30 y.o. bisexual woman writing about & obsessing over pregnant bodies & bellies ask box open for writing & rp requests. please see pinned post before messaging! NSFW content; minors, do not interact
and i’m ready to write and consume pregnancy-centered fetish content. maybe even ready to take requests and RP pregnancy situations.
some things to know:
-Minors, DNI
-i’m super bi and attracted to pregnancy in any and all forms of queer relationships & identities, so expect to find those here.
-my preferred topics/kinks you will likely find here: both fpreg & mpreg, multiples/hyperpregnancy, belly worship & rubbing, stuffing/weight gain, clothes not fitting/bursting/ripping, erotic labor & birth (or just labor and birth in general), lactation kink, rapid pregnancy
(i’m open to other kinks/topics, these are just my favorites)
-kinks you will NOT find here and I will not write/roleplay about: rape/noncon, minors, bestiality, vore/unbirth, incest, penis birth, urination/defecation
-for requests & RPs: no certain timeframe on replies, but i’ll try my best. RPs should be text only - it’s been a minute or five since i’ve last RP’d anything, so be gentle with me - at least at first :)
-i will be happily liberal with the block & delete buttons, so, you know, don’t be an asshole & don’t be a bigot.
We were secretly hooking up. Two friends in a friend group. Nobody else knew. Secret friends with benefits. The secrecy was the thrill. Acting normal in front of everyone one else and fucking like animals when it was just the two of us. We were always attracted to one another and the tension eventually became too much for us to ignore. And it would have been fine- except now I’m pregnant.
I’m pregnant and we didn’t find out until the 16 week mark.
And now to our horror, we have to tell everyone.
Not very “just friends of us.”
And even though my stomach stayed flat for a while, long enough that I had no clue, my pregnant belly is officially done keeping this secret. What fit me last week, now I can’t even button. I just popped. I’m not huge yet, but it’s clear that this can’t stay a secret for long.
We sat down to talk about it, we had to keep it. And I was going to outgrow my clothes, i was going to get questions on who got me pregnant. And I wanted to know what you wanted me to say. You asked me back in response “Well, do you want me around…?”
“I can’t do this by myself”
“Can we keep hooking up…? I mean do you want to…?”
I was literally stunned into silence and didn’t know what to say. And by the look on face you immediately started trying to fix what you said.
“I mean you can’t get… you know… pregnant twice- I mean yes you can but- you can’t now!”
“This is going to completely change my body from what you know it to be right now. I- …what about when I get too big and it’s just awkward and I feel undesirable?”
“It’ll be because of me though, you’ll get big and awkward because of me. And that’s hot. Seeing your bump, knowing I did it and you’re carrying MY baby,. The bigger you get, the more I’ll be sure to let you know how desirable you are.”
“Okay and what are we going to tell everyone?? They will be shocked to find out that I’m pregnant and two that YOU are the one that got me pregnant!”
“Well tell them those two things. You’re pregnant and it’s mine. We’ll figure it out as we go along”
And that’s exactly what we did.
Everyone was shocked. A couple people had suspicions we were sleeping together because they caught different moments where we shared a knowing look a little too long. Or a flirtatious smirk, or sensed tension. Everyone asked if we were together, we told everyone we’d at least be co parenting.
And then it happened.
We became a pregnant situationship. We never talked about what we wanted from each other. We just fell into playing house. I was already pregnant. And you were there for me and everything I needed and loving all over me to “help push back against me feeling self conscious.” You told me you got me pregnant so you were going to make sure I was taken care of. I was yours- at least for now- you publicly had a claim on me that I couldn’t hide anymore. You ramped everything up. You were sweet. You were caring. You never made me feel bad about my changing body. In fact you couldn’t keep your hands off of me.
You wanted to know everything happening to me and my body. Your curiosity about me turned me on. It was different from before. We were friends that were attracted to each other but now it was different. Your hands were no stranger to my body pre-pregnancy but now the way you places your hands on my stomach and my widening hips, I could feel a change from you. Gentler and more caring. This made it so I couldn’t bring myself to ask you what happens after this is over. I didn’t want to know yet.
