The day after our mind-numbing, incredibly hot, baby-making sex, I book my fiance’s dream wedding venue for just over 36 weeks out. I could feel in my bones that I’d successfully bred her.
She was going to swell up with my baby, or if I’m lucky, her body will give us more than one. By the time our wedding is upon us she would be mid-third trimester with a completely different figure. I am flooded with desire every time I picture both of our families, eagerly watching her waddle down the aisle, already made into a mother and pledging herself to become my wife.
She was ecstatic about the venue and the prospect of a spring wedding. I’m happy that at least these two things would be exactly as she would want them to be, even as I suspect that her body will be growing out of her control.
It takes a few short weeks before I have private confirmation that she’s pregnant, as morning sickness strikes her briefly before abating. She tells me about some aches and pains that seem to have come from nowhere and I relish in the excuse to have my hands all over her body, massaging her troubles away.
A sudden and uncharacteristic distaste for certain foods sends sparks of excitement through me. One day, she requests a black olive and pineapple pizza, forcing me to tone down my elation at yet another sign. I gladly lean into her new food habits and covertly increase her portions.
After six weeks I catch her frowning in the mirror, the pair of jeans she had picked out lying discarded on the bad. Her waist had just barely started to grow outward, but where her eyes could tell no difference her jeans had kept the score. From outside of the doorway, I watch her inspect her body, turning side to side, prodding at the slightest bulge in her lower abdomen. My body flushes warm, watching my wife discover in real time what I’d done to her.
That evening, she nervously sits me down and explains that a pregnancy test had come back positive. I had prepared my stunned but happy reaction to the news, not needing to play up my joy at officially knowing that I’d fathered children with her. She is much more concerned with our marital state and what people think than anything else and I try my best to alleviate her fears of my reaction. I tell her the truth, which is that I’m overjoyed.
I lie slightly that I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I am looking forward to exactly the reaction that she’s talking about. Everyone in our lives will know what we did, unable to wait until we were married. When I imagine the thoughts of others, that my wife is a cock hungry and reckless slut, I feel lit aflame. Their assumptions are part of the fantasy that is my greatest obsession. I love imagining my wife like this, fucked into submission and bred stupid. I can’t wait to help her walk when her gait turns unwieldy, observed by others that assume her dependence on me. That exact dependence is prominent in my thoughts. The idea of her, trapped in bed by an enormous belly and begging me for my help in easing her burden, is just about the hottest thing I could imagine.
I hold her tight as she cries in relief. I’m ok, she’s ok, and we’re both great together. She sighs deeply and quietly says in my ear that she’s excited to be a mother, and that she’s certain I will be a great father.
I tell her that I think she will make a great mother too, and that I wouldn’t have it any other way. It’s 100% the truth that I can’t wait.
God, I love my friends but their sense of humor honestly sucks so bad.
All of them give me so much shit for being slightly to the wrong side of vanilla and then this is the kind of gift I get for my birthday.
An 8 inch long, realistically colored, silicon imitation of a cock. More precisely a “better-than-fantasy Werewolf Dick to have you HOWLING at the moon” as I can clearly read along the side of the box.
I feel my face heat up, remembering the howls of laughter from everyone in attendance at my party the previous night. That obviously wasn’t what the box was referring to, but it was effective nonetheless.
Regardless of the public humiliation, I had been thinking about the fake cock ever since I’d realized what it was. A knotted dildo had very seriously been on my toy wish list. I should be thankful that this was a useful gag gift but the mortification had yet to die down enough to appreciate that.
With it now in my hands, out of its garish box, I could feel the need in my groin grow into a less ignorable situation. I want it in me so bad that I’ve been wet since the party.
Honestly, it’s not even that intimidating of a size, just about 9 inches long, the extra few inches more than average being home to the tennis-ball-sized mass just above the flared base. I’d taken larger dicks than this and walked away with no pain, so I’m confident this should be a cake walk.
