This Will Have to Do
Author’s Note: This was inspired by imagineyourepregnant.tumblr.com's Request #256.5 "It’s the end of social distancing/isolation/quarantine, and the world is finally starting to open back up again. All that alone time leads to a majority of women coming out of social isolation in various stages of pregnancy. Something about how society changes and adjusts to this, told from the POV of someone who it would be a surprise to those around them if they were pregnant (secret lovers who moved in during quarantine, trans man, public figure, etc.)"
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Laura couldn’t believe it.
A week ago, she had forced herself out of the apartment for the first time in what felt like months. The mission? To get a new wardrobe for her post-quarantine return to office. Everything from functional bras to pantyhose, to professional tops, slacks and dresses – hell, even shoes – was needed in order to look professional and, well, decent for when she was expected back after seven months of working from home.
The reason for the expensive sartorial reset was simple: Laura was nearly nine months pregnant with twins. Quarantine twins. BIG quarantine twins. And during those long months at home, gestating in secret, her body had ripened so fully that her typical work attire was rendered useless.
In fact, all of her normal clothes had quickly proven themselves to be impractical. She’d lived off of maternity leggings and old t-shirts, watching in amazement as the months went by and the amount of coverage they offered shrunk from just under her navel, to halfway up her bump, to slightly north of her ballooning breasts, to finally showing off her darkened, widening areolas. Sick of the sassy comments from her mailman about the amount of Motherhood Maternity packages she’d get weekly (to keep up with her growth!) – and the sweaty, awkward process of heaving even the smallest of garments over her explosive mass – she began living her solitary, in-apartment life naked, waddling from kitchen to couch to bed to bath with her plump and pregnant flesh jiggling and fully exposed. Lucky, her shades were very thick.
But Laura didn’t have that luxury of comfortable nakedness for work. She had to look sharp. Her office was still conservative and professional, and she didn’t want the surprise reveal of her pregnancy turned sour by poor deportment. It was especially important to look together for a major (albeit poorly scheduled) presentation she’d have to give today to upper management, a culmination of months of hard work.
But fuck, looking at the mirror in complete disbelief, things were not looking up.
Nothing she had purchased a week ago – with room to spare for growth! – fit. In just a week, Laura had outgrown her projections and had nothing appropriate to wear.
Every skirt and pair of wide-hipped pants wouldn’t make it past her meaty thighs; the bras wouldn’t do up in the back, and the cups had gotten so tight her sensitive breasts and nipples screamed when she gently tried to stuff them in. Tops landed just above her belly button, her underbelly thrusting out proudly. Her new maternity panties were devoured by her swollen labia, while blazers refused to button or were thrust open at her bosom, her breasts failing to lay tamely underneath the lapels.
She got as close as she could to success with a body con dress. It looked painted on, and she couldn’t wear a bra, but it zippered up AND fell past her knees. Hopes were dashed, however, when she sat to slip into her new, wider heels, which accommodated her painfully swollen feet and ankles. The position of her belly, a poorly timed kick and the bending motion popped the zipper right open.
The shame of being big enough to explode through a maternity dress and the sudden feeling of relieved pressure did two things to the wildly hormonal Laura. First, she cried, embarrassed to find herself in this predicament. Second, she was so turned on by her hugeness that she immediately felt her pussy drip and her nipples harden.
Breathless, she looked at herself in the mirror again. Although it was blurry through tears, she could see how, even so tightly restrained in the ruined dress, her heavy belly spread her legs to settle on the bed between them. Her babies were active, and their gymnastics also managed to make conspicuous dips and impressions through the fabric.
She began to rub her tummy, taking time to gently squish together her massive tits as her pussy began to throb.
“I can’t believe that’s me,” she whispered to herself, tears still falling. “Tomorrow my life will be officially ruined when everyone sees me like this. I’m so fucking huge. How did I let this happen?!”
Her hand stretched passed the expanse of her belly, pulling the hem of dress up enough so that she could reach her dripping core. She found it like it had been with seeming permanence these past nine months: engorged, wanting, wet.
It was this stupid box that got her this way in the first place. Fit, young, and successful, she had met a cute, affable guy on some dating app, subsequently got hammered with him, and was so wasted that his drunken confession – quote, “youresobeautifulandiwannagetyoufuckinfatandpregnantwithmykidsandsuckonyourbigpreggotitties,” charmed her enough to not request a condom. In that moment, she felt lucky that she was between appointments to get her old IUD replaced, and that she was ovulating, and that he had said the very thing she had wanted to hear without prompting.