I wanted to live in this current moment and reality. The one were you cuddled with me every chance you got. And rubbed my growing belly in the car whenever we got to a red light. Or would spoon me for as long as I wanted while kissing my neck and whispering how much you loved my body while rubbing circles along my growing bump. We fully fell into playing house, my pregnant body was the catalyst and the cherry on top. The detail that made it look and feel so real. Whenever we were out in public together nobody knew our backstory. We looked like any other pregnant couple.
I think you didn’t want to ask either. I could feel when you would ramp up being affectionate to me from time to time. I could tell you’d feel bad whenever I was in pain or dealt with an intense kick. Whenever I was exhausted or struggle to breath the bigger I got. You would apologize for getting me pregnant whenever I was uncomfortable and made it your lifes goal to make pregnancy easier for me every chance you could.
The further along I got, the more obsessed with me and my body you became. You wanted me to wear shirts that were too short and too small. You loved seeing my tits squeeze into tops and bras that they looked like they were going to burst out of. You loved outfits where my belly was WAYY TOO BIG and had to sit in my open zipper, spilling out of my outfits. Being around friends was getting harder and more awkward now. The proof of us sneaking around was officially impossible to hide. But there was nothing I could do except keep eating for two and getting bigger.
When I hit my third semester and started struggling to get up by myself whenever I was sitting down, you’d always come running whenever I called your name. I felt so self conscious about it. I felt self conscious all the time now.
I had to lean back, I was feeling my hips widen and walking was turning into slower waddling with each passing day. But you loved pulling me up. You told me you wanted to because you were the one that did it to me, you wanted to see how big I was going to get. I got teary eyed when you told me all the things I feel self conscious about were the little ways you were keeping track of my size in a way that excited you, not disgusted you.
The bigger I got the harder it was for us to kiss because my belly pushed you further and further from my lips. You paid attention to how far you had to lean to reach me.
The hungrier I got was because of you. You never told me no. My food wishes were your commands.
The more I had to lean back to balance out the weight pulling me forward the more photos you’d take so you could see the progression.
The less of my clothes fit the more you got turned on. Until one day you said you were fine if I walked around the house in whatever clothes i felt comfortable in and could even wander naked.
You loved oiling my belly. Intimately. Sometimes slowly like you were taking it all in. Sometimes quickly like you had 30 seconds left to touch me before being banished forever.
You loved me sitting on top of you during sex. Whether I was grinding slowly on you to tease us both or you were doing all the work while I just sat on top of you. You loved feeling the weight of me on top of you. And when you fucked me from behind you’d growl in my ear when you wanted me to get on top of you. You loved feeling every inch of my body when I was on top. My love handles. My stomach, my thoughts. Everything. Your thirst for my growing body was endless. We fucked like rabbits every chance we got.
And then one day, while we were making love, slowly, deeply, rhythmically, you started to pick up speed. And in the heat of the moment you finally said it. Guttural. Deep. Low. “Fuck. I love you. Tell me your mine”
Sometimes I get wet just thinking about getting pregnant. Feeling someone’s baby grow inside me. How BIG I’d get. How much people would stare. How the cum I let fill me would now change my life forever. Uhggg.
I used to think I’d grown used to this feeling—the soft heaviness of early pregnancy, the way my body warmed and stretched in quiet, miraculous surrender. But at fifteen weeks, I knew this wasn’t the same.
Not that I was new to it. We’d had children. Many. My belly had been rounded and full so many times, I could read its signals better than any scan. And this… this was more.
It wasn’t just fullness. It was pressure. Pulse. A stirring that came not from just one small presence, or two, but more. I could feel them.
I lay on my side in the bedroom, hands resting on the gentle slope of my abdomen. He walked in from the shower, towel slung low, his eyes catching mine with that same mischievous heat he always had. Father of my children. Keeper of my body. Holder of one delicious, maddening secret.