I start by touching myself, picturing a vaguely buff, hairy, aggressive man who looks ready to tear me to shreds. Maybe I picked him up from a bar, not knowing he’s closer to a feral stray than an acceptable one night stand. Or maybe he found me in the woods, vulnerable and alone. I think about him smelling me and knowing that I’m fertile. In my mind, he’s already hard and desperate to rut into me. My fingers slide deep into myself right away because my imaginary werewolf isn’t the only one who’s desperate.
If anyone were here to see it I’d be embarrassed about how wet I already am. I’m practically gagging for it, on my back, legs spread, and dripping wet. Thankfully I can just enjoy that this preparation won’t take long at all.
I press the tip of the dildo into me and shudder in anticipation. I clench a little around nothing, very ready to have him in me.
He would want me all at once. He wouldn’t wait for any signs that I’m ready.
I shove the cock into all the way up to the knot and moan at the immediate relief. The stretch is the perfect answer to my need. I can feel the knot right up against me, not yet inside but burning with the potential to lock in place.
I piston the dildo out and back in, again and again and again. I can feel the ridges of the silicon sliding in, my pleasure building higher with everything thrust. The fantasy wolf in my mind is bent over me, growling into the crook of my neck. My hand tries to imitate his cock rutting into me with an insatiable desire to get deeper.
One hard stroke pushes the knot inside and I cry out in a half yelp half groan. The new stretch burns momentarily but the silicon puts pressure directly where I need it. I push hard on the base, urging smaller jagged thrusts into me.
My hips jump up and I can almost feel the fake cock throbbing in time with my body. I think about the werewolf with his teeth on my jugular, dangerously undecided between tasting my life blood and breeding me.
I’m so close to coming, and begin to reach over for a vibrator to really drive this orgasm home, when I feel a real twitch from the dildo buried in me. I freeze, having been fairly sure that there’s no mechanism for something like that.
It moves again, undeniably not a movement of my own, and I whimper at the overfull sensation. Fuck, it feels amazing.
The knot, I realize all at once, is growing thicker. I try to pull it out to examine this part of the toy a little closer but the extra circumference and my nervous clenching have it stuck inside of me. It’s tied, I realize, both wildly turned on and concerned in equal measure.
A slight surge wider presses the knot directly into me in the best way possible and I roll my hips up involuntarily. The iron clench of me around the dildo seems to provoke another big twitch, and this time it comes with a hot, wet sensation.
It was cumming inside of me, I could feel it cumming inside of me.
I try to sit up and reevaluate what’s happening but the dildo is twitching and pressing into a highly pleasurable spot in me. Each time it does, a haze of white hot gratification builds in my lower stomach, and fighting the process quickly becomes less of a priority. One powerful twitch more and I feel my body seize up, releasing all at once as I thrust up onto the gushing cock.
My vision grays out and I distantly hear myself loudly letting out a broken moan. The waves hit me as the dildo releases in me over and over again, powerful and unceasing.
Between overwhelming zaps of pleasure, I become aware of a weight on my hips. My hands rise to my lower abdomen and feel a soft mass of belly that wasn’t there before. The dildo begins moving again and my body is pulled back into the wracking orgasm.
It feels like hours but can’t possibly be more than a few minutes when I can concentrate on the real world again. My eyes look down and my little belly has grown into a not so little belly. It arches up off my hips as if I were pregnant, but instead of firm it remains malleable, filled with nothing but cum.
With that thought an aftershock pulses through me and my hips give an ineffective jolt upwards. Ineffective because my body doesn’t end up moving at all, with what feels like 20 extra pounds weighing it down.
My hands trace over the tight skin of my stomach and I realize that the dildo is still in me, tying me shut for the cum to stay in me as long as possible.
Oh god, the gallons of werewolf cum will be in me as long as possible. Me, who is not on any form of birth control. Me, who is probably already impregnated with the most number of werewolf pups possible.
Me, who feels like another round sounds like a good idea if I could get even bigger than I am now.
I had a dream last night, and it finally pushed me over the edge.
