Just a breeding blog @justchrisstuff - Tumblr Blog

About me:

North-european guy who's very much into impregnation, pregnancy and lactation. Open for almost anything: ANR/ABF, donor/breeding or roleplay.

Love to meet like-minded people.

Also dabble a little bit in drawing and writing stories.

#justchrisstuff

alliecat8888

Missionary. Forced eye contact. Telling me how you want to fill me up, how good I’m taking you, how big you want me with your babies.

curvycryptiic

date idea: you (horny), me (ovulating) & no condoms

belgian-breeder

kittykatesavior

😇🤫 I’ve been hiding a secret.

gorgeous-women-always

sizebreed

I'm always saying this

hornypreggobelly90

I wish I'd been a fucking slut nine months ago

I wish I was hugely round, knocked with an unplanned pregnancy, my low and heavy belly and huge lactating tits straining against a sweater as my family judges me for getting knocked up and not knowing who my baby daddy is

I wish I was having contractions that I'm denying are getting longer and stronger and closer together all day long

I wish that right before we all go to have dinner, I stand up, clutch my huge belly and my maternity pants get fucking soaked as my water bursts and gushes from my laboring pussy

I wish that by the time the EMTs arrive I'm laying on the living room floor, screaming as a huge baby crowns between my spread legs

sticklysweets

Ughhh (⁠*⁠﹏⁠*⁠;⁠) I just want my boobs to swell up and absolutely wreck my shirt and bra so the only way I can cover myself is with my hands but they just get even larger and mass amounts of cleavage spills over my hands but suddenly my hands aren't even enough to hold my gigantic jiggling breasts back. My boobs bounce and jiggle with every breath and then I feel something leaking from my puffed up nipples and it feels so good. An egregious amount of milk just squirts from my giant breasts getting everywhere including myself fully soaking my clothes with milk making them stick to every curve of my body and borderline see through ♡⁠˖⁠꒰⁠ᵕ⁠༚⁠ᵕ⁠⑅⁠꒱

growth-opportunities

"Sooooo.... You gonna milk me, or what? Come on, after staring at my udders all afternoon, you pick now to act shy? It's okay! I wouldn't wear this top with these boobs if I didn't want you to look. Plus, you had to have noticed that I'm not wearing a bra, either; these big fucking things have been bouncing and swinging and squishing and jiggling all over the place! I'm sure there's something else you noticed, right? Something swell? Something expansive? No? You're gonna... Okay. Think back to how I looked when I first got here, when snuck that first look at my boobs. Now compare that to how I look now, stretching and spilling out of this top. Notice anything different? ...There we go! This whole date, I've been filling up with milk, my boobs getting bigger and fuller and sloshier by the second. Honestly, it's kind of a miracle that I haven't started leaking though this top. I feel so full! I did it on purpose, you know. I figured, if the date went well, and I thought you were cool, you could help me. Help drain the milk from these big, juicy tits. If not, I'd go home and just milk myself. But you passed my little test and, hun, I need you. Don't be shy now. I know you've been wanting to do this since you first saw me. So go ahead. Grab my udders. Squeeze them. Suck on them. Tug on my nipples. Whatever you want, just don't stop until you've squeezed out every last drop. I might make some unusual noises but that's, mmf, j-just encouragement to keep g-going. Fuck, I'm really starting to f-feel it. It's now or never. Milk me like the fucking cow I am!"

growth-opportunities

littlebitboredxx

fillingyourighttothebrim

I love that you can see how puffy her areolas are right through her shirt. You know she was a petite little thing with itty bitty titties but you’ve made her blossom so well with your seed. She’s reminded of all those cream pies she took while you drilled her into the mattress every time her swollen tits ache (which is probably constantly).

fillupthisjude

Knocking up someone who’s significantly shorter and slimmer than you and watching them balloon outwards with your baby, knowing with your taller frame they’ll be as wide and they are tall

Knocking up someone who’s much taller than you and dripping in curves, getting to watch as the further along they get the more astounding your size difference is

fillupthisjude

As much as I love an overdue bump and imagining how pregnant I would be in the final stages, I love imagining the early days. How soon would my chest start to swell? How early would my hips start to ache knowing they’re getting wider? How soon would I start to show and actually look pregnant instead of like I had just gained some weight?

abellyfool

A greedy pregnancy

I dedicate this to @lilycorinth , a great inspiration with her pregnancy and her writing!