“You know how many,” I said softly, tracing lazy circles over my skin. “I can feel them in there. Squirming. Multiples again.”
He grinned, walking slowly to the edge of the bed, every inch of him dripping with restrained desire. “I do know.”
I arched a brow. “And you’re still not going to tell me.”
He knelt by the bed, palms sliding under my shirt, lifting it to expose my belly. His hands were warm, rough with work, tender with knowing. “You didn’t want to know the sex last time. Let me keep this one.”
“You’re evil,” I breathed, half-laughing, half aching.
“I’m patient.” He kissed low, right where the skin began to stretch. “And you’re irresistible when you’re this full.”
He pressed his cheek to my belly. “They’re crowding each other already,” he murmured. “Just like last time.”
“More than last time?” I asked, tilting my hips toward him, heart pounding.
“Could be,” he said, his lips sliding lower, his breath hot on my skin. “Could be less. You’ll just have to wait…”
I gasped as his mouth moved with intent, teasing the soft skin at the top of my thigh. He knew exactly how to touch me—how different my body became in pregnancy. Sensitive. Needy. My nipples ached. My core pulsed. The whole of me felt like a vessel on the edge of overflowing.
“I’m already stretched,” I whispered, breath hitching. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“You’re made for this,” he growled, shifting up, his body hovering over mine. “You always take everything I give you. And you still want more.”
I moaned as he entered me, slow and deep. Every thrust was deliberate, filling, possessive. His hands gripped my hips as if he needed to anchor himself to me, to this growing curve that held his newest secrets.
Each movement pushed me higher, the tension rising fast. I could feel the tightness of my belly between us, the undeniable presence of life swelling inside.
“How many?” I gasped, clenching around him.
He stilled inside me, leaned down, and kissed my throat. “More than you think.”
Then he moved again, hard, slow, claiming every part of me until I shattered around him, crying out his name, the secret still safe behind his smile.
Supernatural/fantasy pregnancies have really been stuck in my brain lately, so I'm gonna write my train of thoughts on that.
I love a good fantasy story, full of magic and whimsy and escapism from the normalcy of life. You know what makes it even better? BIG FUCKIN' TUMMY!
An alchemist, down on their luck, decides the smartest thing to do is get knocked up by a magical creature for potion ingredients. Turns out that dragon jizz makes for a really good stamina potion. Luckily, they've got a constant supply of it now. And a belly full of eggs, which their new dragon mate loves to nuzzle and lick.
Elves and Dwarves live for a heck of a long time. Consequently, their pregnancies also last a while. Shortstack Dwarves flaunt their baby-filled bellies for several years, growing steadily as they prepare for birth. Elves, graceful and lithe, are stuck waddling with a heavy bump for even longer. Yet they wear outfits that show off their tummies, worshipped for being fertile and healthy.
A succubus gets summoned and makes a deal with some wizard that wants power. So she births him an army, turning into a baby machine. They end up falling in love and raise their kids together, getting into domestic hijinks. There's barely any moments where the demon's tummy is flat anymore, since they're pact-bound to breed almost nonstop. Good thing magic makes life a lot easier for a woman who has big demon babies, always kicking and making her hormones rampant.
A werewolf pregnancy where the carrier can get by on most days. But when the full moon is out, their belly goes from normal-sized to looking ready to burst with triplets. The baby gets more rambunctious, wriggling like it wants out. The parent-to-be also gets cravings for dark meats and carbs aplenty, lending to the child's excessive growth. Hopefully, they give birth before the next full moon.
A fertility deity chooses a mortal champion, unwittingly impregnating them. The newfound divine-chosen being is shocked to immaculately find themself pregnant. They always wanted a child, so it's no problem. It's only a problem when they keep making babies. The attention to their condition has earned them a holy status, where they're worshipped fervently. Foot rubs, oils for their always-taut bump, fresh fruits to snack on, gorgeous clothes that tailor their growing body.
