Imagine signing up to be a repopulation Surrogate for an island of mythical creatures
The idea is you'd start out with the smaller ones like gnomes or elves, but day one the hunky satyr managed to talk his way into your womb and now you're screaming out a massive kid in front of the hot centaur doctor who wishes it was his foal
Your next pregnancy is by faeries to give your poor womb a break, but you've been stretched out so much that you just swell and swell with them, and faerie labor is so fast you just feel like you're having a stomachache and suddenly you're pushing heaps and heaps of wriggly little bodies out into your pants in the middle of the supermarket. Your pussy is still so stretched from the satyr that each push lets out three, four, five, once even ten at a time, and you can't stop the contractions
Next the mermaids get a hold of you - the ovipositing kind at first, and you shiver as you deliver their clutch in the warm shallows. But then the beluga mermaid wants a piece of you, and next you're on your hands and knees in a shallow tank, a massive whale tail stretching you to your limits with the centaur doctor helping to pull it out... and seeing how well you can handle *that*, well-- he knows he's got to put a foal or two in you next.
And he does put a foal or two (two) in me. In the interest of repopulating the island in a timely fashion, the pregnancies are short, and two months later I’m squatting low, foaling for him. I can’t stay squatted for long though—they’re so big that after the head and first shoulders come out, I have to stand to allow room for the first torso and then the horse body. Maybe it’s better that I calved for a whale mermaid just before this ordeal.
I almost want to try a minotaur pregnancy next, but my centaur doctor and lover advises against it. I do a short werewolf pregnancy and lay down under the next full moon to whelp all night, and the pups are minuscule compared to a centaur foal, but there’s sixteen of them and I’m shaking with overstimulation by the end. A werebear finds me before the full moon sets and I’m pregnant again before the sun rises, even though I wonder if I should have waited for a minotaur like I wanted…
The werebear’s cubs fight inside me for the entire moon cycle, leaving me exhausted and in pain. I scream out the first one at midnight under the next full moon but the next one is breach. It takes me an hour of pushing to realize it, two hours for my centaur doctor to rotate the cub, and a fourth hour to push it out. I’m laying there exhausted when my belly squeezes and a third tiny cub falls out of my ruined hole—a little runt. I barely realized anything came out of me until I’m told.
It’s ghosts next time, physically the easiest to carry and birth because they weigh nothing and have no particular form, but the coldness in the belly and the clammy feeling as they slip out takes a mental toll on most. Not me! I’m fine…
Finally I can have my minotaur pregnancy. My doctor advises me to carry two or three so that they’re all slightly smaller when I give birth. But unfortunately, even though my minotaur suitor bred me to bursting with cum over several consecutive days, it’s just one calf. The doctor induces me a week early to help keep it on the smaller side, but I still spend two days pacing, thrashing, screaming, pushing. Finally the head is out and I lay in the calf’s father’s strong arms panting weakly while the centaur doctor pulls on each contraction. I calve 53 hours after being induced and it weighs 38 pounds.
My centaur tries to retire my womb, and I argue stoically against it, but he wins…sort of.
I get bored after a few weeks and seek out the slimes so I can have a nice cryptic pregnancy without anyone noticing. I carry small clutches for the basilisk and a single heir for the gnome queen (she heard about my early work), but eventually I slip up and find myself at the centaur doctor’s labor and delivery ward again, crowning something huge into my pants…
He just shakes his head and washes up for the oncoming birth.
Been kinda dizzy about the idea of a t-guy who’s climbed the ranks in a chauvinist finance bro company, totally unaware that he’s entering the 41st week of a cryptic pregnancy.
He’s been assuming the intense pressure and sudden slight bulge of his lower belly is just bloating, and when the cramps start, it just solidifies his theory that it’s all been hormonal. He doesn’t get periods anymore, but he’s been spotting and having other menstrual symptoms on and off since he started T four years ago, so he doesn’t think anything of it; he just powers through with painkillers and caffeine, never thinking to time these cramps even as they get closer and closer together.
