And the next. And the next. You'll feel that pressure come and go, again and again, as that huge mass moves slowly, sloooooowly down inside you, until you can feel it just starting to press against your lips. And it'll stay there, no matter how much you squirm and pant and moan, no matter how many contractions you struggle your way through, as I keep you firmly in place on my thigh, as you hold your own baby inside you in search of comfort from me.
It won't last forever, of course. There'll be time, eventually, for me to help spread your legs wide open, to count down from ten while you bear down with all your might, for you feel yourself burn and stretch and burn some more as you open up, bit by bit, for the head of our baby. But, not right now. Right now, I want to keep you just like this, to hear you panting and moaning and whimpering against my chest, to help you press the head inside again each time you grind your hips, to keep you just like this, moaning and panting and so *unbearably* adorable while you're stuck in labor, just a little bit longer.
Content: birth denial, pushing the baby back in, erotic /orgasmic birth
When Sam woke up to the feeling of her first real contraction, she was nothing less than ecstatic. The timing was perfect, her husband would be returning from a week long out of town business trip around lunchtime, which left her with plenty of time to have everything ready for his return. They might even have time to eat dinner together before things really picked up and the baby arrived. It was going to be perfect.
When her water broke with a splash across the hardwood only an hour later, followed immediately by a contraction so severe it brought her to her knees, she began to doubt her projected timeline.
How long she stayed there, clutching at her belly and trying to remember those breathing excercises she'd found online, she wasn't sure, but she'd barely managed to get up and make it to the storage closet to get the mop when another contraction was upon her, making fluid drip down her thighs. With her water broken, the pressure had eased some, sure, but the tradeoff came with being painfully aware of the feeling of her baby's head grinding mercilessly against her cervix.
It was a slow, painful process, mopping up the mess, and by the time the fifteen minute chore was done, she'd groaned her way through three more contractions, each more painful than the last. Trying to compose herself, she shot a text off to her husband, only to get the notification that it had not been delivered. He was probably still on the plane. All she could do was wait.
Her baby, however, had no such intentions.
It still was an hour before noon when Sam felt the urge to push. She was squatting by the couch, rolling her hips through the latest contraction, when the band of her cervix must have finally effaced enough, and the head began to slide into her canal, accompanied by her body's demand to bear down.
"No, no, no, no, no!" Her wails fell on deaf ears as she dropped to the floor, squeezing her legs togather as tightly as she could. The baby couldn't come if there wasn't any room. It was a panicked, desperate thought, but it was all she had.
She rode out at least ten contractions that way, sat on the floor, writhing screaming and doing everything within her power to not push. She could do this. She could just not push. Her husband would be home any minute. He had to be, right?
The phone rang, somewhere behind her, and without thinking she turned. The moment of movement, just enough to spread her legs the barest bit, was all her body needed, and Sam was wailing at the feeling of the head forcing its way through her cervix.
Phone forgotten, Sam cried as her legs fell open, unable to keep them closed anymore. She felt the head moving down, down down, her lips beginning to bulge with the sheer size of the head behind them. Helpless to do anything else, she put both hands between her legs, as if she could physically hold back her child from emerging. It was of little use, though, and only two contractions later and her body was beginning to open in spite of her best efforts. Her baby was coming.
Panic. It was sheer, unadulterated panic that made her grab for the couch, dragging one of the large pillows to the floor. Before she could think, before she could consider what she was doing, she hauled herself up onto her knees, whimpering as gravity made the head open her more, wedged the pillow between them and sank down.
The feeling of the head being forced backwards into her body was indescribable, the noise that came out of her nothing more than animal agony. Her vision darkened around the edges for several seconds, until everything seemed to settle at once. She was still shaking with pain, of course, but the head was safely within her body. That was what mattered, and as long as she kept her weight on the pillow, it would have no way of moving until her husband got home. Everything was fine.
She got into a rhythm, then. The contraction would come, and she'd raise her hips, pushing until she began to feel that dreaded ring of fire. The moment the burn started, she'd drop back down onto the pillow, nudging the head back in until the next contraction. And then she made a different kind of mistake.
Her hips had begun to ache, both from the body currently lodged between them and the position, and she'd shifted in an attempt to regain some kind of comfort, when the soft pillowcase had dragged across her clit.
Maybe her poor body was simply overstimulated in every way, maybe the prolonged abuse of her most sensitive area had sent extra bloodflow to the little nub, maybe she was just fucking broken, but the contact sent sparks up her spine. She rolled her hips again, finally moaning in something other than agony.
It was impossible not to chase the pleasure, the fullness between her legs and the overwhelming pressure of the enormous head only amplifying her ecstacy as she rode the high farther and farther from the pain, an orgasm coiling in her gut. She was going to cum, she was going to come so fucking hard-
The burn of the head opening her into a yawning crown made her shriek, dropping her weight back down onto the pillow and sobbing until the head receded. when again, her aching slit pressed flat against the pillow, she began to rock again, doing her hardest to work herself back toward the edge.
She lost count quickly. Of how many times she'd nearly cum. Of how many times she'd defied her every instinct and felt her child recede into her abused body. Of how many times she'd felt the head nearly pop free, her oversensitive hole fluttering and twitching around the mighty stretch. It was so close. She was so close. It was too much. Too, too much.
She was going to die like this, she was sure, drowning in pain and pleasure and need. Need to birth. Need to cum. Need for this to end. Need for it to never end.