Laura hadn’t felt so lucky when the pregnancy test came back positive two weeks later and she realized that the number Ben – no, Adam? Fuck! – gave her didn’t work. Fuck.
But then quarantine happened, just as her cute, pleasantly chubby belly began to swell. With her company’s work-at-home projections conservatively estimating that she’d be out of the office for at least a year and a half, she decided to cancel her abortion appointment. If no one had to see her – not her conservative boss, not her friends, not her staid, traditional parents – for over a year and a half, she could indulge her secret kink and give the baby up for adoption once it came. No shame, no raised eyebrows, no one the wiser.
And for the first several months, it was heaven. Laura watched her body expand and ripen, pleasuring herself as her horniness grew as her body did. She loved to feel the babies’ movements; to observe her gait transform into a wide and ungainly waddle, her tummy thrust forward to better keep balance; to eat whatever she wanted in service of her insane and powerful cravings.
The only time she had left her apartment were for doctor’s appointments. She wished she could find someone to appreciate her body with her, but her fear for her babies and contracting the sickness that put the world in quarantine kept her the sole provider of worshipful ministrations.
She got good at taking care of herself. In fact, when she found the fast rate of expansion was due to two babies in her womb, she worshiped herself so well in the backseat of her car that when she came she thought the saw stars.
But the unbridled and uncomplicated joy didn’t last.
Laura’s worst fears were realized when she realized that quarantine would be lifted early. Chances were good that she’d have to go into the office huge and with pregnancy on full display – her due date was a week before she was expected back.
She hadn’t told anyone of her pregnancy. No one knew. But now with a fast-acting vaccine and the world reopening, she had no excuse to hide herself anymore. Friends, family, colleagues and strangers would now see her unwed motherhood. Her wanton body, screaming her sexual promiscuity. Her incredibly physical transition. Unless, of course, she went into labor on her due date. She could push the kiddos out, put them up for adoption, and blame her puffiness on a poor quarantine diet like everyone else.
When her due date came and went, and her doctor refused to induce her, and she found herself trying on tent-like maternity clothes at the mall, she sobbed, telling herself all the things she knew everyone would think. “What a whore.” “She’s huge.” “I cannot believe you did this to yourself.” “You don’t even remember the father’s name?”
The orgasm that ensued put her post-twins OBGYN experience to shame.
Now, here she was, staring reality down: Going into work, overdue with unplanned twins, and so massive she had nothing appropriate to wear. And she was dripping wet.
Laura forced her body up and began to strip in front of the mirror. The tears kept coming.
“You are so fucking fat, it’s embarrassing,” she said, peeling of the ruined red sheath of the dress. “You’ve literally gained 75 pounds of unnecessary weight. Just because you’re a knocked-up slut doesn’t mean you had to go and eat so much, too.”
Laura began to take stock of herself.
“You have completely transformed, you stupid bitch,” she sneered, her pussy clenching wildly. “Look at your feet. Look at your ankles. So puffy. You have cankles now. It’s gross.”
Her hands trailed down her flanks.
“And your hips? You’d think with how wide they’ve gotten your thighs would have an excuse not to touch. But those things have gotten so thick they rub together. You’re so fucking … meaty,” she said, tears dripping onto her chest.
Laura turned to her side.
“HA! Your ass. It’s expanded so big to balance out your belly that you could pass for pregnant on the back.”
Her hands slipped behind her to palm its expanse.
“And your fucking spine is literally pulled into an S because you got too pregnant. It’s repulsive. You look like you’re 49 now, not 29. CHRIST.”
She groaned. Oh, this was turning her on.
“You can’t even walk right. DO IT, show yourself how you move now,” Laura commanded herself. It was like she was possessed, descending into a meanness that she hadn’t yet reached during her pregnancy. Yes, she liked to humiliate herself, but never this thoroughly.
Regardless, she listened to the desperately horny part of herself and waddled across the room and back to the mirror, all the while taking her awkward shuffle in. Her core and pelvis were thrust comically forward in an attempt to move steadily, one hand on her lower back to keep her balanced. Her breasts heaved with every step, belly too; even though her hips rotated out, perfecting her waddle, her thighs did just as she previously observed: rubbed thickly against one another. Her free arm swung wildly to grant her additional mobility. It didn’t really work; upon reaching the mirror, she was out of breath.
“Jesus, Laura, move for 15 seconds and you’re already out of breath? Fuck.”
