Fuck me into Labor

@hornyandpreggokitty

NSFW 18++ || Currently heavily pregnant in my alternative universe || 28F || Asian || Formerly @preggokitty and an backup account for @hornypreggokitty

1,302 posts

Formerly @preggokitty

Backup account @poppreggokitty

#kitty's scribble

What do you think about people who don't know that they are pregnant, ignoring their cramps, bad this month, suddenly feeling the urge to push, thinking they are taking the dump of their life until they are crowning hard. How do they comprehend the fullness in their birth canal?

Did their partner guess or are they both shooketh?

And when the hind brain takes over and all they can do is grunt and groan and push for their life, gripping their partner and squatting desperately trying to widen their legs.

Does their partner help hold them steady and kiss them through a surprise orgasm as the mystery slides through their cunt?

loveeee cryptic preg so much.

you're in a little bit of denial, admittedly— something is definitely off, but you couldn't be pregnant. it doesnt make sense. doesnt fit. there's only a small little bloat that juts out from between your hips, and its not even noticeable unless you're naked. it never grows, never moves, and there's never any other symptoms—feeling tired, feeling sick, feeling an odd flutter deep in your belly now and then; it's all explainable. it all goes away.

until it doesn't.

"what- jesus, baby, what the fuck is going on?"

your partner comes home to find you kneeling on the bathroom floor, your plans to sweat your way out of the cramps abandoned as soon as your water had broken, everything clicking into place as you'd watched the fluid gushing down your thighs. you'd been dressed in nothing but your underwear and one of your partner's t-shirts—the shirt is now rucked up underneath your breasts, and you've only managed to work your panties down as far as the tops of your thighs, creating a small sliver of space for the head that's emerging from your bulging cunt, stretching out the flimsy, sodden fabric.

"'fucks it look like," you grunt. one hand clings to the edge of the bathroom sink and the other to the rim of the tub, and your knuckles turn white around them both as you let your chin fall to your chest and push. you've spread your knees as far as you can, thighs quivering violently on either side of your gaping sex, labia and perineum protuding quite significantly as the head- god, you hope its the head, you hadnt even thought to check, but then again, you hadnt even realized you were giving birth until you had the hefty mass of an infant in your vagina- slowly grinds through your birth canal. "w-we can talk... nnngh, la-aaater. gotta pushhh."

"shit. shit!"

they frantically run a hand through their hair as they shed their jacket and scramble to kneel in front of you, placing one hand on each of your thighs. "can you spread a bit wider for me, baby? maybe get your panties down? you need to let me see what's going on."

"can't," you bite out. you bring one hand down to slide your panties to the side and press two fingers inside of you, letting out a small gasp as you brush against... something. the mass is hard, and a little more exploration confirms it is, in fact, the head. and fuck, it's even bigger than you thought. was it possible you were overdue? the sheer size of it made you feel as though you had to be. "t-the head is right here." the next contraction comes with no warning, and you let out a thin scream as you bear down, your fingers sliding out of your yawning pussy in another trickle of bloody fluid. the head sits just behind the enterance of your tightly furled slit, and you grit your teeth as you stuggle to clear it through your unrelenting lips. "pus-s-shinggg."

"okay. uh, that's good, baby! you're doing really well." your partner slides their hands up and down your thighs, massaging the shaking muscles as you scream and howl your way through each push, completely lost to your animal instincts. "i'm so proud of you, love. look at you. you know exactly what you're doing. you're- oh, good push, baby! that's it!"

something finally seems to give way, and you throw your head back and shriek as the head begins to crown. "burning! holy fuckkk." the tight tissue of your pussy stretches and stretches and stretches, burning white-hot as more and more of the head slides free. "its so fucking big."

your partner gentlely eases you back onto your heels, their eyes going almost comedically wide as they get a clear view of your battered sex, gaping around a half-born, posterior, and clearly very overdue head. the width of the skull alone is at least two inches across, and even the size of the brow is massive. "it is," they agree. "and they're sunny side up, baby. its facing the wrong way, but- no, no, dont panic! its coming. you're getting it out. one more big push for the rest of the head- can you do that for me?"

you nod your head in agreement, but your body has already begun bearing down. "mmmm, coming o-out," you grunt, squeezing your eyes shut as you pause for a second to take in another breath before you shove down hard. the head lingers for a moment as your pussy stretches around the nose and then the mouth before your tissues finally give way and slip over the chin, leaving you a sobbing wreck with a giant head dangling between your thighs, cushioned only by your panties.