In the end, she was so far gone that she missed the sound of her liberation entirely. She missed the sound of the lock turning, of hurried footsteps, of her husband's gasp that might have been horror or arousal or awe all in one. She was deaf to the sound of his voice, the sound of it humming her name so sweetly lost beneath the hoarse, desperate scream that escaped her as she retreated once again from the brink of release.
What she was aware of, however, was the sudden feeling of the pillow being removed from between her legs, gently, slowly, but the result was immediate.
The head surged to stretch her to the widest diameter it had yet and she howled, hands reaching between her legs frantically as she fought to hold it in, to stimulate herself, to do anything, anything.
Large, warm hands seized hers forcefully, and for the first time she became aware of her husband's presence.
"It's- I- coming... I'm- oh god..." She sobbed, tears streaming down her face as she buried herself in the shoulder of the man kneeling in front of her, the man she'd done everything in her power to wait for. He was encouraging her to push, she was aware, distantly, and as if her body itself had been waiting permission, it happened.
She shrieked as the head popped out with a gush of fluid, triggering the most intense orgasm she'd ever experienced, her jaw falling slack, body twitching as in one mighty heave a truly massive set of shoulders slid free, followed immediately by a rush of movement that made her thrash as her twelve pound daughter dropped into her husband's hands, and the rest of the world went dark.
I’ve been looking and I can’t seem to find anything so I’ve decided to ask the community, are there any other sites you go to for birth denial content? Also feel free to tag blogs that have this content as well!
Birth denial is pretty hard to find unfortunately, which is why I write it!
If you’re reading this and are a birth denial kink blog, reblog it!
i wish i had a huge baby lodged deep in my birth canal and someone had their hand over my cunt keeping me from pushing it out </3 keeping me groaning and crying in labour for as long as they see fit
Mmmmm, fuck, I'd love to hold a huge baby deep inside you while you push against me, while you moan and struggle and push again and again with everything you have, while you fight so hard, so fruitlessly to try to get your baby out, while you give in to the pressure and just bear down against my hand even though you know it won't help. It's going to be a long, looooooong time before you have this baby, I hope you're ready <3
honestly i have. no idea how to interact on here cries
but if any of you guys here primarily post like. birth kink esp orgasmic/pleasurable birth stuff do u mind rbing? esp other trans men/transmascs, i wanna find my people
Dumb puppy who went though the entire pregnancy clueless and once the they go into labour gets the bare-bones, SparksNotes version of what's happening, coming to the completely logical conclusion that the best way to stop the pain from the baby stretching open it's cunt is to push it back in whenever it comes out.
“sir it hurts really bad when it comes out so ive been pushing it in but its not going away :(“
Wanna keep you wide and gaping, legs pulled so wide apart pushing is nearly impossible to resist. You’ve been at 10 cm for hours now, but I keep murmuring how wonderful you are. How amazing you’re able to resist your own body without me having to do so much as restrain you, though I know in a few hours I’ll have to have a hand between your legs to impede your progress. Not even you can resist such unbearable pressure forever.
For the birth asks:
> 1. How long would you want to push for?
You can break it down between reality and fantasy and time spent bringing the head down vs crowning if you'd like.
Reality I'd want to have a quick easy birth, like most people I guess. I'd really struggle to handle the crowning at all.
Fantasy wise I'd want both getting the head to descend and crowning to take several hours but spend more time crowning. I think the idea of being stuck crowning for hours while I struggle to stretch enough is 🔥.
Completely exhausted from pushing for hours just to be told the head is right there and I can "really start" trying to get the baby out. Feeling the burning just get worse as I can't do anything but push. It's not realistic but having to labor for days is so hot to me.
how to properly care for your kittyboy? -bulgingpushh
I think what a lot of people don't understand about kittyboys is that they need to be bred *continuously*. As many babies as possible, as big as possible, as soon as possible. It's frankly abusive if you don't fill your kittyboy with big enough babies or, god forbid, if you make him *wait* between pregnancies.
There's some special considerations to keep in mind as well for when your kittyboy goes into labor. It's completely normal and expected for kittyboys to have very long, difficult births, but there *are* some things you can do to help yours be more comfortable. I'd suggest making a nest out of soft pillows and blankets, bringing water and snacks if he's hungry while he's working hard to have your babies.
Tight kittyboy holes and huge heads can be a recipe for trouble if you're not careful, so it's strongly recommended that you take an active role in the birthing process. Make sure he keeps his legs nice and wide so you can see what's going on, and don't be afraid to press a hand over the head if you think he might need to slow things down. Soothing words and soft, gentle touches will be a big help here, especially with his first birth. Kittyboys are built to handle long, difficult labors, so I'd advise you to err well on the side of caution if you think you need to slow things down with any of his babies - or if you think he's just *too adorable* when he's in labor and you want to keep him like that a while longer. I know my kittyboy has had some difficult babies and some very long births and he was just fine afterwards, so don't be afraid *at all* to take things slowly.
One final note, for both current and prospective owners, is that kittyboys *do* sometimes need assistance to get their babies out. If you haven't purchased an at-home kit to handle these issues yourself (which I recommend), you might have to take them to a vet instead. While the bills for this can be steep, and your kittyboy might be sore and uncomfortable afterward, it's important nonetheless to put more babies in him right away again.
If there is one point I cannot stress enough, it is this: Kittyboys. Need. To. Be. Bred. They need to feel their bellies swelling, to feel new life growing inside them on a constant basis. They need to give birth, again and again, to push hard, over and over, to bulge and stretch and crown their babies one by one, to feel a calming, gentle owner slowly guide each head out of their hole and into the world. To leave a kittyboy un- or non-pregnant is ruinous to their mental health. If you're reading this, breed your kittyboy right this minute.
