maddie🎀

29 F pregnancy and birth kink blog🤍 put your baby in me and call me a good girl🥺

[maddielc]

Jessie McCauley sits in her second year psychology lecture, hidden at the back as always. She's trying really hard to focus but the baby hidden beneath her baggy sweater is causing trouble today.

'Please' she whispers. 'Not now.'

The baby continues to shift beneath her skin, and as her professor drones on about ethics and morality, something changes. She presses a hand to her bump and lets out a shaky breath. No. No no no not yet. Not here. She blows out a soft breath. 'Please, I'm begging you.' She whispers under her breath.

By the time the lecture finishes two hours later, the pain is crashing over her in waves. Luckily it's a late lecture, and she can just scuttle back to her car. As she gets to her crappy silver Honda civic, a particularly big pain doubles her over. She grips the car keys until they leave marks in her hand. She whines under her breath, praying no one is nearby. She's got an hour drive to get back to her apartment. 'Please. Please don't come now. Please.' She begs whoever will listen. Her baby, whatever deity saw fit to punish her this way.

She gets into the drivers seat and starts the engine. The first 10 minutes are bearable, just about. After 20 minutes, the pain is so bad she can barely see. She glances around desperately at the dark road stretching out ahead of her. Shit. Another huge wave crashes over her and she yelps before she can stop herself. 'Ughhhh!!' As her vision tunnels, she has to pull over. She veers onto the grass verge, and puts the car in park. 'Fuuuuuuck! No! No please! I can't. Not here!' She pulls up her hoodie to reveal her gravid bump, and rubs it softly. 'Please baby. Please. I'm begging you. Just another hour, then you can come.' Her thought pattern is interrupted as another huge contraction grips her abdomen like a vice. She squeals with the pain, gripping the car door handle. 'Owwww!!' She breathes through it and goes to turn the key again. Her belly hardens again and a warm, wet gush coats her thighs. Her brain short circuits as her body takes over. She reaches into her sopping wet leggings and feels her pussy opening. 'Nooooo! No no no I-' Her body takes over before she can finish her sentence, snatching the breath from her body. The weight of the baby descends into her pelvis and suddenly, all common sense goes out the window. This baby is coming now. She tears at her leggings, pulling her panties down with it. She pulls at the lever under the seat and pushes it all the way back. She grabs her phone and opens the camera, holding it between her legs. Her pussy is bright red and straining already as the baby tries to edge its way earthside. She sobs with fear, grabbing the car door handle again for leverage. As the next contraction tears through her, she pushes with a guttural roar. The baby surges forwards, its head stretching her vagina wide. She screams at the top of her lungs, grabbing at her thigh and pulling it back. 'FUUUUUUCKK!!! OWWWWWW!!!!' The baby doesn't relent, its head staying firmly put in her pussy.

She pants hard, her body taking over. She takes a breath and pushes, her chin firmly against her chest. The head creeps closer and closer, stretching her to her absolute limit. She pants loudly. 'HOOOO!! HOOOOOOO!!' and pushes again. She roars at full volume and the baby's head gushes out with a flood of amniotic fluid. She flops back slightly, her hand shakily reaching for the head between her thighs. For a brief moment, she feels a surge of triumph. She did it!! She carefully strokes the mound of dark hair between her legs and whispers 'hi. Hi there. It's okay, you're okay. We got this.' She takes another breath and rests for a moment. When the urge comes again, she bears down HARD. She lets the head turn between her legs before blowing out a strong breath. She prepares again and pushes with everything she has, and the baby slips right out into her waiting hands. She catches them and instantly pulls them up to her chest, her heart thundering in her chest. Before she can stop herself, she is sobbing, rubbing the baby's back until-

WAAAHHHH!!

She sags with relief and gently wipes the vernix and fluid from his face. She sobs softly. 'Oh! You're a boy! You're so beautiful!' She cuddles him close, shakily reaching for her sweater she yanked off earlier, and tenderly wrapping it around him. 'Hello...' She presses a gentle kiss to his head and the baby nestles right into her skin, his tiny body curled against the safety of his Mama. And suddenly? Jessie isn't scared anymore.