He does worry, in the back of his head, that maybe this is something serious— but he can’t afford to leave the office now. This is the most important quarter of his career, and if he misses any of the back-to-back meetings today, let alone the boss’s mid-quarter presentation, he risks slipping in status. He already spends every day worried there’s a target on his back after he was stupid enough to let somebody fuck him in the drunken witching hour of an office rager nearly a year ago.
Key word: someone.
He can’t actually remember who, meaning he has no idea which one of his frat alum coworkers knows his secret, that there’s a reason he’s “short king” and likes to wear boxy suits. All he remembers is the stretch of a cock and an expensive jacket crumpled in his trembling fists, which doesn’t narrow it down at all. Having no idea who could have the ability to out him, the last several months have been incredibly stressful, every hitch in a project or altercation with a coworker making him wonder, Has he seen my pussy? Is he gonna tell everyone if I piss him off?
But no one has snitched yet, and he’s not going to risk damaging his networking by going home because of a little tummy pain.
He’s in the first of many meetings when the cramps somehow get worse. The pain narrows into his lower back, shooting down between his back dimples. It’s all he can do not to shout at the top of his lungs, nearly biting his tongue trying to keep himself quiet. It feels like someone is pulverizing his spine with a hammer, taking special care to grind each nerve until it snaps, leaving him feverish and twisted with nausea.
He sweats through his clothes in minutes, and leaves fingernail prints in his palms as he barely keeps the little noises bubbling in the very bottom of his throat from breaking out as screams for help. Gone are any theories about his hormones or something he ate; he must be dying. His organs are liquefying, or he’s about to shit out his intestines, or something, but it’s certainly going to kill him.
He doesn’t catch much of the meeting, able to experience nothing outside the world-swallowing pain in his guts, splitting him open. Though he thinks he does a good job not screaming, he ends up panting softly, eyes closed, nails graduated to biting into his thighs through his slacks. Between cramps, he can only try to catch his breath without hyperventilating.
Then comes the cramp that introduces the terrifying, excruciating feeling of the pressure moving down.
He grips the table and presses his body into the chair, teeth clenched. With so much weight in his pelvis and the intense pressure on his asshole, his delirious fear about his intestines doesn’t seem so far-fetched…
Finally the cramp passes, and he goes light-headed trying not to gasp for air. It hurts so fucking bad. At this point he doesn’t even know if it’s worth it to stay here—he hasn’t heard a word anyone has said or been able to contribute a thing himself, and if anyone looks at him, it’ll be clear he’s not listening. But the fear of interrupting the meeting and everyone seeing him leave, or god forbid, having an accident while all eyes are on him, keeps him right where he is for now. He just has to wait until the meeting is over. It can’t be much longer, right? He can’t take it much longer.
Another cramp hits. But this time, the pain narrows into purpose.
He needs to push.
The realization breaks over his head with stinging ice-water clarity. The sensations in his body suddenly orient in his mind, and just as he understands that the unstoppable force inside him is his contracting womb, the rest of his body bears down without his permission. The pain reaches a new height, locking the muscles in his lower back, the pressure growing deep inside him like nothing he’s ever felt. It’s pushing through his cervix. He drops his chin to his chest to gulp down a scream and the rising urge to puke, his cunt lips throbbing as the descending weight compresses his pelvis against his chair.
Suddenly his body finishes pushing. He’s left gasping, ears ringing with the stomach-hollowing reality that something massive now bulges into the deepest part of of his pussy.
He starts to pant.
Jesus, the stomach bug that wouldn’t go away earlier in the year, his tits getting so sensitive and painful to bind, feeling like he has to pee all the time. The hot, throbbing cock he spread his legs for some ten months ago.
How did he not realize?
He fights oncoming hyperventilation, shifting as much as he can without drawing attention to himself, desperately seeking relief from the pain. He finds none before the next contraction squeezes him.
His body screams at him to push, but he resists. He acutely feels his muscles—his birth canal fighting the impossibility of something so huge forcing it open, pain radiating from the center of his crotch through his sciatic and up his back and down the tendons on his inner thighs, making his legs tremble.
