Kind of enamored by the idea of an athlete with a super tight figure getting pregnant. She desperately doesn’t want to go through the physical ordeal of pregnancy and birth after working so hard for the body she has, but maybe her coercive partner talks her into keeping it, so she has to watch as she grows.
At first, it’s not so bad, her powerful abs keeping her bump small and cute, and her dainty breasts blooming into respectable handfuls while her band size remains unchangingly slim.
At six months, she’s starting to feel the strain of her full womb on her body whenever she exercises, but her high-carried bump still isn’t big enough to be obvious to passersby. She concedes, as her boyfriend rubs her kicking belly, that maybe pregnancy isn’t so bad.
Then, her seventh month arrives, and her body finally folds. Her abdominal muscles give, and almost overnight, her perfect beach belly becomes a grotesque gut busting through the musculature of her torso, hanging so heavy and low that it stretches her skin to its limits. She whines and groans as she rubs restlessly at the fertile curve of her new body. She finds herself squirming at how horribly her belly itches, red with violent stretch marks and lumpy with varicose veins. Her attention is constantly drawn to the sharply defined shadow where her athletic body ends and her mommy belly begins.
So, in four short months, she goes from thinking she’ll hardly change at all, to staring at her postpartum body in the mirror: hips wide and thickened, a round pouch of flab where her washboard abs once sat, the modest breasts of her early pregnancy transformed into veiny, engorged udders with nipples as thick as her thumb. She burns with humiliation as the thought of any of her gym rat friends seeing her now. One glance, and they’d dismiss her as nothing but a mom, some baby-maker trying to turn back the clock, unable to accept that she’ll always have a breeder belly no matter what she does.
