I could feel him inside me.
I didn’t know who had put me in this position. Who had forced me to the ground, lifted my skirt, and cut off my underwear. I was looking right into my attackers face, and I didn’t recognize him. Nobody I knew, nobody I could identify.
But I could feel the vile man. Every centimeter of his manhood, filling my feminine tunnel. Stretching me, opening me as I kicked and screamed and sobbed.
What could I do? There had to be something, something I didn’t see, something I didn’t understand. My arms pinned, my legs held open by my attacker’s body, the very act of his violation preventing me from stopping it.
I squirmed and writhed, trying to push him out by bearing down, even as I felt the horrid man’s penis starting to throb and pulse. His sap was rising, seed preparing to fire into my body. I felt so helpless, so vulnerable, I screamed at the top of my lungs for help, calling out what was happening.
I felt him shiver as I cried out that I was being raped. The words seemed to trigger my attacker, like he had been wanting to hear it, longing to hear my voice admit exactly what was happening. Letting out a moan of pure, unmistakable ecstasy, the man forcing himself inside my privates bottomed out, driving himself all the way to the hilt. I could feel the tip of my rapist’s member pressing firmly against my cervix.
Then, warm, sticky heat thudded against the entrance to my womb as I shrieked out a terrified denial. This couldn’t be real, couldn’t be happening, I wasn’t full of cum, there wasn’t a second jet of it spurting deep inside me, it COULDN’T BE REAL!
It was. A third time, then a fourth, at last losing steam. The fifth pulse of cum was more a lazy trickle. I lay back, defeated. His seed was in me. This random person had just flooded my belly with cum. Billions of sperm, so much potential life, swimming inside me, looking for an egg to fertilize. Trying to make me pregnant.
Oh god. I could get PREGNANT from this. This could make an actual baby start growing INSIDE my body. I could have this man’s child, I would have no say in the matter. This assault, this rape, could make me into a mother.
I pleaded with anything and anyone that would listen, as he withdrew with a sickening slurping sound. Please, don’t let this impregnate me. Please please please don’t let a rape-baby take root in my womb. Don’t let me be sweating and screaming and crying nine months from now, legs open wide, this monster’s child opening me, hurting me, violating me all over again without even being near me. He wouldn’t need to be, a part of my rapist would have been growing INSIDE MY BODY for the last nine months, forcing me to change and adapt and grow for him.
It was being decided, here and now, there was no time to stop it, to prevent it. More of my cruel attacker’s cum seeped into my unprotected, vulnerable womb every second. Worse, I could feel my body urging it in. Deep inside, I could feel my vagina twitching and pulsing, pulling my attacker’s warm, thick seed deeper inside, trying to keep a single drop from escaping. I could feel the entrance of my womb lazily throbbing, opening slightly wider, helping sperm enter my deepest point, assisting the one who just attacked me in creating a life as a result of his terrible deed.
I realized my body WANTED this. For all I was crying and begging and pleading with everything and nothing to do ANYTHING to me right now but make me carry that man’s child, my body WANTED to get pregnant, WANTED to swell and grow with a rape-baby. I could feel it working against me, thrilled at the change to enter motherhood, eager to conceive, even as a result of sexual assault.
I lay there sobbing for some time, my physical form betraying my mind, sickened by the sensations of my feminine form going about what it was created by nature to do. Finally, I managed to stagger to my feet, gathering what remained of my clothes, terrified at the prospect of what might be happening inside me.
What it turned out WAS happening inside me. My rapists seed had found my defenseless egg. As I was putting on was wasn’t disgusting or ruined, wiping away tears, semen was swarming around the fertile cell, wriggling against the walls, trying to penetrate me just as the one who had put them inside my belly had entered my own body without permission moments ago.
I was being fertilized as I made my way home. By the time I was fumbling in frustration with the knob, I had conceived. The head of a single sperm at last overwhelming my egg, sealing it, making life begin to form without my consent, without my wanting anything to do with it. That monster had raped his child into me, made life begin to grow inside me.
As I sank into a bath, feeling my muscles relax after the traumatic experience, I was totally unaware that one cell had already become two. Then four. Then eight. Life forming, dividing, growing inside my body. A person was forming in my uterus, and I had not been asked how I felt about it, had not been told that it was something that would happen. It didn’t matter. I was a girl, I have been born to endure this, and it didn’t matter if it was forced on me or not. At least, according to nature.
The cells had become a ball, a cluster of forming life by the time I stepped out, started drying myself off, hoping I was wiping away the dirty feeling, any evidence of the fact that someone had stolen my virginity, FORCED themselves INSIDE my body would be all gone, washing down the drain. I didn’t even think that my rape baby might be nestling into my uterine lining, my body sending me a small shiver of endorphins as reward for doing my duty as a fertile female, conceiving a child.