I’d spent years in a loving relationship with my fiancée, building our foundation of trust and love, and now nearly all of my dreams were coming true in less than a year. We planned to have a summer wedding at a property close to both of our home towns. This way, nearly all of our loved ones could be there to watch us legally and spiritually bind ourselves to one another.
Unfortunately, I just couldn’t wait that long.
I have always had an overwhelming urge to mark my partner, to stake my claim as the winner of her heart and devotion. My dream last night comes to my mind in flashes, of her heavy weight in my arms, an enormous pregnant belly pressed between us as I held her against our bedroom wall. I can almost feel her plush, full hips give way under my hands, me desperately grabbing at her hips and ass. The wetness leaking from between her legs and from her engorged milky teats.
My fiancée (in waking life) doesn’t have nearly as much heft to her. I love her dearly but I can’t bear leaving her unclaimed until the wedding. Something in me has snapped, and I find myself giving in. I open my internet browser and begin ordering what I need to carry out my plan.
I start by replacing her birth control pills with placebos and lacing her meals with fertility drugs. I alternate between different herbs, medications, and hormones that will put her reproductive system into overdrive. She loves when I cook for her, and these meals are no different. She swallows every bite, thanking me profusely and requesting I do this every day. For her, I would do anything.
When my ovulation app tells me that she is most fertile, I carefully prepare a condom with imperceptible holes.
She is wild with desire, and has soaked through her underwear. As she pushes me into our bed and straddles one of my legs I can feel the wet heat of her against my thigh.
“Please, baby,” she breathes against my neck, “I need you inside of me.”
That night, I come quickly into the tampered condom, overcome with how gorgeous she is like this. How the desperation makes her even more attractive to me. She grabs my face as I pull out. Her eyes stare darkly into mine and she confesses what she needs.
“I want to feel you tonight. No barriers.”
I had never felt more turned on by my soon-to-be-wife. I flip her over, already hard again at the thought of finishing inside of her, unfettered. I settle myself between her legs, spreading them wide so I can get as deep inside of her as possible. She lets out a loud, half-choked moan at the first slow thrust that makes me feel crazed with lust. My hips instinctively snap back and then forward, driving into her like an animal, setting a rapid pace that she eagerly matches. Her hips grind up into mine, desperate for my fervor.
My lips find her neck, sucking and biting in a way that brand her as mine. Her entire body shakes with her building orgasm. When she comes I can’t resist following, the tightening of her around me drawing my sperm deep into her womb.
I could only imagine it, her womb right then, releasing her eggs for me to fertilize. Me and her body are on the same team, driven to blow her up huge with babies as quickly as possible. This is my most intense fantasy come true, and I now feel aftershocks ripple through me and release more and more come deep inside her.
I ease out of her and begin cleaning her with my mouth. I use my fingers to push my seed deeper inside of her as my tongue and lips gently press, slide, and suck her clit. She comes twice like that, giving her womb all the time it needs to fertilize as many eggs as it can. How many babies did I just fuck into her? I wonder idly.
I fall asleep that night cuddled up behind her, both of my arms wrapped tightly with one hand placed reverently over her stomach. God, I couldn’t wait for the rest of our lives together.
Men deserve big pregnant bellies too. Men deserve to be barefoot and pregnant. Guys deserve to have their chest to get sore, bloated, and leaky. And lastly, men are also made for making babies.
The inappropriate gym thought of the day is working out right after sex, filled with cum. Maybe I have a plug to keep it all inside, out of sight out of mind, filled to the brim and actively being fertilized. Or maybe it’s just dripping out of my still-wet cunt, mixing with fresh sweat on my inner thighs.
I could be scared someone will smell the sex on me. Or I could be too preoccupied with the thought of how I won’t be able to go to the gym much longer before my swelling belly makes workouts a little too difficult. I would no longer be another guy at the gym but instead a fertile vessel for someone’s babies.
I don’t ever really get into overtly romantic/kind breeding and pregnancy. Like if a stable couple decides to have a baby and they lovingly have sex and get pregnant with a single baby. Great, but kind of boring.