Even when the vice eases, the pressure remains, the mass within him so huge in his pelvis that he can barely think around it. Even his belt, just a bit tight when he buckled it with the last hole this morning, digs noose-like into the flesh just below his navel. His hand twitches towards it, needing it unbuckled, but, god, what if someone looks over at the sound of the clinking metal? Then everyone will know he’s having…
Oh, god. He’s having a baby. Someone fucked a baby into his womb ten months ago, and now that baby is forcing his bones out of the way so that it can tear through his cunt.
Fuck. He can’t do this here. If these men see him push a baby out, he’ll be nothing more to them than a pair of tits and a warm pussy. His career is over if anyone realizes what’s happening. He has to get out of here before—
The next contraction crashes over him. He’s so sure that he doesn’t push, yet his body forces the head unstoppably lower. His lungs ache, taut with stored energy, as he drags another scream down. At this point, he’s terrified of what kind of noise will come out of him if his clenched throat slips.
The same thing happens with every contraction after, the child wrung through his cervix bit by bit, no matter how he resists. Every time he’s sure it must be about to come out of him, another contraction moves it a little deeper into his birth canal. It feels so low, how could it still have so far to go?!
Then, on the blurry edges of his pain-saturated world, something changes. He pries his eyes open and could sob with relief when he sees people getting up from their seats, gathering briefcases, checking their phones. It’s over. Now he can call an ambulance and—
The moment he starts to stand, there’s a strange sensation in his pelvis and abdomen, a sudden release of pressure. Liquid trickles into his slacks. He freezes, knees trembling, with his ass a few inches off of the seat. Did he piss himself? No- no, there’s a strange relief in his belly, and the liquid just keeps coming, far more than he’s been able to hold in his bladder recently. His water broke. It gives him an unexpected reprieve, but it’s gone before he manages to truly register it, the absence of amniotic cushioning making the body inside him feel like it’s made of jagged corners.
His knees give out, and he just manages to cinch his throat around his squeak of pain as he drops back into his seat.
Okay. Okay, so everyone will see him like this if he leaves now. They’ll think he pissed himself. Embarrassing, but he’ll be able to have this baby outside of the office, and no one will ever have to know it existed.
He tries to breathe evenly, psyching himself up to stand and make for the door. One, two—
The next contraction is unlike anything he’s felt so far. Without the buffer of the water, his body truly grips the baby, like before he’d been trying to squeeze a bar of wet soap, but now it’s a pomace stone. Acutely he feels the curve of the skull straining him, pain shooting from the front of his crotch to the joints of his hips, a backsplash of sparks prickling around to his tailbone.
It feels like it’s never going to end. But it finally does, and he pries his eyes open.
No! The room is already full again. And, fuck, the boss is at the front, starting his presentation. He missed his chance! He clings to the edge of the table and pants, trying to assess his options. He’s so fucking dead if he leaves while the boss is talking. But the presentation has full visuals and music, so maybe he could sneak past unnoticed? But the door is in the front, everyone would look at him if he—
A small squeak punches out of him as the pain he thought was all-encompassing somehow spreads further, catching his cunt alight as the skull reaches the ring of muscle just before his opening. Instinctively he snaps his legs together, pussy desperately clenching over the crown to try to keep it in. With the presentation going, he chances a soft, wheezing groan, needing some way to express the wrongness, the discomfort of denying his body the openness it needs to pass this baby. The sensation of it just behind his pressed-together thighs makes him feel like his pelvic floor will burst from the pressure.
The room warps around him, nothing but distant, muted sounds underscoring the thunder of his breathing. He keeps his legs shut, fresh waves of sweat dripping into the fine hair on his cheek, down the back of his neck, collecting in the sopping spot where his lower back presses to the chair. His knees quiver, fighting dual instincts to squeeze together and wrench apart.
The pressure only grows. His mouth falls open as everything locks tight and he feels the weight finally defeat his body’s final futile barrier, slowly splaying the clench of his cunt apart. He shakes his head, whispers, “No, no, fuck, don’t come out, no, no, no, it’s coming out, it’s coming out, don’t come out—!“
But he lost any choice in this months ago. The contraction ends with the child cradled by his pussy lips, still inside of him, but only just. He can’t tell, but he thinks a sliver of the head might be touching the chair. He can barely imagine how his body could be capable of this in favorable circumstances, but now, with no help and nowhere to go? It’s going to break his hips, or rupture his birth canal, or something.