When I had woken up that morning, I was a normal person. Full of hopes, dreams, desires, aspirations. So much life ahead of me. By the time I laid down to sleep that night, none of it mattered. That person didn’t exist anymore. Instead, a mother-to-be laid down, an entire life forming inside her body, already attached to me.
It just kept growing. Getting bigger by the day, the hour, the minute, the SECOND. Birth was already inevitable. It was a timer, a countdown to going through the most intense, painful, overwhelming ordeal a woman can endure. And that timer had been forced on me, forced INSIDE MY BODY. I couldn’t get it out, didn’t even realize it was there.
I started getting morning sickness. Missed my period. But I tried to deny it, sure it was just late. Sure that I wasn’t already two out of forty weeks pregnant. Praying that childbirth wasn’t already an unavoidable part of my future.
But it was. I was a mother, my rapist’s child was developing quite happily inside me, and my body was just as delighted to be growing this life that I didn’t want.
I denied it for another month. Then another. I began to feel a fullness, a weird, tugging tightness as I neared my second trimester, deep in the core of my being. The baby was growing, starting to take up all the available room that my womb could provide without stretching. Fortunately for the offspring that had been forced into my belly against my will, my uterus was made to stretch.
A tiny bulge appeared. I tried to deny it, as I looked into my naked reflection, standing sideways and wiping away the wetness in my eyes once more. It was just a puny bump. Not around my belly, obviously not fat, but I denied it still. It was warmer than normal, firm to the touch. My womb hardening to protect my rape baby.
The bump grew as time dragged on. I tried to work out, exercise, loose my weight. It worked, my muscles became toned and defined, further emphasizing the growing bulge just above my groin. My pregnant belly. The proof that everyone could easily see that I have been violated, and that my rapist had left his baby growing inside me, proof that I was entering motherhood against my will.
Finally I gave in and took the test. It was positive. Of course it was positive. I’d known it would be for months now, ever since the morning sickness. Who am I kidding, I’d known it would be since I felt his throbbing cock spear my hymen. I knew as soon as my legs were forced opened and I realized that I couldn’t get away.
I was inconsolable. Worse was the way people treated me. My parents were sympathetic, but there was a simmering tone of disappointment. Like I’d ruined my life somehow, or like I had made a bad choice. Like their slutty little girl had slept around at a party, and gotten herself knocked up, and was just blaming it on the booze to call it rape. I got angry at their response, that they seemed more upset with me for not reporting it in spite of still just trying to recover, for not somehow predicting I would be sexually assaulted and using contraceptives perpetually.
When I said I wanted to get rid of it, they got mad. Said it wasn’t the baby’s fault, that it deserved a chance at life. They were more interested in protecting the child of my rapist than they were their own daughter.
It wasn’t the first time I realized something like this, either. The cops sneered at me for not reporting it sooner. Mocked me for crying as they did their invasive tests. And after all the anger and humiliation and shame, they basically hand-waved me from the office saying half-heartedly they’d try to find my boyfriend, before chuckling and correcting themselves. One of the bastards even said that I looked sexy with a baby belly on my way out.
My friends tried to be empathetic, but failed, for the most part. They were more interested in my condition, and even then in a spectator sense. When I declared there would be no baby shower, no way in the deepest darkest pit of hell I would ever keep this glorified cum stain growing inside me as a result of rape, they got huffy. Most of them stopped talking to me.
So I was left to go through the rest of my pregnancy mostly alone. The heartbeat law was in full effect, so by the time I realized I was pregnant, it was already far too late to do anything about it.
All I could do was watch myself change. See every tiny shift of myself from the dream-filled innocent of months ago into an increasingly fertile, swollen mommy. I entered my third trimester. I refused to waste money on maternity clothes, wouldn’t shell out for a new wardrobe just to accommodate a child that I had never asked for and didn’t want.
People stared as I walked passed, eyes resting with contempt or desire on the life-filled mound that hung from my formerly slim, attractive frame. It was obvious on me, arms and legs skinny and lightly toned even as my womb swelled with pregnancy.
Of course, work was awful as well. People kept asking me to do things that I used to be able to attend to without any issue, only to get irritated or angry as I struggled due to my new shape. Some of my co-workers stared at me in open desire, gazing at my fertile belly with lust simmering in their eyes. Others only offered contempt and disdain, assuming I was lying about the assault as so many others I thought I could trust did.
Of course my employers thought I was just being lazy, using pregnancy as an excuse to not keep working to their standards. I started getting reported for what roughly translated to “being pregnant”, but was always phrased as “decreased work efficiency”, “insubordination”, “excessive breaks”, things of that nature.
I was terrified of him seeing me, as my navel was pulled flat. If my attacker saw that his baby had taken root inside. That in his single terrible act, he had ruined my life for the next nine months. Had cursed me to give birth.