On the other hand, I also don’t really love forced preg/really mean breeding, where the person becoming pregnant is treated incredibly poorly.
I feel like there’s a very hot middle ground where the breeder cares about the other person but still wants them to absolutely blow up with child. That they’ll do everything in their power to fuck as many babies as possible into them but will stick around to take care of them. Especially when that involves turning the person into the most obviously-fertile version of themselves.
Situations where the bred one still trusts their partner but is actively miserable and humiliated is just *chefs kiss*
Scenario where you have a strict gym schedule but find it slowly getting pushed aside by your body’s enormous growth.
First, you become aware of how the bar on bench press chafes against your chest in an irritating, sensitive way that it never had before. Your nipples harden with the first brush and the sensation grows as they’re swiped over and over with each rep. Lying beneath the racked barbell, you find that even after you’ve caught your breath you are frozen in place by arousal in your gut. You try to finish your last set but your form goes slack when the barbell roughly presses against your nipples again, your body clenches and nearly orgasms in the middle of the gym.
Someone sees you struggling and rushes over to grab the weight and re-rack it. Trembling, you make the decision to cut bench press from your routine.
Second to go is your ab routine. During sit ups, your growing belly sits like a rock on your hips and settles heavily on your organs. Many months of growth have it arching skywards and pushing your exercise shirt up a little more with each rep. Desperately trying another sit up, you can only rise halfway, wildly out of breath. You quickly return to flat on your back and then curl to your side, gasping for air. Your bare, heavy belly rests on the floor and you feel instant relief with the increased room to breathe.
Hand on the apex of your stomach, you know that this is the last time you should try to fit your horizontal ab workout into your routine.
Next, you become unable to use the stair master. You bring one heavy leg up after the next, hauling your body and growing babies up each flight of stairs. The last ultrasound confirmed twins, and you feel every pound of them pressing down on your hips. You try shifting your center of mass further back, one hand grabbing a safety bar and the other on your lower back. Each step rocks your hips side to side and your chest, ass, and belly jiggle and roll with the impact. Your breath leaves you quickly, and even on the lowest setting you simply can’t keep up with the machine.
You decide that this is another exercise to cross off your schedule.
The last part of your routine to remain is walking on the treadmill. You’ve just turned the corner from full term to overdue and all the skipped gym days are piling up. Your hips have widened and bulked up with fat to support the enormous growing mass of your pregnant gut. You’ve grown so much bigger in your chest, it’s hard to recognize yourself. You’re constantly expanding further as milk fills in behind your puffy, darkened nipples.
Still, you stubbornly cling to the last vestiges of your fitness. Each step on the treadmill makes you aware of the fat clinging to your entire body. You require both hands under your heaving belly to prevent your back from aching under the heavy strain. Waddling at a 30 minute mile pace has brought you to the same level of fatigue as your race pace from 9 months ago. The largest shirt you own, a triple XL, has plastered itself to you, skin tight over your popped belly button and growing chest. It’s ridden up slightly so that your stretch-marked underbelly shows.
Through an exercise and pregnancy induced haze, you imagine how you seem to onlookers. You’ve gained a layer of pudge that collects around your face and body. Your cheeks have fattened up and you chins squish down when you lower your head. Your body has filled in your underarms, hips, ass, and thighs with excess calories. Your belly dominate your frame - it has turned you from quick and athletic to lumbering and fecund. Every section of you has seemed to thicken and prepare for bearing children.
More troubling than anything else is how your chest has gone from muscular and masculine to huge, soft, and sloshing with liquid. Currently, your heavy footed gait jostles your chest, sending it bouncing up and down to rest briefly atop the shelf of your belly. The weight of each breast presses down with every jolt, and your nipples remain erect against your t-shirt. The rhythmic pumping of your chest sets off a hot tingling sensation. It’s quickly obvious that this signals your full chest is leaking, slowly soaking your front with milk.
You slam a hand down to stop the machine, bending over the controls to hide your condition, catch your breath, and rest your aching body.