Dread sits in the top of his throat as he waits for the next contraction. Somewhere, there’s royalty-free corporate music playing. His fists tighten preemptively into his slacks. It’s about to come out of him. He’s about to experience the worst pain of his life, and he can’t even scream.
His womb begins to tense, and he shakes his head, but his body forces its offspring forward all the same. His eyes fly wide open, the heels of his Oxfords digging into the carpet as his pussy spreads. He can see it so clearly in his mind’s eye, his hole forced wider, rounder with every moment, the head cleaving him. He pulls in a ragged gasp, and his birthing body mistakes the heave of his lungs for participation, tightening his belly just a little bit more—
And he crowns.
A brilliant-white sting shoots from the back of his hole to the base of his little boy clit, a pain so sudden and sharp that it feels like it can’t be anything but divine judgment. He’s being punished for not keeping his slutty legs shut.
Instinctively he wrenches them shut now, but it’s too late, the head is too far forward, and moving his legs only makes it bob fruitlessly against the drenched seat of the chair.
He keeps his eyes shut and pants softly, unable to do anything but wait out the inevitable. Pain makes his thoughts vague and his head floaty, and it feels both an eternity and a breath before the next contraction comes.
His lower lip goes numb between his teeth and so do the folds of his pussy, pinched between the descending head and the chair. He’s not granted the same mercy inside his cunt, though, the muscle bullied past its limit and forced perpetually wide by the crown of his bastard child’s massive head. But there’s no further for the head to go, so his body wrings itself out fruitlessly, making no progress and finding no relief.
He has no idea how long he stays that way, stretched to the absolute edge of his body’s ability, cramps compacting him tighter and tighter trying to budge a child that can’t go any further. Though he wants nothing more than to stand and push this baby out, he resists with the last shreds of his pride. He breathes thinly, dizzy and sweat-drenched as contraction after contraction crushes his miserable body, the waves coming closer together and growing in violence. It’s going to come out. It’s going to come out of his pussy, he’s going to give birth, but he can’t, this can’t be happening, he can’t let it!
Desperately, madly, he rolls his hips forward, spreading his legs just in time to press his pussy flat to the chair, and pushes the head back in. Pain strikes right up the center of his body, wrenching his stomach and leaving his sinuses and the back of his neck tingling, his nerves unable to even process how awful it is, trying to make him throw up because maybe he’s ingested poison and that’s why he’s suffering like this.
He takes thin, shallow breaths through his pursed lips, nose stinging and eyes watering, needing to scream like he’s never needed anything before as the pressure-pain radiates through every grain of bone and fiber of muscle.
It’s so bad, it’s so fucking wrong, he can’t take it anymore, should he just do it? Should he do what his whole being is screaming for: spread his legs and brace his feet up on the table? Let out the energy thrumming inside him, the ugly shrieking groan, and push with every last bit of strength?
No, he can’t. He can’t. But it can’t go on like this with his pussy blocked, his body denied its most primal need. In fighting its very nature, his insides twist, a strain agitated by anxiety until it rings through him like a sour violin note, curdling his stomach. Fuck, if he pukes, then everyone will look at him anyway. They can’t look, they can’t find out what’s coming out of him.
Okay, he has to do something. Maybe there’s a better way to sit. Maybe he can just… slowly slide his butt forward… fuck, the friction burns his asshole, is it prolapsing!? He can’t tell. Fuck it. If he can just get a little space to lean back, maybe—
The pain crescendos, a split second of truly unbearable weight, a stab through his pelvic bone, the brand of childbirth searing his cunt with glowing-hot agony. By the time he clamps his hand over his mouth, it’s already over.
He sits there, blurry-eyed and panting into his hand, for several seconds. Vaguely, he registers the reduction of pressure, the new liquid drenching his chair. Then he looks down, and feels like he’s going to be sick.