Her hands moved to her belly as she attempted to arch her back. She was so, so desperately horny, and she could see the juices gushing out of her engorged pussy. “Remember when that thing was tight and cute and attractive? Not anymore. I can’t even shave it …”
All because of her huge womb.
She looked bigger than any woman she’d seen in real life, and rivaled some of the women carrying multiple she saw online. Peppered with pinkish stretch marks, her belly hurt her back, hurt her legs; it was truly massive, and had been since nearly the start. Laura’s smaller frame ensured that.
There was her belly button, too, which had been pulled plat in month five, became an outie in month seven, and had grown in width and length throughout the rest of her pregnancy. It was thick, like a third nipple proudly crowning her belly at its apex. And it was sensitive like a nipple, too; fingering it gave Laura shivers throughout her body. She did so now.
“And look at those tits,” she told herself, observing their own patches of stretch marks and shockingly visible veins. “What are you, a fucking cow? They’re ruined. You’ve ruined them. You literally bought an F cup a week ago that hurts too much to wear today. You actually snapped it off your body with your size, you disgusting piece of shit. Like, look at your areaolas. They’re fucking brown and huge and … your nipples are freaking prescription bottles at the tips. Do they ever fucking go down?”
She twisted the stalky brown protuberances in her fingers, hissing. Her breasts, which flopped like two large sacks of sand atop gaping shelf of her belly, were always painfully sensitive, her nipples always pert. Nothing could hide them, and even the faintest whisper of fabric on them had her whimpering. They were well and truly engorged.
Laura ended her body scan on her face, noting its newer roundness and the hint of a double chin.
“Luckily your hair and skin look good,” she admitted. “But that’s about it. You’ve become a total cow.”
She moaned, needy and desperate, and began to slowly and ponderously lower body to the floor. Her meanness made her crazed with lust, and the only way to fix it was to get on her knees in an effort to better touch herself.
“Imagine your big whale body waddling up to your parents,” she heard herself say. “Your clothes would be too small and you’d be spilling out so big, and your mom would be pissed and your dad would be so embarrassed to see his pure little golden child turned into such an obvious whore. They’d have to be confronted by the outline of your nipples through your shirt and the wetness of your dripping pussy through your yoga pants, because you’re such a fucking horny, slutty cow that you can’t even hide them.”
She was getting close.
“Imagine seeing Brian,” Laura whispered to herself, citing her ex. “He’d be with that tiny little blonde woman he left you for, the both of them so fit and beautiful and carefree. And there you’d be, drowning your pregnancy cravings in a Big Mac, groaning as your babies kick you, your navel as big as a golf ball through your shirt, popping out of your tiny clothes, breasts leaking milk … He’d be so repulsed, so glad he dodged that bullet … "
Another moan.
“Imagine mounting someone who finds your pregnant body so fucking sexy, their big hands palming your tummy, suckling on your breasts and navel, trying and failing to get their arms around you, feeding you … rubbing your belly in public … fucking you into … into labor … "
That did it. Laura’s desire exploded and she screamed. If she was loud enough to scare the neighbors, whatever. She was pregnant; she had needs.
And one of them, she realized, was a job with benefits and salary. If she didn’t figure out something to wear, she’d be late to said job. THAT wasn’t an option. She HAD to give this presentation today, or she could kiss that paycheck goodbye.
Still panting and sweating from her top-tier orgasm, she began the slow waddle to her closet. It had to be done.
Laura pulled on her baggiest yoga pants (no underwear; they were all too tight), which strained against the forward thrust of her tummy. Yelping, she arranged her breasts into her biggest sports bra; they still spilled out in a generous, veiny cleavage, with rolls of flesh proudly gathering under its straining hem.
Lastly, Laura picked up her newest, biggest t-shirt, sighing. She tried not to get too turned on from the embarrassment she felt after she saw the result. Half of her giant belly curved out of the Men’s L tee, which fit her now like a crop top. When she walked, her underbelly was on glorious and full display.
“This will have to do,” she said, calling an Uber. Laura couldn’t make the usual four-block walk anymore and expect to get there anywhere close to on time. Driving herself was out of the question - she had grown so much she couldn’t fit behind the wheel of her car.
“I’ll … I’ll have to answer a lot of questions because of you two,” she said, holding her belly with growing panic. “And it’s going to make for a really great orgasm when I get home.”
Her phone trilled – the car was here. It was time to show the world what she’d done during quarantine.