A shape-shifter/Changeling gets knocked up and thinks they can just turn into a male to avoid having a big bump to carry around. Turns out it doesn't work that way. They get a lot of stares when they get stuck like that for a while. It's especially challenging when they go into labor without the proper equipment to push out their baby.
A dungeon has had a bad reputation, but the treasure within is worth the danger. Except that treasure is cursed to make the person who takes it give birth until they've had as many babies as the value of its horde. One unlucky adventurer finds out too late and their belly suddenly surges forward as they instantly go into labor. The pregnancies are rapidly occurring in succession, and they churn out spawn after spawn, as the value of the treasure was thousands of gold.
Goblins are starting to dwindle in population, so they end up having a large breeding season to offset their losses. Some travelers come across a tribe who are particularly prolific. They've been given a pass to document the situation, observing several goblins carrying hefty litters that kick constantly. They might even get invited to some orgies if they play nice.
...Maybe I am a weird nerd. I could talk about this stuff for a while.
If anyone has other fun ideas, I'd love to hear them.
My dream is to spend some of each year of this upcoming decade pregnant.
Get a few Irish twins out of it.
Hopefully get a set of actual twins out of it.
Breastfeed my newest born, cradling them above by forever-swollen belly. When I'm not nursing them, I'm nursing whoever has filled me up this time.
Constantly buy new maternity clothes as I outgrow last pregnancy's items each time. By the time I reach 39, the maternity tanks I got for my first pregnancy are barely crop tops on me.
I want a decade of moaning, grunting, and sighing as I struggle with a bulging, shifting globe between my hips. I want hands constantly on my bare skin, tracing stretchmarks that eventually become more like tattoos, pressing against the movements of a child, or children, who is stretching me to my limit.
I wanna be pregnant. I wanna feel my tits swell, my nipples get sore and sensitive. I wanna lactate and make a leaking mess out of my shirts. I want my belly to swell, my skin to stretch, my back to get sore. I wanna watch my body change and morph into something almost unrecognizable and all because he decided to cum inside me one day. I wanna be bred like an animal. I’m aching for it. I’m in heat. I wanna be a vessel for something greater than myself: his seed.
I keep thinking about the time a few months ago I almost ran into a pregnant woman in a bookstore.
The only top she was wearing was a black sports bra. Her belly looked full: not the biggest I had seen, not an obvious stretchmark in sight, but she was clearly approaching her limit. And yet -- she walked past me so casually, as if it weren't the middle of a blistering summer and her bare pregnant belly wasn't a conspicuous and bulky accessory in the midst of this refreshingly crowded bookstore. What if I had accidentally bumped into her? Had she decided it was so hot and miserable that she risked an asshole stranger crossing a clear boundary?
Her child has surely been born now. And yet, here I am, all these weeks later, unable to decide whether I would have preferred to feel the weight of that precious globe as the carrier or the supporter.
Apologies for the recent lack of preg writing -- I really do hope to get back into it soon. In the meantime, if you ever wanted a weird remix of Game of Thrones and Community in which characters are forced into a study group for silly reasons -- I have just the thing for you:
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Fantasizing ☺️ About being a dutchess or a princess and knowing you will ultimately provide an heir. However, this family demands that they need a male heir. So you have to get pregnant over and over and over again… but unfortunately giving birth to girl after girl. You’re treated as a human vessel, a fertile goddess, and undergo countless pregnancies. And finally, 10 years later, you birth the male heir and your duty is done 🥲
But you're not, really, because the family insists on at least one "spare", and your husband had several brothers who died in infancy, so you resume your duty.
Since around the birth of your fifth daughter, you've always looked at least a little pregnant, regardless of whether you actually were. Still, it does not take long until it becomes very clear that you are pregnant, again, not even four months after your son's birth. Your belly outdoes itself, expanding quicker, further, and wider than it ever had previously, becoming an enormous globe whose size and inhabitant -- you refuse to admit the plural, even as your doctors and advisors and anyone allowed to see you place bets on how many reside in your womb -- inevitably ripple and tear any garment you place on it.