Between his legs, in the space where his men’s slacks are meant for the bulge of a cock, an infant’s head strains the fabric. He whines gently and shakes his head, and yet his free hand draws, magnetic, to touch the grotesque shape pushing his thighs apart. He traces his fingertips over it and shudders at its solidity, how warm it is, gooey through the drenched cotton.
He feels it in the palm of his hand and the stretch of his cunt as the child begins to turn. He squirms with how strange and awful it feels, feet twisting on the rug as the shoulders twist slowly inside of him. Then he contracts, and they suddenly lurch the rest of the way, dragging across his tortured canal just before they push at his cunt.
He shakes his head futilely, but the burn behind his pussy lips intensifies again and he only manages to half-swallow a yelp as a shoulder starts to push out. He leans forward, a whimper leashed behind the bend of his throat, trying to stop this, to undo it— but his body’s reflexes and the mass of the child cannot be denied. The shoulder inexorably stretches his hole, forcing him to lean back in the chair, tilting his pelvis up to make room.
The moment his hips achieve an angle that allows the first shoulder to ease out, the second shoulder bursts through. This is the part where the child is meant to be born, slipping from his body, all downhill from here.
But he gets no such relief.
The child’s head and shoulders strain the crotch of his slacks, a shocking and unnatural shape. Its thick barrel torso and upper arms remain trapped in his cunt, the fabric preventing it from moving any further. He pushes, watches his slacks stretch a minuscule amount, before he must release his quivering muscles, and the small body is forced back inside of him to the shoulders. He almost blacks out from the wrongness of it, dizzy and unable to feel anything other than how it’s beginning to squirm, kicking his cervix, knees digging into his cunt.
He remains like that for what feels like years, with a half-born bastard bulging between his thighs, keeping his birth canal stretched wide, his vision foggy with pain and exhaustion.
He thinks he’s staying quiet. Just a few soft whimpers to ease the pain, whines hidden inside his closed mouth. Maybe no one will—
“What the fuck?!”
He flinches. The child bobs with the lurch of his muscles, and he wails aloud.
The bass-line of the Boss’s voice ends. More heads turn. Gasps. Sounds of disgust. Commotion as people ask what’s going on, stand, push their chairs back. The music cuts.
The lights come up, and he finds dozens of men turned around in their chairs, all eyes on him. Next to him, a nepo baby portfolio advisor has his phone out.
“Holy fuck,” he’s saying, “look at this shit! Is it coming out of him?! No shot!”
Tears break over the birthing boy’s cheeks. He shakes his head and drops futile hands over the undisguisable aberration between his thighs, fighting desperately for the last shreds of his privacy. “No,” he whimpers, “no, no—“
Footsteps. “No way, dude. Look!”
“What’s—augh, nasty!”
They’re standing. Starting to crowd him. His eyes only flicker up fast enough to glimpse suits and latest-gen iPhones pointed his way, falling down before he has to see anyone’s face.
“Please,” he cries, broken, “help, it’s stuck, it’s stuck—“
But they’re talking over him.
“Did he shit himself?!”
“No, look, that’s a head!”
“He’s knocked up?!”
“Who knocked him up? That’s gay as fuck.”
“Is it gay if he has a pussy?”
The distractions are enough to leave him off-guard when the next contraction hits. His abdomen crunches tight and he squeaks, head flying back. But now, there’s no reason to resist. He roars through his teeth and arches off the chair, pushing with all his might. Through blurry eyes, he sees the crotch of his slacks strain. His hips tremble. The animal groan grinding from his chest dwindles along with his air.
He collapses, and this clothes push the bastard back into him.
Shouts go up around him, the unmistakable sloping sound of entertained disgust.
“No fucking way, man! Gross!”
“Should someone call 911?”
“Dumbass didn’t even take off his pants.”