"oh god, oh god, oh godddd. I can't stop pushing! I can't stoppp-hnnnnnng."

your instincts are screaming at you to slow down (it might not even be your instincts- it might just be your partner), trying to warn you that you're going to tear, but the weight in your birth canal and the squirming of the unexpected infant and the stretch and the burn as your pussy opens around it is all too much to bear.

"gotta. get it. outttt."

with one final push, the shoulders and body pop free, sliding out in a massive rush of fluid. for one single breadth of a second, the room is totally still and silent, and then a thin wail rises up from the bulging stretch of your underwear, joining your own relieved sobs.

your partner laughs, leaning in to kiss you as they untangle the baby from your panties and pass them up to you between your spread thighs. "well... that was quite a welcome home, I must say."

"and how was your day?"

ruthlessly fingering you while you give birth and mocking, "go on, push. i know you want the baby out, so just fucking push. why are you crying? don't you want to give birth? don't you want to get it out of you? then why aren't you pushing? can't you take it? you were made for this. you can take it. stop squirming. can you fit another finger? yes you can, don't lie to me. you're about to fit an entire baby through. you're such a little bitch, listen to those sobs. why did you stop pushing? do you want to give birth or not? well that's too fucking bad because it's happening. keep pushing."

Imagine birthing trying to close her legs and wailing as it keeps being pried open by the massive head of her baby

constantly thinking about this because its so good in so many different situations

a car birth where she sits curled over her belly, ankles crossed and trembling thighs pressed tightly together, teeth sunk deep into her bottom lip as she fights the urge to cry out, too scared to do anything that might ease the head down any further; one little moan, one gasp, and the crown begins to part her lips, forcing her to bring her hands down to hold her thighs together as her partner reassures her that they're nearly to the hospital ("just breathe, baby, breathe")

a public birth where she sits in a café or a restaurant with one leg crossed tightly over the other, the hem of her fluid soaked skirt bunched up around her thighs as she rocks back and forth in her chair, moaning loudly as one contraction bleeds into the next and her partner frantically tells her to breathe and that help is coming

(but not nearly as quickly as the head, which has fully crowned into her underwear, and certainly not in time: "too- hnnnng- late, its almost out!")

an extremely rapid unassisted home birth where she lays on her side, sobbing into a pillow as she clenches her thighs together, wailing that she has to push and that the head is coming but that she can't do it alone and that she needs her midwife—she never ends up having to push or even move; the head barrels through her birth canal and emerges to a full crown in under a minute, and she screams as her thighs part just enough for the rest of the head and the body to slither out in a gush of fluid

an erotic birth where she lays propped up by pillows with her ankles and legs bound with silk ties, screaming in pain and ecstasy as the head crowns as far as it can before the pressure of the bindings force it to slip back inside her hole, creating a delicious wave of pressure that brings her to orgasm each time ("f-feels... nnng, so full, oooh, i-its coming, here it comes!")

patronums-deactivated20231125

✨CREAMPIES✨

Reblog if you agree

When hes planning to pull out but waits too long before he’s already cumming, realizes it feels so good that he cant move and is stuck on top of you moaning loudly and apologizing while filling you up. In your pleasured haze of being right on the verge of finishing, you feel him move to pull out but slip all the way back inside suddenly, then stay there twitching and groaning. A thrill of ecstasy runs through you and you cum hard around his cock, your legs instinctively wrapping around him and pulling him deeper inside of you. The feeling of his hot cum is like nothing else, and the tight pulsing around his cock draws his climax out longer and sucks his seed into your ovulating womb. The both of you ride out this extended high together, and know this was exactly what you were trying to avoid but cant help to enjoy every second of the pleasure. Youre thinking about spending the rest of the night throwing any leftover threads of caution out the window and doing everything your bodies desire.

Having hickies during pregnancy is so good because it's like. Being pregnant is already a public declaration of how good you've been fucked, but so many people seem to think that the sex stops at conception. Having a hickey is publicly declaring that not only did you have sex good enough to get knocked up, but you're still going at it, because being pregnant makes you feel beautiful and sexy and so so fucking horny. Not only did this happen, but it made you feel good enough to do it again. It's showing off not just a breeding kink but a full and proper pregnancy kink.