You must look like a cow, thoroughly bred and letting down with milk. An overfull womb rounding out your sides with babies, designating you as fertile from all angles. Huge teats hanging low and full to bursting with creamy milk. Body expanded with fat, padded for conceiving and growing children. A brood of young on the way and destined to breed again. Expected for these changes to become permanent and then become even more exaggerated with fat, milk, and calves.
These thoughts add to the growing wetness between your legs, and you can hardly hold yourself back from rubbing your thighs together in growing arousal. God, how embarrassing, that you enjoy your resemblance to breeding stock.
Your eyes focus on a growing puddle of sweat and milk dripping off of your body. Humiliated, you collect your things and leave, conceding that your time at the gym is decidedly over as you slowly waddle out to return home and resign yourself to bed rest.
guy who gets knocked up the second he turns 18 and takes a gap year before college in order to deal with that so he doesnt have to be breastfeeding during classes, but oops! instead he gets knocked up again! so instead what happens is he waddles into the first day of classes with 4 six-month-olds in a stroller and cant take notes because he's too busy holding the fifth quintuplet to his swollen tits with one arm and rubbing his massive belly with the other
At the doctors right now and there’s a picture of a full term pregnant belly on the wall titled “A lot’s gonna change”. I think my heart rate went up I spotted it, imaging that my blood tests came back today with a “Congratulations! You’re expecting!” note attached.
This exact spot is where I would sit for each prenatal care appointment. The first visit would be pretty soon after I found out but I imagine it would take me awhile to notice, so maybe at three months when I’m just starting to develop a bump. A quick visit with a chilled ultrasound pressed tightly to my warm belly. Maybe I also already feel the hormones stirring in my body, preparing it to grow babies for the next 6 months and then over and over again after that.
Just at the beginning of my pregnancy but still confronted by the fact that a LOT is gonna change.
Scenario where you’re in a college health class that’s teaching you about the stages of pregnancy. All of the boys are mandated to try on the pregnancy simulation belly to build empathy for women. You don’t bother correcting the instructor, since you pass as cis at this point and trying on the fake belly for 15 minutes isn’t going to kill you.
You get assigned the twin sized, 8-month bump and are told it weighs nearly 45 pounds. You brace yourself as best you can before sliding it on over your hoodie and allowing your professor to velcro it in place.
Looking down, you warily regard the black harsh material as the weight settles down onto your hips and upper body. All the other boys in this class are in similar situations, most of their simulated weights smaller than yours, and are now laughing about how silly you all look. You join them, shaking off the slight pang of dysphoria as the heavy simulated breasts press down on your chest.
Fifteen awkward minutes of waddling around with your classmates passes pretty quickly and you’re just about at your limit of carrying all this weight before your back really starts to hurt. You all shuffle to the front, ready to get un-velcro-ed and slip out of the fake bellies.
The instructor meets your eyes and his expression changes in alarm.
“Woah! Slow down there, don’t want to kick anything off prematurely!” his eyebrows crease further with worry, “Didn’t I tell you to skip this class period? No need to reiterate things you’re probably plenty familiar with.”
He trails off with a laugh like he’s saying some kind of inside joke. You can only stare at him in confusion.
“What? I don’t really get it, if that’s some kind of weird…” it’s your turn to trail off, as your hands reach to start dismantling the complicated vest holding the weight tight to your body.
What you expect to meet is rough polyester but what you find is the soft cotton of your hoodie. Confusion building, you trace along the hoodie pocket down to where it slips over the simulated belly. You could have sworn that the bump was on over your hoodie…?
Your hands grab the fabric’s edge and start peeling it up where it sits tight over the fake belly. As you work it over the midpoint, it suddenly springs up, pulled by tension and snagging on something that makes you jump.
Your hands now rest on a smooth expanse of… warm skin? With angry red stretch marks? Your heart sinks as you register the feeling with the tips of your fingers and along the sensitive skin of your lower abdomen.
Shifting upwards you can feel what your hoodie snagged on moments ago, your obscenely popped out belly button. A shudder runs through you at the foreign sensation that goes straight to between your legs.