It becomes difficult to walk, than to walk without assistance, than to walk at all. You require two servants on hand to help shift you in bed. Your oldest daughters visit you, occasionally, to gaze upon you in horror and scorn.
Your lord husband, for all that he insisted upon the continued breeding, refuses to touch you, ostensibly out of concern but more likely out of the same horror. But though you certainly can no longer see or reach it, your cunt hums in relentless, shameful desire all the same, and you find that your sisters-in-law, whose wombs have never filled, are not so much repulsed by you, as hungry for you.
They are not gentle, of course, nor sweet nor loving, but to be looked at with both jealousy and desire, as a source of both pleasure and loathing, makes you feel more human than you have in ages. The older one digs her nails into the softness of your heavy thighs as she consumes you, and you somehow feel bigger than your enormous belly. The younger one pierces you violently with her fingers as she insults your entire family, and you remember things about yourself you had forgotten, living as a shadow to your own pregnancies.
They are there, of course, when you finally birth. You are able to return their favors as you lean your massive weight against them during a pain, or squeeze their hands as if you mean to crush their bones. They do not complain; they trace the mean red lines that traverse your belly, both old and new, and rub gentle circles around your nipples with their thumbs.
Eventually, a crushing but familiar pressure returns, almost like an old friend. For the 11th time, you are split open, you birth a child, and you bleed.
A girl, you think you hear, and for once, you hear the phrase said neutrally, without a trace of disappointment or fear or despair.
You split again, of course, much more quickly, and you birth a child, and you bleed.
A boy, you know you hear this time, and it is said just as joyously as the first time. One of the sisters presses her lips to your forehead.
You split once more, and no one seems surprised, and you birth a child, and you bleed.
Another boy, you hear, and there is relieved laughter and cheers. The other sister squeezes your hand.
There is an extended pause in the pains, and you think perhaps only an afterbirth remains, but no, you are splitting again, only this time it is not quite so painful, and you birth a child, and you bleed only a little.
Another girl, you hear, and you think the midwife may be smiling as she says it, and there are pleased murmurings that accompany the announcement. You wonder if you are dreaming.
A few nurses and attendants begin to slowly drift away from you, assured that only the afterbirth could follow, but when you feel a wave grip you-- the kind of wave that has been a more constant companion than your husband, a more familiar feeling than the embraces of your born children -- you know that you are being split, yet again.
The sisters know it too, and call out for the midwife. This splitting is slow and unrelenting and impossible. You are always tired, pregnant or not, but now, tired is all you are. You cannot be pregnant, you cannot be giving birth, you cannot be a wife or a mother or a woman or a person, not even a person who sleeps, because tired has erased it all.
But then hands -- familiar and sharp and secure -- are lifting you up, and a body is sliding behind you and wrapping their arms around you. A hand has taken hold of one of yours, and other has cupped your cheek. Words are being uttered, soft but strong and filled with emotions you cannot identify except to know that they are not cruel or disdainful or untrue, and it is one or all of these things that give you the strength to be split once more, to birth a child once more, and to bleed once more.
This time, to immense relief, the afterbirth does immediately follow. You hear the cries of this child as you fall back against a body, which then slowly sinks down, and another squeezes beside you.
You ask of the sex of this child. They say it does not matter.
Uggghhhhh put a baby in my belly please I want to feel it grow inside me I want to feel it kick and move I want you to hold my belly and rub it to help me through the kicks I want you to fuck me when my belly is so big I can't see my feet I want it so bad
I'm not sure what's caused it, because I've been much less active than I've planned, but hello & thank you to my influx of new followers! Have this snippet as a token of my appreciation:
(Edit after writing: LMAO "snippet" was perhaps understating it, and it was supposed to be hot but took a hard left turn for sincerity in fluff. Contains a/b/o dynamics, professor/student relationship, mpreg, belly worship/fixation?)
****
something beautiful
You notice the signs long before any sane person would.
It is the first Wednesday of February when he walks into the classroom five minutes late, pale and muttering, almost shyly, an apology and an excuse. He leads the class in workshopping and reviewing three of their short plays; he relaxes, falls right back into his normal alacrity and enthusiasm, and does not look at you once.