Imagine this happening.

You are thirty-eight weeks and four days pregnant with octuplets. The number is still absurd—a statistical near-impossibility made flesh, made your flesh, stretched and swollen beyond any reasonable limit. You cannot remember what it felt like to see your own feet, to bend at the waist, to roll over in bed without a symphony of groans and your partner's strong hands guiding you.

But these are your babies. Your eggs. Your partner's sperm. Eight tiny lives, each one a perfect fusion of the two of you, growing inside the warm, crowded cathedral of your womb.

It runs in your family, this unnatural fertility. Your own body was always prone to releasing multiple eggs each cycle, a genetic quirk that made you a walking miracle. But you didn't stop there. You pursued IVF, pumping yourself full of hormones to override even nature's generous limits. The ovarian stimulation was brutal—daily injections that left your ovaries swollen and tender, your belly bloated and aching before any baby was even conceived. But the egg retrieval yielded an astonishing number of mature eggs. Then came the fertilization, the waiting, the transfer. Eight perfect embryos took hold. Eight.

You wanted this. You wanted to be pushed to the absolute edge of what a human body could contain.

You don't know how you'll manage after they're born. Eight newborns, eight mouths to feed, eight tiny bodies to hold and bathe and love. The thought is overwhelming, terrifying, absurd. But you push it aside every time it surfaces. Right now, in this moment, all that matters is the feeling of them inside you, packed tight and growing, stretching your body to its breaking point.

The doctor had recommended reducing, selecting only two or three of the strongest. You and your partner refused. You couldn't bear the thought of losing any of them, even before they had a chance to exist. What kind of mother would choose which children live and die?

All eight.

And you want to carry them to forty weeks. Full term. Complete. You want to feel every last day of this impossible burden. You want to be completely pinned down by your immense belly, unable to move, unable to rise, utterly at the mercy of the weight you carry. The thought of being so full, so stretched, so immobilized that you can do nothing but lie there and grow—it makes you wet. It makes you ache. It makes you beg your partner for more.

Now you lie propped against a mountain of pillows in the custom bed your partner had built for you, your massive belly rising before you like a planet. It is enormous. Obscenely, gloriously enormous. Your skin is stretched so taut it gleams under the soft lamplight, a roadmap of purple and silver stretch marks arcing across the globe of your abdomen. The weight of it settles low and heavy in your pelvis, spilling over your thighs, your navel a shallow crater long since flattened by the pressure from within.

The babies are restless tonight. Your babies.

You feel them shifting, eight distinct bundles of life packed tight in your overstuffed womb. There is no room for them to stretch, no space for a single limb to extend fully. They press against each other, against your organs, against the walls of your body that have become a living cage. A foot—which one, you can never tell—plants itself firmly against your right rib, and you moan, a sound that is equal parts discomfort and something darker, something pleasurable.

Your belly tightens. A Braxton-Hick, maybe, or the warning rumble of something more. The skin draws taut, hard as a drum, and you watch the topography of your own body change as a tiny heel drags across the underside, seeking purchase. You can see the outline of a small spine pressed against your left side. You can count the bumps of vertebrae.

Yours. All yours. Conceived in a petri dish, grown in your body, and you have no idea what comes next.

You used to draw. Before this, before you became a vessel of impossible proportions, you would sit at your desk for hours, charcoal and paper spread before you, capturing the world in shades of grey. That desk still stands in the corner of the bedroom, your sketchbook still open to a half-finished landscape. You cannot sit at it anymore. Your belly would press against the edge, knocking over pencils and erasers, and the chair cannot accommodate the vast spill of your hips and thighs.

So you draw in bed now. You have a lap desk balanced on the mountain of your stomach, the paper resting on the taut curve where eight babies grow. Your belly is your table. When you draw, you feel them shifting beneath the page, their movements translating through the paper into your charcoal strokes. It makes you shiver. It makes you horny.

You draw self-portraits. You capture the impossible globe of your belly, the way it casts your thighs into shadow, the way your breasts rest heavy on its upper curve. But in your drawings, you are always bigger. You exaggerate the stretch marks into rivers, the belly into a sphere that dwarfs the rest of your body. In your drawings, you are so large that you cannot move or walk, cannot do anything but lie there and be full. Sometimes you draw yourself with your partner's hands pressed against your impossible stomach, their fingers unable to meet around its circumference, their figure behind you, obscured by your enormity.