I thought about it once I gained an outie, getting close to being due. That I was going to have to get this baby out somehow. They wouldn’t perform a c-section unless I needed it. I hadn’t been going to the hospital this entire time, didn’t want doctors touching it, rubbing it, taking ultrasounds and talking like I hadn’t gotten pregnant as a result of a horrifying violation.
Not to mention, most stories I’d been told about hospital births involved uncaring doctors, being rough and violent, forcing legs back so far they almost popped out of joint, slicing their slit open without warning or permission. Like being violated all over again, your requests being ignored or worse answered with threats of jail or violence, people shoving things inside, having to just lay there, trying to deliver, while anyone does whatever they want to you.
I couldn’t do it. I decided I’d just deal with it when it came.
Meanwhile, there were kicks and movement from inside. My breasts swelled and began to leak. I was full and sore and swollen and heavy and fertile. Like some goddess of life, and I hated every moment of it. But I was scared of the climax of all this gestation even more.
It didn’t matter if I was scared. No more than it mattered when my rapist forced himself inside me, and left this horrible piece of himself behind, growing and changing me and taking over my body.
My maternity leave began, but as I left it was made pretty abundantly clear that my performance lately meant that I would likely have been replaced by the time I returned. It’s illegal to fire someone while they’re on maternity leave, of course, but most companies do it anyway. They just wait until you get back to do it, so they’re not technically firing you because you had to take time off to push a child out of your body, they just found someone “more available”.
Time seemed to go too fast, yet slow to a crawl. There was so much space to fill, alone, with nothing but this baby that had been forced into my body as I fought and screamed. I knew I would be laid off when I got back to work, knew my friends who hadn’t left me would soon, knew my family had written me off as a failure, all because of something I couldn’t control. Something someone else had done to me.
I asked myself how childbirth could possibly be worse that just bearing this child had been. Of course, reality would answer that question soon enough.
I woke up to contractions beginning. I’d been having Braxton Hicks for a few days, but these felt different. Sharper, stronger, more persistent. Still, labor usually took hours if not day, from what I had gathered. And knowing how much I had already come to loathe this child, I assumed this delivery would be a long, slow, multi-day long process. I knew I had to go to the store, materials for delivery I had been neglecting to gather, so I left the house to acquire them.
I should have known better.
I was sitting on the bus, making slow, steady progress to the store, as my labor ramped up in intensity. I was near the back, huddled in one of the seats, biting my lip and holding my life-filled midriff as the pressure intensified. I could feel the head of my attacker’s child, ready to be born, eager to torture its way out of me the same way its father tortured it into me.
This who thing had been a nightmarish experience, my body being hijacked to create a new person against my will. What was this new hell in comparison to the last nine months? I just rocked back and forth, staying silent as I began to dilate, no idea how close to delivery I was.
The bus began to slow down. Traffic was picking up, it was nearing rush hour. It was fine, I didn’t have anywhere to be. But there was nothing to distract me from the mounting pain of my cramps, the awful feeling of my rape baby shoving hard against the opening of my wound.
It was the pressure, really. I couldn’t bear it, it just got worse and worse. It was like my body didn’t want to open, my unasked for offspring was just going to force itself through. Before I knew it, I was leaning heavily on the seat in front of me, panting and gritting my teeth with each terrible squeeze inside me.
I felt like I was going to go crazy. Everything was just stretching and pushing and pulling and so much PRESSURE! It consumed everything as traffic stopped moving, I couldn’t even think of the people around me, my whole world focused down low, deep inside where my cervix was being pried open.
And then… there was a pop that I felt more than heard, and that horrible feeling lessened, forcing a low moan of relief to slip from my lips. I began to tear up as I felt wetness rushing down my vagina, knowing what was coming.
Wetness seeped into my panties, soaking through the fabric and splashing against my jeans, forming a dark wet spot between my legs. Amniotic fluid ran down my thighs and legs, forming dark streaks in the cloth as a small puddle formed near my crotch. The air around me began to stink of some warped form of sex. It smelled of feminine nature, of what was unavoidable from the moment my rapist’s seed flooded my womb. Of birth.
I shuddered as the next contraction gripped me, biting my lip harder and feeling the urge to push. I resisted, letting out a near-silent whimper as I felt my cervix opening even without my help, my child starting to enter my birth canal.
I refused to give in to my physical needs for the better part of an hour. Slowly, SO slowly, the opening of my uterus parted, pressure spiking, coupled with the sensation of my vagina opening and squeezing deep inside. Then less deep, as it inched forward. The power of my contractions was overwhelming, tears leaking from my eyes as I fought to stay silent, to not push.