He is not late again the next few class periods, but you catch him flinch as he picks up his things to leave and presses them against his chest.
What had once been anathema to this professor -- tardiness, audible yawns, and a lethargy you had never before heard creep into his voice -- had become routine.
It is not until mid-March, after the last class session before your college's "spring" break, that you confront him. You had promised yourself that you wouldn't, that you would be discrete, at least until the semester ended -- but you couldn't help yourself. Not when you had been taunted all class period by his now bulging-belly, held taught by his magenta button-up as it loomed, just slightly, above his waistline.
Either by chance or by a futile attempt to avoid you, he is waylaid by a colleague on his way back to his office, so you beat him there. When he arrives a few minutes later, there are enough doors open that when you say, "Professor, sorry I'm a few minutes late for our appointment!", he does not contradict you, and gestures you in before closing -- and locking -- the door as quietly as possible behind him.
"That was bold," he notes, and when you turn around to face him, you expect to see his face at least partly carved in frustration or resignation or fear. It was one thing, after all, to be an unbonded male Omega working as a professor. It was quite another to be an unbonded Omega knocked up by your female Alpha student. As it was, Omegas needed to work much harder and for much longer to be seen as competent and authoritative enough to be in charge of a group of young adults. An Alpha teacher knocking up an Omega student? Not condoned, as such, but acknowledged as immutable consequence of the social structures of university combined with biological realities. But the reverse? Evidence that Omegas are unfit for leadership, that they have lost all credibility with their students, and is often grounds for immediate firing.
It is why, after you had accidentally stumbled upon him in heat, and had consummated an attraction you had been trying to deny for the last three years, you had fled in shame and guilt immediately afterwards. You could not drop his class without arousing suspicion -- you had taken at least one with him every year -- and so you had brought yourself to class every time, desperately attempting to avoid his gaze and any memory of how he sounded when, lying half-naked on his own desk, legs wrapped around your hips, he begged for you to breed him.
But when you look at him now -- determinedly keeping your eyes glued to his eyes, pools of pale blue ice that fix you to your spot, like a pin in a butterfly -- all you see is hunger.
He is striding forward, now, carelessly dropping your classmates' work to the floor, so that he is free to pull you against him. You gasp as you feel the weight of that bulge against your abs, and in lieu of words, which you find have fled you entirely, your shaking hands attempt to unbutton his shirt.
He chuckles, softly, and somehow fondly, at your attempt, but makes no effort to assist you beyond stepping back an inch. After what seems like an infinity, all relevant buttons have been unclasped, and the bulge -- no, what can only now be called a belly-- falls forward towards you, almost as if in relief in being freed from its confinement.
Your fingers are centimeters away from it -- from the curve of now-fuzzy skin that has stretched to surround and protect something you put inside him. You feel unworthy to touch it.
You look up at him, and when you open your mouth, you can only ask, "How?", and hope he hears the rest of the question in your silence: How can you not be furious at me for putting your career, your livelihood at risk? How can you not be scared out of your mind? How can you see me three times a week and not hate me?
Somehow, you are sure he hears them, your silent anxieties. He cups one hand around your face, and uses the other to attach one of your hands to his bump.
He does not give you some platitude about how he has always desired children, or how he has pined after you all these years. He does not tell you that his career means nothing to him, in comparison, or that he isn't worried about the consequences.
Instead, he says:
"I used to think I would make art, make something beautiful, through writing. Then, there was theatre, and I thought if those failed, I would still have teaching. But when I woke up that morning and realized what had happened, realized what you had started in me, I knew that this would be it, for me. Not as some hormone-driven evolutional imperative -- at least, I hope not -- but the only project that I think could ever fulfill me. And only then, if I got to do it with someone -- well, someone like you, maybe."
You notice that he is blushing, now; his confident voice becoming less steady and sure as he reaches his conclusion. You lean down and press your lips to his belly; it's his turn to gasp.