“Seems like you’re due to size up,” your professor remarks, grinning and moving to help the other boys remove their still-fake bellies, “and forgive my phrasing, no pun intended!”
The horror in you grows as your hands move up further still, trailing up over where your hoodie is bunched over the fake-now-real belly hanging off of you.
Your hands graze the underside of the previously fake breasts, and the shock of arousal shoots through you again, this time edged with uncomfortable near-pain. You cup what feels like porn star tits and press inwards to yourself, internally pleading that this isn’t happening. You feel the long-forgotten sensation of breasts attached to you, much larger than you’d ever experienced and further amplifying the discomfort and pressure building in you.
“No, no, no, no,” you mumble, staggering back into a desk, changing course, and then waddling as fast as you can to exit the classroom.
“Hopefully see you next class!” you hear behind you from your professor, an afterthought in the maelstrom of your thoughts.
Each step to bring you to the bathroom was just as heavy as the prior 15 minutes, but now you can more intimately feel the recoil of your boobs and belly. You realize that your entire lower body seems to jiggle and rub in a completely unfamiliar way, coated in baby fat.
You’re completely overtaken by panic by the time you reach the closest men’s bathroom, leaning over the sink and breathing rapidly. You’re sweating like crazy, and look unaccountably exhausted. Significantly more than you should be for the 90 or so seconds of frantically shuffling to the bathroom.
Hesitantly looking up, you see your body in the mirror, horrifically confirming what’s happened.
Your belly is just as big and heavy as the simulation had been, and painted shades of pink, red, and purple by markings and veins. The skin is strained and the mass of you is larger than it should be, with the information you’d just learned in class. You’re far beyond overdue. What you can see beyond the expanse of swollen gut shows your flanks in a similar state. They’re plumped out farther than you can ever remember them being and also covered in stretch marks.
Catching and holding your breath, your eyes move up to where your hoodie sits atop your heaving belly. You need to confirm that this is real, and so you grab the edge of your hoodie once more and drag it upwards.
Your huge breasts spring out from under the fabric, areolas dominating the front with thick, swollen nipples jutting painfully in the center. They’re dark and irritated looking, and as your hoodie settles back down below your neck, you can see why.
The pressure building comes to a head and bursts out of you, milk dribbling from each nipple. In a mortified effort to stop this nightmare you slap your hands down over them, sending milk spraying into the mirror, as white hot arousal almost brings you to your knees.
Clutching your milky tits, you teeter back into an empty stall, collapsing backward onto a (thankfully closed) toilet, the door swinging shut in front of you.
You sit there miserably, the sensation of your fat thighs squishing out and supporting your fecund gut. Lowering your head only succeeds in squeezing your heavy breasts between your face and your lap full of belly. This sends another cascade of milk dribbling down your front and sides.
You can feel yourself start to cry. How could this happen, why are you so enormous? Is this real?
Fitfully, you wrap your arms around yourself, much less effectively than normal due to your added girth.
Under each hand you feel twin kicks, as reality begins to set in.
Being a trans man was hard enough without this urge inside of me. I spent so much of my life fighting against the softness of my body, the femininity that puberty tried to give me, it makes my feelings seem so contradictory.
I’m no longer feminine in that way, with endless curves and plumpness to help with childbearing.
But, god, do I want to be.
I think about how one drop of sperm in my body could set off the changes that I so desperately crave. My hard earned and muscled legs could easily turn to rounded, padded thighs and hips. My pecs can go from toned to bulging with milk in under a year. My womb could fill and grow until I’m obviously fertile.
Once I’m off of hormones so many changes would slowly revert back to how estrogen would shape my body. My body hair would lose its coarseness and my body would lose some of its hard lines. I’d change to be better at growing babies, and I desire that more than anything.
I could develop cravings that would make me grow fatter all over my body. Inner thighs that press together and outer thighs that grow apart. My chest sagging down, upper arms pressed close and bulging with baby fat too. A double chin rounding out and feminizing my face. Love handles growing thick and prominent, bracketing my belly, which outpaces it all.
