let’s say you’re in an antiques shop—not really looking for anything, just browsing. it’s a cool space, packed from top to bottom with vintage furniture, and you take your time looking around until you step into a back room, barely bigger than a closet, and see the pool table. it’s in beautiful condition, its felt velvety and soft and its legs carved from some wood you don’t recognize but know must be expensive from the way it’s glossy and smooth and almost seems to be glowing from within. as you run a hand over its surface, you can practically feel it purring with happiness at being touched for the first time in who knows how long—and then you realize that it is thrumming under your palm
before you can react, you feel bands of that same smooth wood—apparently living—tighten around your ankles, and matching ones close around your wrists as the table bucks and twists beneath you until you’re pinioned on your back atop its soft felt, clothes strewn around the room, legs spread and knees pushed up to your chest, arms held above your head in its iron grip. you don’t have to wonder what’s going to happen next: another of those appendages nudges between your legs. you’re so wet already that its smooth, blunt tip slides into you easily
as it fucks you, slowly and thoroughly, you realize that you must be in the grip of a mimic of some kind. you wonder what it has in store for you—is it just seeking pleasure after waiting for so long, untouched and gathering dust, in this back room? or does it want something more? the appendage inside of you quickly drives any such questions from your mind as its unyielding length presses against all your most sensitive spots, making your knees shake and your cunt gush as you come for the first time—but not the last. it brings you to orgasm again and again until you’re a quivering, mewling mess, and then it sinks that appendage as deep inside of you as it can and pulls your legs even farther apart, spreading you wide as a bulge travels up its length and begins to press into you
eggs, you realize. it’s laying eggs: the first one slips into you with a distinct pop, and its size and weight are familiar. it feels exactly like a pool ball, smooth and spherical and heavy enough that when it’s joined by a second egg, they clack against each other inside of you. distracted by the feeling of another one slipping more easily through your stretched entrance, you can’t remember how many balls are in a set, but you know it’s more than a dozen—how many can you possibly take?
somewhere between the eighth and ninth, you lose count, but by the time the mimic releases you, the bonds around your ankles and wrists sliding back to wherever they first appeared from, your belly is swollen and lumpy, your womb full and heavy inside of you. when you move, you can feel the clutch moving as well, eggs knocking and jostling against each other. you do your best to put your clothes back in order, but there’s no hiding how round your belly is. the shopkeeper gives you a knowing look when you inquire about the pool table’s price—but if you’re being honest with yourself, it gives you a thrill to think that other people might know exactly why your belly is so swollen and what’s growing inside of you. and besides, as long as you get to spend time with that table as often as you want, who cares? as full as your womb is already, you have a sneaking feeling that you can take even more—and you can’t wait to find out
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