One of my biggest fantasies is the idea of “baby-making”.
Rough, raw love making. Cock slamming against your cervix, but no condom this time, no birth control either. The buildup of knowing that once your partner climaxes there’s no going back. Feeling them push deep to cum, leaving a bit of themself in your tummy. And once your swollen belly starts to show, everyone will know that you’ve been properly fucked and claimed.
You haven’t fucked until you’ve fucked with the intent to make a baby. Gone is any anxiety about accidentally getting someone pregnant. You’re fucking deep and raw until you explode and milking every last drop of cum out. Then adding a few more pumps just for good measure.
As I lie in bed, rubbing my triplet-filled abdomen, I marvel at how taut, round, and impossibly heavy it has become. The sheer weight of three lives presses me deep into the mattress. Every time I need to roll over, it’s a choreographed labor; I have to scoop an arm under the side of my belly, guiding and lifting the mass slowly as I transition onto my back.
The bed never lets me forget my size. It creaks protestingly under me, a sound so loud my roommates have started to complain.
"It sounds like the frame is about to snap," one of them usually reminds me.
Resting on my back, I feel their collective weight bearing down against my spine. One of them has begun to drop, slowly forcing my hips to spread and stretching the muscles deep within my pelvis. The internal pressure is building. When I stand, and especially when I waddle, a head bounces and rests heavily against my pelvic floor.
My waddle has grown more labored and intense with every passing day. Even the smallest step off a curb sends a reverberating slosh through my abdomen as the amniotic fluid shifts. Sometimes, a head bumps against the top of my pelvis, sending a cold, sharp wave of tingling up my spine. The sensation is overwhelming.
The transition from my back to my side is a calculated feat of engineering. I lie there for a second, gathering my strength, feeling the sheer, unyielding mass of the triplets anchored to my spine. To start the rotation, I have to bridge my feet against the mattress, angling my knees outward to create some semblance of leverage. My muscles strain as I attempt to heave the center of my gravity upward.
For a moment, I’m suspended in a precarious balance. The "baby-tank" resisting the movement, stubborn and heavy. But then, the momentum shifts.
Gravity finally catches the edge of my abdomen, and the resistance vanishes instantly. Once the peak of the curve passes the midline, the weight of the three of them takes over. They don’t just move; they plunge. There is a visceral, internal shift, a wet, heavy slosh of amniotic fluid followed by a dull THWUMP as the entire mass hits the mattress on the opposite side.
The bed frame groans in a long, descending screech as it absorbs the sudden impact. My breath hitches as my internal organs scramble to adjust to the new displacement. I’m left panting, pinned to my new side by the sheer downward pull of them, waiting for the reverberations inside my skin to finally settle.
Getting out of bed is my least favorite thing these days.
I have to roll to the edge of the mattress, using the momentum of the triplets to swing my legs toward the floor. When my feet finally touch the carpet, the shift in gravity is immediate and punishing. The "baby-tank" settles heavily into the bowl of my pelvis, and for a moment, I just sit there, hands braced on my knees, letting my lower back adjust to the sudden vertical strain on my vertebrae.
I battle against my own geometry to get dressed. My reach is effectively cut off; my arms aren't long enough to navigate the vast, taut hemisphere of my midsection. To manage my underwear, I’ve developed a "lasso" technique, shaking the fabric down to the floor, hooking one foot through, and then slowly hoisting it up past my calf before repeating the process for the other side.
I think about how I should just give up getting dressed. "Just stay home... You're so pregnant anyway... You can pop any day now..." I should just stay home, where I can just be naked. Its too much effort getting dressed. Instead, I should sit on the couch, dick and balls out, belly out, sitting on a towel just in case my water breaks while I watch baseball.
As I sit on the edge of the bed to pull the waistband higher, I have to spread my knees wide to make room for the sheer volume of my abdomen. The movement triggers a protest from below. The lowest-positioned baby, the one whose head has been grinding into my lower segment, delivers a sharp, downward kick. It feels like a rhythmic drumming against the very floor of my pelvic cavity.
The sensation is anatomically jarring. As I widen my stance, the baby’s head jams deeper into my pubic symphysis, the cartilaginous joint that holds the two halves of the pelvic bone together. I can feel the relaxin doing its job too well; the ligaments are so loose that the pressure feels like a wedge being driven into a crack. For a heartbeat, it feels as though the two halves of my pelvis are being forced in opposite directions, a searing stretch that radiates through the sacroiliac joints at the base of my spine. It is a brief, white-hot sensation of being torn open from the inside out.
Then, the pressure stabilizes. The head nests into the rounded opening of the birth canal, and the sharp pain dulls into a heavy, throbbing ache.
This was it. This was the moment I felt my first real contraction. 9 long months of carrying this baby and now it's finally happening. I've been having some practice contractions on and off for a couple of days, the odd strong cramp, but nothing serious.