My mother’s twin sister and my grandma’s twin brothers are proof of just how ready my body is to make babies. I get off at night thinking about the huge twin filled baby bump I’d have throughout the latter half of a pregnancy. God, the imagined feeling of my hips ballooning outward with mass and being forced lower by the immense weight of my womb makes me so wet.
With how much I think about it, it’s really only a matter of time before I’m begging a stranger to breed me full of babies. I’ve thought about it before, just how easy it would be to download a hookup app and have a faceless dick filling me within the hour. I don’t care about what the stranger would think, only that they’d be ready to pump load after load into me.
I feel certain that just one round would have at least one of my eggs fertilized and implanted deep inside of me. Within days it would start to grow in my womb, and with any luck two or more on top of that.
I can hardly even imagine how giant by gut would grow with three. Triplets would have me waddling around from month four onwards. My belly button would pop out before the start of my third trimester. I’d grow so big that every stranger on the street would see how good at making babies I am. How I was too much of a slut to keep my legs closed, how hungry I was to be bred.
My mind turns over this idea what feels to me like every day. I’m resisting this bone deep urge, to become a fat, laboring daddy leaking more milk with each hour.
But somehow I can tell that it’s only a matter of time before I give in, and after that I don’t think I’d be able to stop.
One unnoticed broken condom VS. being put into a mating press every night to make sure it takes
Freaking out over three or four positive tests (just to be sure) VS. feeling the churning of morning sickness and immediately knowing what will soon happen
Getting stretch marks over widening thighs, a growing ass, and over a slowly burgeoning tummy VS. a ready body that has the layer of padding over hips and belly to easily swell up with child
Buying all new clothes only to outgrow them within a few weeks VS. just allowing a growing belly to push up/open the clothes that are forced over it
No milk production until just before the baby is born VS. swollen sturdy nipples that haven’t stopped leaking since the last baby was weaned
Nervousness over how this will impact the future VS. a calm acceptance that this cycle is what this body is meant for
Hear me out also butch princess impregnating femme knight. I know as nonbinary fae /faer sapphic individual I can do both but like I need to pitch some ideas
Hear me out also femme princess impregnating butch knight. Armor becoming tighter and tighter until the chest plate presses too tightly against them and they can no longer bear to buckle it. No more “I’m no man” reveals because the knight’s giant belly announces their womb to anyone that sees them. The knight becoming so large and unwieldy that it’s the femme princess that has to protect them from threats.
Scenario where you haven’t seen your family since January and are coming home for the holidays. What they don’t know is that you’ve been knocked up by a risky hookup from just after Valentine’s Day. Now you’re arriving at their house nearly overdue with an enormous baby. You’d ordered a 3XL holiday sweater online to cover up but had underestimated just how huge your belly would be, and your popped out belly button is on full display from where the sweater rides up. The underside of your belly is visible with creeping stretch marks as it hangs lower, nearing the visibly-dropped late stage of pregnancy. At least your swollen chest is covered by the top half of the sweater.
Your parents open the door to greet you and their jaws drop to find you straining to hold yourself upright, legs bowed outwards for stability. You try to smile even at their eyes widen at your obviously and thoroughly bred figure.
I love imagining what it would be like to start the “pregnant waddle”. The first few days where my hips shift further back, my belly is angled up, and my legs are forced to bow outwards. The pressure increase on my hips with every step. I imagine being paraded around by a partner, my hands both supporting my aching back with my full belly thrust forward for everyone to see. So obviously bred full of baby and unable to move around like I used to. People might even stare, trying to figure out how long it has been since my partner bred me, fucked a baby into me, knocked me up. What they don’t know is that I’m growing multiples, and have a long way to go before I’m done growing.
There’s something about the idea of breasts full of milk, to the point of overflowing with it. Breasts changed with pregnancy or training, bigger than they’ve ever been. Thickened and darkened nipples with hugely stretched areolas. Constantly filling and dripping with milk, unable to be ignored. Heavy and straining, aching to be emptied but then inevitably making more.