Rape isn't just about scary strangers hiding in bushes, you know. If a girl tells you to stop while you're already fucking her, and you keep going, that's rape. If she tells you to put on a condom, and you decide not to once she's on her knees facing the other way, that's rape too.

That's what makes it so much fun.

You can still rape a girl once she's willingly spread her legs for you: just give her a little more than she can handle, and watch the fear in her eyes when she realizes it's not under her control. You can make a girl come while you're raping her bare, and she won't know she came on her rapist's cock until she feels the warmth of your seed inside her. You can savor every moment of her moaning and begging and squeezing around you, and be sure she won't ever forget just how much she loved it.

And you can claim her womb like that, too. Watch her eagerly open up for you, not knowing how helpless she's going to feel soon, as she's taking your cum. You can give her one everlasting moment: the moment she realizes that she's being raped, and that she's going to be a mother.

'Weight of the Heir' - a one-shot

You were not made for this.

You were made for silk and candlelight. For ink-stained letters in your father's hand reading it is done. For arriving in a territory with no shared language, clasping hands with a man whose palms were rough as oak bark and whose eyes were—unexpectedly—kind.

He was gentle with you. Patient. He learned your language word by word while you learned his world meal by meal. The warlord everyone feared placed furs beneath your sleeping mat without being asked. That kindness deserved more than the seven months it was given.

The messenger arrived mud-splattered and breathless. You understood the word for fallen before the translation came.

They sent you home. Your father's men rode for weeks to retrieve you from the tribal lands, bundling you into a carriage with looks of pity you did not yet understand. You rode back through your own gates in silence. Your castle. Your country. Your cold stone walls that suddenly felt enormous and empty.

You stood in your chambers. You did not weep. You did not yet know there was reason to.

Now you understand.

You are enormous. There is no dignified word for it. Your slender frame—built for corridors and horseback—has been overtaken. Your womb is a country unto itself, taut and straining, and the child fills every inch of it. You press your palm sideways across your belly and there is simply no give. No room. Your organs have been shoved aside like furniture rearranged by an ungrateful guest. You eat and feel the food stolen almost immediately—your body is a treasury this child plunders without asking, leaving you dizzy, anemic, operating on whatever scraps remain after the tyrant within takes its tax.

It kicks. Not flutters. Not the gentle quickening the court ladies described. This child pounds. You can see the skin distend with each strike—a heel, an elbow, something asserting dominance from inside your body. Your bladder is a hostage. Your spine has curved into a question mark with no answer. You sleep sitting upright in your canopied bed because lying down means the weight crushes your lungs until your vision spots.

This child is his. You see it in the size. In the strength. The warlord's blood runs thick and relentless through whatever is growing inside you, and your delicate pelvis was never designed to—

You stop the thought there.

You cannot afford to finish it.

Your ladies attend you with cool cloths and widened eyes. The court physician examines you with practiced hands and his brow furrows deeper each visit. He does not speak much. You have learned to fear silence from educated men.

The child is healthy, he says.

And me? you ask.

He adjusts his spectacles. He writes something in his ledger. He does not answer in a way that answers.

Your midwife—brought from the village, a woman with hands like leather and four decades of births—presses her palms to your belly and her expression shifts. First curiosity. Then something carefully neutral. Then she looks toward the physician across the chamber in a way that makes your throat close.

Big, she says.

Very big, the physician agrees, and does not elaborate.

You have heard stories of noble births. Your mother's ladies whispered them by firelight when they thought you were sleeping. Women who pushed for days. Women whose frames betrayed them. Women who labored until the candles burned down and the priests were called and then the candles were replaced and the priests remained. You did not understand then. You understand now.

You cannot stop your hands from drifting to the underside of your belly, cradling it, feeling the sheer mass of what you carry. The skin is thin and streaked. The child has dropped now—low, heavy, its head pressing against your cervix like a fist against a door. Every step through your own corridors sends a jolt through you. Every step reminds you that what waits above your pelvis is a skull. A large skull. A skull that must pass through bone.

You know the mechanics. You wish you didn't.

You think about crowning. You cannot stop thinking about crowning—that moment when the widest part of the head meets the narrowest part of you and stalls. The burning. The tearing. The stretch that has a limit and a cost. You think about being stuck—half-delivered, screaming in your own bedchamber, the child too large and your frame too small and the pain simply plateauing because nothing moves and nothing gives.