His eyes fly open. Frantic, his trembling hands leap for his belt buckle. He struggles with the little pieces, a whine rising higher and higher in his throat. His belly tightens again. He manages to pull the prong free of the hole. His birth canal begins to tense. He rips the belt open, finally revealing the front of his slacks, and his fingers struggle to catch the edge of the button as it pulls tighter and tighter with the descending body. Just as he manages to slip the button free, he plants his feet and pushes with everything he has left, his hips thrusting high. For a moment, the outline of the infant doesn’t move from the prison of his clothes. Then he snatches a clumsy handful of waistbands and shoves his slacks and briefs down in one go.
Voices go up in shock, awe, and revulsion as the purple-white shape of a newborn slips out of his poor pussy. The squalling infant lands in his ruined underwear, the wet fabric sagging hammock-like between his legs.
His limbs give out. He falls back against the chair, wheezes once, and begins to sob. Dozens of phones film, and no one assists him as he weeps, mortified and exhausted, his knees trembling with the weight of the wailing infant cradled between them, his pussy fluttering around the cord.
That’s the picture that gets shared the most. Him, betrayed by his own body, crying like a girl, offspring still linked to him. For every “news” outlet he convinces to take the picture down, five more spring up, the sensational Man Gives Birth In Meeting headline garnering too many clicks to resist. Even so-called ally organizations and trans-focused websites run the story, giving him lines about the importance of inclusion and the impact of visibility when he contacts them.
When he gets out of the hospital a few days after the birth, someone on the street recognizes him. He buys a box of hair dye on the way home and gives himself a haircut in the mirror, thinking grimly of the earliest days of his transition. But the throb of the slowly-healing wound between his legs keeps him from reminiscing too much, his body not allowing him to escape the present in which he’s found himself.
When he returns to work a few weeks later, everyone who wasn’t at the meeting has seen the footage of him pushing out his little surprise. It’s not a shock; the videos have tens of millions of views, and that’s just the original tik-toks. He couldn’t even begin to count the re-posts, and he hasn’t been able to bring himself to look at the stitches and edits.
He manages to keep a stiff upper lip until he enters the bullpen and sees a dot of pink above his desk: a pacifier-shaped balloon reading It’s A Girl!
It doesn’t matter whether it was meant to refer to the daughter he tries not to think about, or a dig at his gender; maybe it was meant as both. If it was, it hits the mark. His eyes sting and his face flushes hot as he retreats back to the lobby. The secretary blessedly ignores him while he stands at the wall and takes deep breaths.
After a moment, though, the phone rings. She answers, exchanges brief words, then hangs up. Then she says his name. He looks over his shoulder. The boss wants to see him, she says.
He manages to stop crying by the time he gets up to the boss’s office, at least. Even manages to sound casual when he says Yes, he feels fine, and how are you, sir? But the pleasantries end there, and suddenly he’s sitting, looking up at a towering figure two decades his senior, every year of experience reflected in thick silver hair, and the cuff links and Rolex that cost more than the t-guy’s rent.
The boss’s voice is calm but deep, absolute, as he says, “I don’t think this work is for you.”
The t-guy blinks up at him. “Wh-what?”
“I don’t think you have a future here. But…” He crosses broad arms and seats himself on the corner of the desk closest to the t-guy, almost putting him between his thick, muscled legs, “I would pay you six figures to do what you’re actually good at.”
“…Sir?”
“Don’t play dumb, boy. You looked so good pushing out my brat. And having videos at all of those angles… goddamn. When you birth the next one, I’ll make sure we’ve got cameras set up all over.”
He blinks up at his boss, lips parted, hands trembling. “I…”
He should say no. That the birth was the most painful and traumatic experience of his life, that he never wants to do anything like that again. But how is he going to get a new job when everyone knows him as an idiot who didn’t even know he was pregnant? What is there left for him but embracing it and profiting off of it, anyway?
And at this angle, his boss’s cock makes a mouth-watering bulge. His aching pussy clenches, remembering how to get wet.
And when he ends up on his back on the desk, cock so deep he swears he feels it in his lungs, he knows that the next time he’s screaming around a crowning head, he’ll have no one to blame but himself.
Hucow boy who fights and attempts to escape when the farmer tries to breed him, so the farmer teaches him a lesson by injecting him with bull semen. Within only a few months he’s too heavy with calf to even leave his pen without help, much less run away. But the real reward is watching a once-defiant boy reduced to screaming and begging for forgiveness as his pussy stretches around 80lbs of livestock :)
Saw your post from the other day- and I know they are kind of goofy looking, but I’ve had the thought of how giving birth to one of those grey BIG headed aliens must be like. Imagine if it came in a difficult position, ESPECIALLY breech. Good lord
Also kinda got hit by the writing… Bug. Idk, so have this?
TW/ kinda dark? Dunno I never post my writings lol
You’re giving birth to an alien, so silly things like oxygen, or heartrate aren’t a concern. The aliens that bred you for their studies, watching over you, will let you birth for days and days on end, not caring for your pain or complaints if only to write more notes. They are aliens too of course, and misunderstanding of human limits… But you’ve long lost the ability to properly form sentences in the throes of this unnatural labor, reduced to nothing but feral, useless pushing as the offspring within you either doesn’t move, or taunts you with milimeters of progress that are most often immediately lost.
Eventually, your contractions begin to weaken, your body exhausted, but, everytime your body is close to giving up, the aliens watching fill your veins with their strange drugs, and your belly contracts upon itself with renewed strength, perhaps even stronger than the natural efforts of your weak, human body’s battle against its unwelcome guest… And of couse, your own muscles, skin, everything, burns high with something that feels like adrenaline, but may be closer to regeneration of some kind- as your exhausted vocal cords are able to let you scream and beg just as loudly as the first time.
With how horrid the stretch is within you’re barely breached birth canal already, and the countless strange drugs they fill you with without care… You dread to imagine what these aliens will do once their hybrid babe rests behind your lips, bobbing in and out obscenely as your skin refuses to stretch for the gargantuan head.
Anon.
Anon.
You are welcome in my inbox anytime, anon. Hot damn, I get an itch for dark stuff sometimes, and you've done an excellent job of scratching it. 💗 The idea of the baby getting stuck while your body weakens and starts to fade, only to be forced back into action, knowing you can't push this thing free? :chefskiss:
(Catching up on responses to If you could be 'pregnant' with anything non-human, what would you choose to carry?)
TRANSITION. we all love the pushing phase but its the part right before it that actually gets most people. for those unfamiliar, this is the final part of the first stage of labor, when the cervix opens the last couple centimeters, and this is generally regarded as by far the most painful part of childbirth. this is the part that breaks people, makes them beg for painkillers even when they swore off of them, makes them scream in agony, makes them lose any sense of rational thought. the sadist's delight :>
the fact that the urge to push is completely physically overwhelming. it's not just an urge. it literally takes over peoples bodies. you cannot resist.
the fact that sometimes the urge to push comes early. people often feel the urge to push before they're fully dilated, and they have to resist, or at least try to stave it off as long as possible, and it's torture. I read an account once of someone screaming in childbirth, not from pain but from the torture of not pushing. does things to me man
the sheer body horror of childbirth, especially crowning and the fact that the head comes out first. like... a poor, scared little thing, screaming and pushing out a baby they don't want, and then they look down and a head is hanging out of them?
the fact that sometimes people have to reach in to help get the baby out and it's just as horrifically painful as it sounds <3
you're so right about all of these. these are the ACTUALLY underrated aspects. i should post more about these things...
Poor guy hasn’t even gotten to the hard part yet 😌
I need to draw him at full term because this is his belly halfway to crowning and clenched tight by pushing… relaxed and carrying his whole baby before his water broke, he would have been massive. 🥰 I should draw his monster bulging out his belly with its massive cock as it knocks him up, too 🥰🥰
And here’s a closeup of his pussy because I worked way too hard on it. 💜 Ofc looking at it now I’m like damn I should have drawn his perineum more stretched but oh well
man, it would be so much harder to birth an egg of sufficient size. Humans' saving grace in birth is that the head and shoulders are able to rotate to traverse our complicated pelvis - none of that with an egg. You have no choice but to just force it straight through. One way or another you're going to have to stretch around that widest diameter. It won't get any simpler than that.