You show the drawings to your partner. They study each one with dark, hungry eyes. "You want to be this big?" they ask, tracing the lines of your imagined belly.

"Yes," you whisper. "I want to be bigger. I want to be so big I can't move at all."

You cannot stay out of bed for long anymore. The weight is too much. Your spine aches, your pelvis throbs, your legs swell after just a few minutes upright. Your partner carries you to the bathroom and back, their arms straining with your full, colossal weight. You are too heavy for the furniture, too cumbersome for the hallways. The house has shrunk around your expanding body.

But in bed, you are free. You are a queen on your throne of pillows, your belly a mountain, your hands resting on its warm, drum-tight surface. You draw yourself even bigger. You imagine being bedbound for the final weeks, utterly helpless, utterly full, only be able to stay there and be ravaged by him.

You used to play the piano too. Before this, before you became a vessel of impossible proportions, you would sit at the keyboard for hours, your fingers dancing over the ivory. That piano still sits in the living room, a silent reminder of a body that once moved freely. Sometimes on the rare occasions you are carried past it, you reach out and your fingers brush the keys, sending a discordant jangle through the quiet house. The sound makes you stop. Makes you look down at the vast, trembling hemisphere of your stomach. You are so big that a simple act of sitting at a piano is impossible. And it makes you endlessly, shamefully horny.

You remember the last time you tried to drive. You had wanted to go to the store yourself, to feel some semblance of independence. You lowered yourself into the driver's seat, but your belly hit the steering wheel before your back even touched the seat. You couldn't reach the pedals. You couldn't turn the wheel without your stomach pressing against it. You sat there for a long moment, your enormous belly wedged between you and the dashboard, and you laughed until you cried. Then you called your partner to come move the car, and you climbed into the passenger seat instead, your belly spilling over your lap, and the heat between your legs told you exactly how you felt about being so completely incapacitated.

Your partner had to help you out of the car when you got home, their hands under your arms, and you pressed yourself against them and whispered, "Fuck me. Right now. I need to feel how full I am."

They didn't hesitate. They never do. They fucked you right there in the driveway, bent over the hood of the car, your colossal belly resting on the warm metal as they took you from behind.

Your partner is home with you every day now. They took leave from work to care for you, to watch over you, to worship every swollen inch of your body. And they don't come with gentle hesitation or worried questions. They come with hunger in their eyes, the same hunger that burns in you. They take one look at your colossal belly, at the way it consumes the bed and spills over your thighs, and they are already undressing.

"Look at you," they murmur, climbing onto the bed, their hands finding your stretched skin immediately. "Look how full you are. How many of my babies are you carrying?"

"Eight," you breathe, your voice already breaking with need.

"Eight," they repeat, and the word is reverent and filthy all at once. "And you still want more."

"Please," you beg. "I need you inside me. I need you to fill me even fuller."

They don't make you wait. They take you hard and deep, the weight of your belly pressing against their chest as they drive into you. Every thrust shakes your enormous frame, sends ripples through your taut skin, makes the babies kick and roll inside you. The sensation is overwhelming—pleasure and pressure and the constant awareness of the lives packed into your overstretched womb.

When they cum inside you, it's with a growl of pure satisfaction. "Take it," they command. "Take all of it. Let it make you even bigger."

You do. You clench around them, milking every drop, moaning as you imagine the seed finding purchase, swelling your belly to even more impossible dimensions.

In the mornings, you can hardly get out of bed. The weight of eight babies—your babies—rests in your lap, overflows your hips, makes you feel like a vessel on the verge of shattering. Every breath is shallow. Every movement is a production. Your partner feeds you, turns you, bathes you, and monitors you like a queen in a gilded cage.

Getting to the bathroom requires a full production now. You cannot walk at all anymore. Your partner brings a lifting sling, a specialized wheelchair, but even those groan under your weight. You are too big, too heavy. You spend almost all your time in bed, your belly rising before you like a horizon, your sketchbook balanced on its curve as you draw yourself even larger.

You draw for them.