You think about exhaustion. About pushing until your strength runs dry and the child remains. About the midwife and the physician exchanging those looks again while you shake and burn and cannot.

Your father visited yesterday. Stood in the doorway of your chamber. Looked at the swell of you and said nothing. You are carrying the heir of a dead warlord in a castle that was meant to hold your husband's alliance and instead holds only his legacy. Political or otherwise.

You sit in your canopied bed, enormous and terrified, a duchess in silk, and the warlord's child rolls beneath your ribs like a siege engine preparing for the only wall it cannot breach.

You press both hands to your belly.

You breathe.

You have no choice but to breathe.

Queen who plays around with the wrong servant boy at the wrong time and ends up pregnant. The king knows it's not his - it couldn't be his - and that would probably be more of a problem if he didn't find it so damn hot that she's carrying a bastard.

He fucks her good and hard, just the way she needs it, while telling her what a slut she is for getting knocked up with some commoner's child and how he ought to put twins in her next time just to show who's in charge. She would feel more humiliated if it weren't the best sex of her life.

She notes that the king didn't fire the servant boy this time, and hopes he'll still be here when she's ready to have a child next...

Is this anything?

The novice nun went from catholic school straight to the convent without any sex education. Luckily the priest saw that she would be perfectly suited to pregnancy, and decided it was only fair that she be given the chance to unlock her full potential. She had no idea that the fun time she had bouncing on his lap in the confessional would come to this...

Nine months later, she's mostly managed to hide her growing bump inside her habit, but had to bind her breasts down as they grew thick with milk in anticipation of the baby that she's tried VERY HARD not to think about. But her body isn't going to let her off the hook.

It's shortly after bedtime on Saturday when she realises something is happening. She's been ignoring the cramps all day but she can definitely feel it sitting lower in her hips now. And she keeps getting this urge to push...

She pushes through the night, alone in her dark cell, being as quiet as possible not to alert any other nuns to her plight. She alternates between lying with her legs pulled up as high as they'll go, and crouching by her bed straining, a blanket between her clenched teeth to muffle the groans, in a perverse kind of reversal of her regular nightly prayer pose.

With horror she realises that the dawn is arriving, and the bell is soon going to ring for the nuns all to go to the chapel. In the silent break between contractions, she can hear the nun in the next cell rummaging around getting ready for the day.

Desperately she reaches down between her legs to feel the head which has been stuck at an almost-crown for hours now. She pushes harder and harder as quietly as she can, in perfect agony.

The bells begin to ring. There's nothing she can do, she can't go down to prayers like this. So she stays where she is and labours, missing the Sunday service, the important one.

The head is finally, blessedly, nearly out when the door opens. She looks to see the mother superior standing in the doorway, in some shock at the sight of the novice nun flat on her bed, one leg braced on the wall and the other pulled up to her chest, with a baby's head nearly hanging out of her.

Red-faced, she looks at the mother superior, panting with the effort. Mother superior says nothing, but closes the door behind her and folds her arms, settling back to watch the show.

The novice has no choice but to keep pushing, now knowing there are eyes watching every movement, every puff and groan and push and strain. And she has no idea where she'll stand at the end of it, whether she'll be allowed to continue novice training, or get thrown out onto the street. But she can't think about that right now, with this head splitting her in two.

She keeps pushing.

this is so hot thank you anon

keep-going-its-ok

“Birthing is supposed to hurt” is the hottest thing anyone could ever say to me while I’m pushing. Send post.

fables-of-new-life-deactivated2

"So what kind of pregnancies do you enjoy in a story or RP?"

"Big, chunky, singletons."

dom who catches you cheating and punishes you by immediately raping you pregnant and locking you up in their basement until you give birth because even if your heart doesn't belong to them your body sure as fuck will.

darkchocolatetreat4u

DM if you are interested.

pleasure-victim

I genuinely love the concept of not being able to stop pushing. You don’t want to feel your birth canal stretched from within but you can’t stop it, your body is forcing you to push this huge baby out against your will. You try to hold it back, try to close your legs or grip the bedsheets, but the urge is so strong that you can’t ignore it. Even as the growing bulge between your legs starts burn deeper, you continue to bear down until you’re crying out, “I’M PUSHIIIIINNNGGG!!”

Fuck me into Labor @hornyandpreggokitty - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag