Suppose we're having a homebirth, and we're both eager to draw things out as long as possible.
While you're in labor, I'll keep you in bed as much as possible, getting you things if you need them, but making sure you spend nearly all of your time laying back in bed with your hips propped up on a pillow, making sure each contraction does as little as possible, letting your belly clamp down over and over again with the smallest possible result each time.
Eventually, to the chagrin of both of us, your cervix is fully dilated and you start to feel an immense pressure low down in your hips. However, this doesn't mean you have to just give up and give birth. It feels like a watermelon is trying to slide its way through your cervix but you hold back, panting like mad as you try to work through the near-overwhelming fullness of your baby trying to come out. I keep your hips elevated as you breathe through your body's urge to bear down, letting you squeeze my hand whenever it gets to be too much and helping nudge your legs back together when you try and spread them to give birth.
You can't hold back forever, though. As much as I'd love to watch you keep breathing through the contractions for all eternity, and as much as you'd love to do exactly that, your refusal to push just can't last forever. You give a heroic effort, but all it takes is a single lapse of concentration before you're bearing down full-force. You're so full, so desperate to bear down that a single, endless push is enough to bring your baby all the way to your opening before my hand starts to hold it in place.
"It's okay honey, just push now, let it all out," and you sure have a lot to let out. You bear down again and again against the unyielding wall of my hand between your legs, keeping the head in place while I tease your clit with a vibrator to help you lose control. Most of the time, I barely let it touch you, giving you only a few brief moments of real stimulation at the peak of your pushes to encourage you to bear down as hard as possible and help you let out everything you've been holding back for the past few hours. I don't let you cum yet - it's not nearly time for that - but, eventually, you regain a measure of control over yourself anyways.
I help you slide your way into a one-piece swimsuit, one or two sizes too small for you, before you get up. It presses against you everywhere, but you feel the tightness of the suit especially keenly when you're almost immediately forced to bear down again. You push hard as you collapse to the floor, and manage to push the head out a fair distance against the stretchy fabric, but you let out a groan when you feel the suit push the head almost all the way back inside. God, this is perfect - this desperate frustration, this loss of control, the simple fact of knowing that you can't give birth right now no matter how much you try - it's better than you could have ever imagined.
You push again and again, in love with the feeling of your lips stretching as the head bulges out of you. It's not long before you discover that, if you angle your hips just right, your clit will rub up against the fabric of your swimsuit as the head moves in and out of. You take full advantage of this, pushing in short, sharp bursts to feel the head move as much as possible and rocking your hips in time with your pushes to feel the swimsuit rub as much as possible. You're red-faced and breathing hard, so close to cumming from the feeling of pushing your baby's head in and out, when I gently pull you off the floor, reminding you that we have errands we need to run today, that of course they can't just wait until you give birth, how else could you hold off from pushing in the store.
You manage to wrangle yourself into a skirt and top that aren't too ill-fitting, and we set off for the grocery store. You're not very comfortable at all on the car ride over, constantly squirming and groaning as the tight-confines of the vehicle don't let you spread your legs nearly as much as you want to, and as the baby's head is pressed back inside you by the seat. You feel so full between your legs, there's so much pressure, you can barely stay in your seat long enough for us to get where we're going.
The store is nearly completely empty at this hour - most of the people shopping here are either dead-tired, hungover, or both, and the staff don't care nearly enough to bother us. Still, you do your best to try to walk, rather than waddle, to stand up straight when the contractions hit you, to keep from groaning when you feel like you have to push. I take you around the store, largely as an excuse to make you stand and walk while you're in labor; we both know that we don't really need any of this stuff nearly that urgently, but I can see how flushed you are from the experience of trying not to give birth in such a public place. I can tell that you're pushing - you give the tiniest of grunts each time you bear down - but your face gives nothing away, even as you feel your clit rub against the fabric underneath your skirt each time the head bulges out of you.
The experience of birth is getting to you, though. There's too much stretching, too much pressure, too many contractions, too much teasing on your clit for you to handle. You discreetly tug on my sleeve as you quietly beg, "please, it's too much, I need… something, anything."
In response, I pull you over to a more isolated part of the store, an aisle near the back that should be almost totally deserted.
"Do you need to cum?" I ask.
I help you lower yourself from a standing position to a wide-legged squat, pressing my hand beneath your skirt to cup the bulge between your legs as you feel another contraction start to build up.
You give in to the pressure inside you, pressing the head downwards agains the cloth covering your crotch. I can feel the bulge the head makes, sliding out farther than before with the help of gravity. The head burns so much as it makes its way out, but you gasp softly when you feel me press the fabric harder against your clit, heightening the sensation when you push, and again when you let go and when the head slides so far back in you.
"Good, good. You got the head so far out. Keep pushing. If you can manage to get to a full crown, I'll let you cum."
You bear down again, eager to finally earn some relief. You do your best while you push, keeping it going for as long as you can, but the fabric over the head provides too much resistance. You can get the head most of the way out, gasping and panting as you feel yourself stretch so far open and as your clit rubs against the suit, but it's never quite enough. This pattern repeats itself over and over. You push, and love the feeling as you do, but it's never quite enough to get off on (I make sure of it), and whenever you rest to breathe, you lose every bit of your progress.
Soon, you start to get desperate. You really want to cum, and you've been squatting and pushing in a grocery store aisle for far too long now. You start to take short, desperate breaths between long, drawn-out pushes, hoping to "catch" the head before it slides all the way inside you. You push and you push, inching the head out each time as you stretch wider and wider, straining as hard as you can against the increasingly strict resistance of the swimsuit holding the head in. With one last, desperate effort, you manage to push the head to a full crown, mouth open in a silent scream at the overwhelming burning as the head stretches you. You feel the rough fabric of your suit grind into the most sensitive part of your body as I press my fingers hard against your clit. Your legs shake as you cum, stretched out and squatting down in public, barely able to keep your noises of pleasure and pain inside. You nearly cry out again as you let go of your push and feel your suit drag against your clit again as the head is forced back inside you at record speed.
It takes you a few moments to recover from this, clinging on to my shoulders to make sure you don't fall over backwards, but eventually you manage to stand unsupported. A few furtive looks around the place confirm no one has seen our little escapade (or, at least, didn't stick around to gawk), and we make a hasty, shamefaced exit from the store.
This is far from the end of your birthing ordeal, of course. I'm nowhere near done with holding your baby's head inside you, and you're nowhere near done with having it held inside you. You'll spend hours more wearing that suit, pushing and pushing and getting exactly nowhere, and it'll be much, much longer after that before you finally, exhaustedly, birth your baby, but this askbox only extends so far, and I must end this tale somewhere.
the fact that tumblr had the sheer audacity not to notify me about this? what the fuck
absolutely 100% 150% 200%? somewhere in there.