The head was half way down before I knew it. Then, as we neared the half way point to my stop, the cars around us practically unmoving, I felt my rapist’s baby nearing the exit of my body. Another contraction, and I felt my groin starting to bulge, tightness and more awful pressure making me tremble, forcing out a choked sob as I fought my need to deliver.
I could feel the damp softness of my underwear, brushing over my labia as my sensitive womanhood was forced to press forward, the head resting just behind it. The cloth bulged as well, though it wasn’t visible through my jeans yet. Another labor pain, and I gripped the seat so hard my knuckles turned white, barely able to breathe as my unwanted newborn began to emerge.
I could feel my lips parting around the head. Opening because of pressure from within. But still, I wouldn’t push. It was like giving in to the desires of my attacker. It hurt so much, was so awful, and he wasn’t even here. Just left his seed to grow for nine months, tormenting me the entire time, only to violate me all over again as I blessed him with a child against my will. Humiliating me and hurting me with something inside me, just as he had during the initial attack.
Braking down, letting out a cry of pain, I at last gave in with the next contraction. I started to push, and was rewarded with even more pain. I started to crown, my rape baby opening me wide, my gender starting to burn as the ring of fire roared to life between my legs, nerves screaming at my formerly virgin sex being abused for a second time.
It was even worse with the second push. As I bore down, I began to open wider than I had ever done before, my legs quivering and making me throw my head back, screaming as everyone looked at me, some people getting up to make sure they were ok.
They were going to see me, see my rapist’s baby being pushed out into my underwear on a bus. Some would think it was sexy, some would think it was pathetic, but everyone would know that it was what I was made for. Women have babies, it’s just what they do, whether they want them or not, even if it ruins their entire lives, even if they did everything right and someone else decided that their offspring was going to grow inside a woman, willingly or otherwise.
There was nothing I could do. Couldn’t go back, couldn’t change it, couldn’t stop it. All I could do was give in utterly, try to get childbirth over with as quickly as humanly possible.
People stared as I bore down with all my might, shrieking as the head spread my womanhood, slipping out from between my legs, making a visible bulge in my pants. I could feel it, slimy and dripping between my thighs. A baby. A little human being that was half me and half my rapist.
More pain, more pushing. I put my hands on my knees, toes curling in my shoes as I struggled to give birth. MY clothes were fighting me, panties pressing against the head, jeans refusing to tent out much more than they already were. I slid a trembling hand under my pants. I felt the head, felt where it lead back into my body. It was INSIDE me, I didn’t want it there, wanted it to go away and stop hurting me. It was wet and slimy and covered in foul-smelling gunk, I didn’t want to give birth to this!
I bore down once more, and now I was stretching my clothes further with my hand, as I came to a full crown, my baby on the verge of being born. Everything was so tight, so much pressure, so painful. It was shameful, humiliating, overwhelming. Everything was going too fast, I couldn’t focus.
All I could do was give the man who raped me his baby.
I began to cry as the head slid forward in a hot, wet gush of fluid and motion. The shoulder were still inside, but the head was dangling out of me, a massive bulge between my legs that everyone could see. Even the bus driver had come back to watch me deliver the child that I didn’t want, that had been forced into my belly.
I was sure the shoulders would tear me, but by some miracle, they didn’t. I bore down once. Then twice. Then a third time, and was rewarded for being a good mother and helping my baby be born by the horrifying sensation of the body emerging in a surge of heat, movement, and sensation, fluids pouring from between my legs, leaving me sitting in a massive puddle of birthing juices.
It took more than an hour for an ambulance to reach the bus, where they found me refusing to pull my baby from my clothing, not wanting to see it. They were a Christian hospital, so they told me its gender, a boy, just like its father. Probably would do the same thing to some other poor woman, force her to lose everything in the name of making life for him.
They tried to lecture me on why it wasn’t the baby’s fault, why I should keep my rapist’s son, why every life deserved a chance, conveniently ignoring that my life apparently deserved none of those chances. When I still refused, they threatened to call the cops on me for child abandonment. I informed the hospital staff bluntly that the cops didn’t care when I was forced to gestate the horrible thing, why the hell would they care now?
I went home. I was right, my family was disgusted I’d refused to take my son home, none of my friends could relate, got super awkward when we met up, and eventually just stopped trying. I was alone, jobless, feeling used and betrayed.
Apparently he knew, though. And two months later, my body recovered and ready to start having babies again, I found myself pinned once more. He admitted that he was amazed that I had conceived, that I had done something for him so amazing, so beautiful, that he just couldn’t help but bless me with his offspring again. That I never had to worry about being alone, he would breed me every time I was ready. I never would have another period again.
I couldn’t stop him, any more than I could last time. As I felt once more the feeling of sticky, warm cum thudding dully against my cervix, I knew there was no escape. I was going to get pregnant. I was going to give birth. And he would find me again as soon as I was able to be impregnated once more.
He would always be inside me.
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