The contraction was a force that could not be bargained with, so much pressure distilled into such a small space that suddenly nothing was left within him but a blind, instinctive need to push. He reared back to grab the counter lip with his other hand, dropped his chin to his chest, and finally, finally did what his body had been screaming at him to do: he pushed.
Read the rest of Dave’s twin birth story here!
Gonna try to add the uncensored version in the reblogs 👁️
Not to be horny tonight but, thinking of a goth girl heavily pregnant convinced she’s having the spawn of the devil. The night she’s in labor she comes to my window as we sneak through town out to the cornfields where an abandoned church is. She’s hanging onto my arm as we approach, leading me into the hall past crumbling pews and to the altar. Groaning and holding back the urge to push, she urges me to draw symbols on the ground, light candles, etc. All the while she’s grinding on her hand to keep the child within her until everything is right. Shocked as she kneels in the center of a pentagram, head large and barely crowning from her with wo little horns poking out.
Giving birth in a college dorm while nobody knows. Not your friends, not your family, not your roommate in the other room. Begging for it not to be real. The head slowly bulging into your jeans you never took off from this morning. Pushing on your stomach as if that would make it all go away.
There's only one way it's going to go away. The way you've been dreading for months. You brace your back against the wall, panting, grunting through contractions. Your socked toes curl as your jeans continue bulging, the crotch wet, your fluids soaking into the carpet.
It keeps coming. Your crotch burns, lips parting wider. Into a wide teardrop. Into a tight, fiery O. You cup your hand over yourself and can feel this shameful secret right there. A cry of agony escapes you as you give one more big push, and the waist of your pants shift down, forced to move by the weight and size of the head.
You shudder, moaning into a pillow as it turns. Feeling the need to bear down again, unbuttoning and unzipping before pushing with everything you have. They're just loose enough to pull down, bagging around the baby as it fills your pants and underwear, starting to release its first wet little cry.
Of course you couldn't keep it. But nobody ever knew, even many years later. The person who did this to you, no idea you'd made them a father. Your friends, no clue you were the first of them to birth a child. Your parents, not even a concept that you'd screamed and pushed and cried until they became grandparents, with no baby to show for it.
Giving birth to something impossible in a corn field at night. Whatever is in you is so big and your hole is bulging into your jeans. No matter how hard you push it won’t budge. It’s so big it aches in your hips.
Older knight/captain of the guard escorting the prince on a long, perilous journey to the neighbouring kingdom where the prince's arranged marriage will take place.
The very first night the captain walks a little ways into the woods to relieve himself, but instead he returns three hours later fucked full of... something he resolves never to think about.
But only a few weeks later, well after midnight in a silent camp, he sits by the fire and pulls layers of armour and clothing aside to reveal a scarred, hairy, well-muscled torso rounding out below the navel into an unmistakable bump.
He had felt the bloating, the nausea and fatigue, for days now, but this is the first time he's had enough privacy to look down at himself in the firelight, palm his belly and finally admit that something monstrous had been growing inside of him ever since that first night.
When the panic ebbs away, he covers up again and finishes his watch, stoically returning to routine.
After all, a dozen men, a prince and two kingdoms are counting on him. He can worry about himself when his duty is done. Until then, he'll just have to pray no one notices their fearless leader's growing belly.
The captain anxiously hides his condition until they reach a village. After everyone's settled at the inn and the prince's room is well guarded, he makes some excuse and sneaks off to the village witch.
He tells her he's desperate and needs to be rid of this before they leave the village at sunrise the next day. The witch looks out the window at the sun just starting to set outside and says that there should be just enough time. Grateful and relieved, the captain asks what he owes her, and she cryptically answers that this will pay for itself. She walks back to the table he's lying on, puts her hand on his bared belly, and within seconds he's screaming as his womb expands, growing to full term in just few, agonising minutes. He only has a moment to catch his breath before his waters break.
Nine hours later, the witch is holding her payment and wiping off its iridescent scales, while the captain lies keening, feeling her magic knit his body back together. At sunrise, the guards find their captain lying in his bed as he should be, but looking very much the worse for wear. Nonetheless, they have to be out on the road again in a couple hours.