[maddielc]

As we lay in bed, your warm palms cup my bump as our baby wriggles underneath. You kiss me and whisper all about the plans for our future, the way you hope our baby looks just like me, how much you love watching my body change to grow the tiny person we made with our love.

[pushy-princess]

[breedmepleasexx]

Will you call me a good girl while I have your baby? 🥺

[lilly-aurora77]

Designed for Disaster

The November air bit with cold, but Lana Vasquez stepped out of the black SUV like she was gliding onto a Milan runway. She wore a loose cashmere poncho over a silk blouse, tailored slacks, and heels that her bulky husband, Mateo, had begged her to leave in the car. Her face was a masterpiece of artful contour and matte lipstick. At thirty-eight weeks, the baby bump was simply an accessory she hadn't chosen.

Mateo, a former rugby player turned teddy bear, held her elbow with reverent clumsiness. "You okay, baby? The contraction—"

"It's a twinge," she said, not breaking stride. "I am not showing up looking like a dying fish."

The maternity ward smelled of antiseptic and regret. Lana signed in with a platinum credit card pen she produced from her designer tote. The nurse, a kind-faced woman named Brenda who had seen everything, took one look at Lana's full face of makeup and tailored slacks and knew this would be a long night.

"Okay, Lana, I just need to do a quick cervical check to see where we are—"

"No." Lana didn't look up from her phone. "I want to labor naturally. No checks, no clocks. Just give me a room with a view and leave me alone."

Brenda sighed internally. "Honey, I need to know if you're actually in active labor."

Mateo smiled apologetically. "She's just, uh, particular about her space."

Two hours later, Lana was no longer on her phone. The "twinges" had become a freight train grinding through her lower spine. She stood in the middle of the private room, gripping the windowsill, her knuckles white. Her poncho had been tossed over a chair. Her silk blouse was starting to cling with sweat at the armpits.

"Breathe," Mateo said, rubbing her lower back. "Like the class. In through the nose—"

"Don't tell me how to breathe," she snapped, then immediately whimpered as another wave hit. It was a deep, organic pressure, a vise around her entire pelvis. She had designed a gown for this moment, something chic and functional, but now she didn't care if she birthed in a garbage bag.

By hour four, Lana had become two different people. Between contractions, she was exhausted, coherent, almost sweet. During them, she turned into a feral animal. She had refused the epidural because she wanted to "feel empowered." Now she wanted to feel dead.

She also refused to lie down. "I'm not a turtle on my back. No."

Instead, she labored semi-reclined in the huge bed, propped against Mateo's chest, his massive arms wrapped around her like a seatbelt. It was intimate, almost beautiful. She breathed through the surges with low moans, her painted lips parted, a sheen of dew on her forehead. Her mascara remained miraculously intact.

Then came transition.

It slammed into her without warning. One moment she was coping. The next, the world cracked open. The contraction didn't peak and fall; it became a single, unbroken mountain of agony. Her uterus seized like a fist around hot coals. Her skin flushed, then went clammy white.

"I can't," she gasped. Her eyes flew wide and empty. "Something's wrong. Something's wrong. I can't do this. I can't breathe."

Mateo's face crumpled. "Lana, look at me—"

"I CAN'T!" She scrambled off the bed, her silk blouse now completely translucent with sweat. Her hair, once a sleek blowout, was a nest of tangles. She began to hyperventilate, sucking air in great, ragged gulps, her fingers clawing at her own throat. "I'm dying. I'm actually dying. Help me! Somebody HELP me!"

Panic attack. Full systemic collapse.

Brenda rushed in with two other nurses. They had seen this before, but Lana's terror was contagious. Her chest heaved. Her lips went numb. She was crying now, black tears of mascara streaking down her cheeks, ruining the last vestiges of her carefully curated armor.

"Get on your hands and knees," Brenda commanded, not gently. "Right now. It opens the pelvis. Move, Lana."

Lana collapsed onto the floor, her slacks ruined, her designer heels kicked off somewhere unknown. She planted her palms on the cold linoleum, her spine arched, her face hanging toward the ground. Mateo knelt in front of her, his forehead pressed to hers. "I'm here. I'm right here."