When the charcoal is in your hand and the paper rests on your drum-tight belly, you feel a power that transcends your immobility. You capture yourself as you are, and then you capture yourself as you want to be. In your drawings, your belly is a world. In your drawings, you are completely pinned, completely full, completely at peace with the impossible weight you carry.

You show your partner a new drawing: you at forty weeks, your belly so vast it fills the entire frame, your face peaceful, your hands resting on its surface like islands on an ocean. Below the drawing, you have written: This is what I want.

Your partner looks at the drawing. Looks at you. Looks at the swollen, magnificent reality of your body.

"You'll get there," they promise. "I'll make sure of it."

And later, when they fill you again, you feel the truth of their words.

The midwife checks your blood pressure with worried frowns. She warns of rupture, of hemorrhage, of risks that would make anyone else pale. But you don't care. Your partner doesn't care. Together, you have pushed this body to its absolute limit and beyond.

You don't know how you'll manage after they're born. You don't know if you'll have enough hands, enough money, enough sleep, enough love to go around. But right now, curled in your partner's arms, your colossal belly rising and falling with each breath, eight lives stirring inside you, you feel more powerful than you ever have in your life.

Your sketchbook lies open beside you, a self-portrait half-finished. In it, you are even bigger than you are now.

The babies kick. Your belly tightens. You moan.

It's a burden. But God, it's a pleasureful one.

lilycorinth

This is INCREDIBLE! I am absolutely in awe of what you've written and I have the biggest smile on my face!

This is what I want, what my body is pulling me towards. To be that impossibly big vessel of life. And to be fucked, adored and cared for during the whole circle of the divine creation of it.

So many super sexy images came to my mind when reading this. Thank you so much for these words <33

preggoalwayss

Six months in and she's never looked more perfectly placed. That belly swelling taut and round with my seed, my claim settling deeper with every passing week, the black bra I permit her to wear the only barrier between her flesh and my gaze. She exists in that exquisite space between surrender and purpose now—back aching, body transforming, hormones surging—and still she rises each morning knowing precisely who owns her.

This is what possession looks like. Not merely the band of gold or the unspoken contract between us, but this: her silhouette rearranging itself to nurture my legacy, her breasts heavy with the weight of what's to come, that heat between her thighs that she knows she may not touch without leave. I keep her in that bra because I savor the restraint—the simple cotton or satin containing something so elemental and raw, the everyday garment framing something primal. She is both ornamental and instrumental, vessel and property, six months along and more completely mine than she has ever been.

She will remain thus. Swollen with child or heavy with milk or both, forever carrying the evidence of my use of her, perpetually reminded that her form serves at my discretion. And when she glimpses her reflection—simple undergarments straining over rounded flesh, that glazed submission in her eyes—she understands with perfect clarity. This is precisely as she was made to be.

growth-crazy-girl

"That was insane, I didn't know people were capable of producing that much jizz 😛"

She happily caressed her distended womb and moaned at how tight it felt- at how she looked nearly 9 months pregnant, her belly button even having popped out!

"Told you I was pent up" you said, rolling around your cantaloupe sized nuts in your hands, "I'll probably even cum again later, just so I'm not clogging up the toilets at work in the morning again like last time"

She sat down and put a hand on your leg, "Or you could just... cum inside me again 😏"

"Are you serious?" you raised an eyebrow, "Looks like your body's only just starting to absorb *this* load.... I don't think you're realizing how huge of a rack you'll have after a second"

"Oh I'm well aware...." she cooed, placing a hand on your member, her breasts slowly began to accelerate their growth

*The Next Evening*

"Heyyyy, I'm back for another fill-up! I started to shrink back down after yesterday, but I know you can make me WAY bigger 😜"

You smiled to yourself as you unzipped your pants, thinking "This girl is gonna be bigger than a house by the time she's satisfied... I guess I gotta be the one to help her with that 😏"

Model is Alexa Pearl and morph is by me! 💖

growth-crazy-girl

“You look soooooo pent up darling… Here, let your huge pregnant wife help 😍”

My motherly instincts had been off the charts now that I was getting closer to delivery… not that you were complaining being on the receiving end of it 😏

“You’re insatiable, you couldn’t even wait until we got to the bedroom to start getting yourself off with my rack? 😜”

*PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP*

“You’re lucky they’re getting even more sensitive as they get bigger… fuck that feels good 😍🥵”

Model is Cassie0peia 💖

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