She sobbed. Great, heaving, animal sobs. "It hurts. It hurts so much. Mateo, I can't—I'm sorry—I'm sorry for being a bitch earlier—"

"You're not a bitch," he whispered. "You're a warrior. Now push."

Because that was the thing. The panic attack had done something. It had ripped through her defenses, and on the other side of it, her body took over. The urge to push was not a choice. It was a possession.

But Lana's body had another secret. She had always struggled with penetration. Pelvic exams were torture. Sex had required patience, lubricant, and a loving husband who never complained. Vaginismus. The word had lived in her medical chart for years. Now, as the baby's head descended, that same furious, involuntary clenching returned. Her pelvic floor locked like a fist.

"Get the squat bar," Brenda ordered.

They helped Lana onto the bed, but not on her back. She was too weak to stay on hands and knees now; her arms trembled violently. The nurses removed her soaked, ruined clothes without ceremony. There was no modesty left. The squat bar was attached to the bed frame, a sturdy metal trapeze, and from it hung a knotted rope. Lana grabbed the rope with both hands, squatted low, her thighs burning, and rested her weight against the bar.

Her naked body was a study in contrasts: the chipped nail polish, the smeared lipstick, the purple stretch marks, the glorious round belly. She looked broken and powerful all at once.

"Push," Brenda said. "Bear down into your bottom. Scream if you have to."

Lana screamed. It was not a movie scream. It was raw, flat, and guttural. Her face turned burgundy. The veins stood out on her neck. And the baby's head crowned.

"Burn," she wept. "It's burning. Oh God, it's ripping."

"Good," said a new voice. A doctor, calm and surgical. "That's the ring of fire. You're almost there. But I need to stretch you, Lana. This is going to hurt."

Manual stretching. The doctor's gloved fingers worked the tight, unyielding tissue of her perineum, pulling, coaxing, forcing the skin to give. Lana had endured pap smears that made her vomit. This was worse. This was someone taking a hot wire to the most sensitive flesh she owned. She shrieked and bit down on the rope, her teeth grinding into the coarse fibers.

"I can't. I can't stretch. It won't open." Her voice was a child's whimper.

"You don't have a choice," the doctor said flatly. "The baby is coming."

With the next push, the head emerged. A shock of dark hair. A tiny, wrinkled face. Then nothing. The shoulders. Lana's vaginismus had relaxed just enough to let the head pass, but now the muscles seized again, trapping the broad shoulders behind her pubic bone.

"The shoulders are stuck," the doctor said, a note of sharpness entering her voice. "Not full dystocia, but I need traction. Lana, one more giant push. Mateo, hold her hands."

Mateo grabbed her wrists. Lana's eyes rolled back. She pushed with the strength of a woman drowning, and the doctor hooked two fingers under the baby's armpit, pulling with firm, steady traction. There was a wet, popping release. The shoulders slid free. The rest of the body came in a rush of fluid and blood.

A boy. Seven pounds, eleven ounces. He opened his mouth and screamed his fury at the world.

They placed him on Lana's chest, and for a long moment, she just stared at him. Her face was a disaster of ruined makeup, tear tracks, and sweat. She was trembling from head to foot. The baby rooted instinctively, and Mateo, blubbering like a child himself, guided the baby's mouth to her breast.

He latched. The room went quiet.

Brenda placed an ice pack, wrapped in a thin cloth, between Lana's legs. The cold was a mercy. The soreness was biblical. She felt like she had been torn in half, sewn back together, and then hit by a truck. Her vagina throbbed with a deep, bruising ache that made her eyes water.

Mateo kissed her filthy hair. "You did it."

Lana looked down at her son, then at her husband, then at the smeared mascara on the back of her hand. She let out a shaky, exhausted laugh.

"I can't believe I wore heels," she whispered.

The baby nursed contentedly, and Lana lay back against the pillows, the ice pack numbing the wreckage below, her body destroyed and remade. She had never been so tired. She had never been so alive.