…birth fics + things… @shhhsecretsideblog - Tumblr Blog

About me: 30’s F (she/her), ace, queer, UK

This blog: birth fics, imagines, roleplays. FICTIONAL & FAKE CONTENT ONLY (i.e intended for kink purposes).

PSA: I will not interact with ageless/genderless/blank profiles. I will also block accounts who share/post/fetishise real-life births!

Tags: stories under #my writing. Master List under cut.

Links: AO3 DeviantArt

Likes:

Fpreg, focussing on labour & birth

Inconvenient births in unusual / non-conventional places

Hiding contractions/advance labour/pushing in public

Denial of being in labour

Resisting “urge” to push

Self inflicted / consensual birth denial

Attempting to delay the inevitable

Clothing birth

Squatting, standing, all fours to push

Primal sounds of pushing; grunting, groaning moaning

Surprise twin

Nothing sexual, vulgar, toilet related, incest, non-human, breeding, underage, forced, non-con. Asks/comments/DM’s of this nature will be deleted and you will be blocked.

If it’s not on the ‘likes’ list, it’s probably a No.

#birth kink #intro post

The Supply Run

The camp doctors said her baby was due in a week or two, surely Lucy and her girlfriend Andy have time to go out into the zombie infested mall to find some last minute supplies before the baby comes right? It’s simple, avoid hordes, stay quiet, and be back in time for dinner, otherwise they will be dinner.

The long awaited Zombie fic. 28k words. Co-written with my writing hubby @cowboybassett Themes: wlw pairing, inconvenient birth, mortal peril, dystopian world, zombies/undead, birth denial, clothing birth, the usual stuff.

#my writing #birth kink #birth denial #inconvenient birth #clothing birth #birth fic #birth fiction #public birth #pregnancy kink

heraldofpassion

A Seat Shared is a Problem Halved

Just a quick public birth in a us. Read at your own discretion!

dilfpregcentral

🫃🍼2️⃣🚜🖐️🦵💪⁉️

(Birth Denial Request Game)

A farmer is struggling to get the last of his crops harvested before a cold front. He’s managed this small farm by himself for years, but as he’s gotten a little older, he’s struggled to keep up with the demands of the job. This year especially, the work has really been taking it out of him.

He feels like he never quite recovered from the flu he had back in the spring, exhausted and slow all the time, and he’s developed a lingering pain in his hips and back. He suspects some of it is due to the weight he’s gained, his once-pudgy tummy now an unsightly ball gut that juts off his frame, so massive it tugs on his spine. He mentioned it to his neighbor the other day, a woman doctor who rumor has it was once a nun, and she had almost smiled for a moment before telling him he should drink less beer. When he told her he stopped 6 months ago when his belly first started ballooning, her mouth tightened with concern. Her eyes dropped to the peaked point of his navel stretching his shirt, and she told him he should come to her clinic as soon as he’s able, as he could have a serious illness. But he’d waved her off and weaseled out of the discussion— he’d avoided revealing his secret to anyone for twenty-one years and he wasn’t about to break the streak just because some nice doctor asked.

Anyway. The point is, he doesn’t know what’s wrong.

Today, the pain is bad. His back, especially, keeps seizing up, his groans echoing in the empty field. It’s so severe that he’s tempted to abandon the rest of his harvest, but he can’t justify the financial hit he would take. He’s a man, he’ll press through.

Every time he has to squat down, the pain in his pelvis deepens, the pressure becoming more unbearable by the minute. He remembers a relative speaking of kidney stones and hopes he hasn’t caught them. That’s the last thing he needs.

He’s on his hands and knees bundling up rows of produce when he starts to feel like an elephant is stomping his lower spine down into his pelvis. His jaw drops, and a long, plaintive groan tumbles out of him. Instinctively he rocks on his hands and knees, feeling his big fat gut tug on his lumbar region as he arches and twists his back, desperately trying to find relief. When his muscles finally unclench, he wants to just collapse where he is, but he has to keep going. The doctor will be there tomorrow, but these crops sure won’t. There’s still so much more to go…

Though he owns no animals, a lowing like livestock echoes across his property. He hears the noises as if they come from somewhere far away, and not his own heaving chest. Maybe he should be ashamed, or frightened, but it makes a certain kind of sense that he should sound like a beast of burden as he labors on his hands and knees in the field.

Then comes the burn. He drops the handful of produce he was holding, hand instinctively flying to his crotch, where the fire grows angrier by the moment. It must be a kidney stone. What else could—?

He goes completely still. His crotch is hot, hot as the inside of a body, and slowly, slowly swelling under his fingers. Swallowing thickly, he withdraws his hand and slips off one strap of his overalls. Then he wriggles his hand into the waistband. It can’t be…

But there it is. He feels it, plain and solid as the nose on his face, just beneath his cunt lips. They still stretch stubbornly over it, holding it inside of him. But he can feel it on its way. Soon, his body will part. It will part, and—

He flattens his hand against the bulge and shoves. He cries out, but for all the pain, it barely budges. But he can’t let it come out. Trembling, he spreads his legs and twists the palm of his hand, and finally, he feels something give. He pants and squirms from the indescribable discomfort as his aching insides spasm, fighting him as he denies the course of nature. But finally he forces it far enough back that his crotch feels flat beneath his hand.

He tries not to think about it.

lilly-aurora77

The Checkout Lane

The first pull started somewhere between the frozen peas and the laundry detergent, a deep, seismic cramp that made Hailey grip the handle of her shopping cart until her knuckles went white. She had been having contractions since four that morning, a low, persistent thrumming in her lower back that she had dutifully timed with an app on her phone. By noon, they were five minutes apart. By three, they were three. Spencer had called the midwife. The bags were packed. The car seat was installed.

But the grocery store was not done.

It was a matter of principle, Hailey insisted through gritted teeth while Spencer looked on with a mixture of awe and terror. She was thirty four weeks pregnant, healthy, strong. She refused to come home from the hospital to a refrigerator full of expired milk and a pantry devoid of coffee. So they had driven the three miles to the big supermarket, Hailey in the passenger seat, breathing through each wave like a bellows. She kept her eyes closed, her hand resting on the apex of her enormous belly. The baby, she knew, was head down. Had been for weeks, a tight, bony knot pressing into her cervix like a battering ram.

Spencer pulled into a parking spot near the cart return. As he shifted the car into park, Hailey felt something change. It was not a contraction. It was a shift. A drop. A sudden, undeniable pressure at the very base of her pelvis, as if the baby had simply decided it was done waiting. The urge to push rose up from somewhere ancient and primal, a wave of pure, physical imperative that stole her breath.

She ignored it.

She unclenched her jaw, opened the car door, and swung her legs out. The July heat hit her like a wall. She stood up, and the weight of the baby drove down into her pelvic floor. She let out a small, involuntary grunt. Just a tiny push. A test. The relief was instant and terrifying. She did it again, a little harder, feeling the baby’s head nudge against her perineum from the inside.

“Hailey,” Spencer said, his voice tight. “We need to go. Now.”

“Just the list,” she gasped, waddling toward the automatic doors. “Ten things. Ten minutes.”

The automatic doors sighed open, and the cold, sterile air of the grocery store hit her sweat slicked skin. She grabbed a hand basket, the plastic handles biting into her palm. She didn’t make it ten feet. The next urge to push was a violent, full body command. She stopped in the middle of the produce section, between a pyramid of Granny Smith apples and a bin of organic avocados. She bent her knees slightly, gripping the edge of a refrigerated display case, and let her body bear down.

A low, guttural moan escaped her throat. It was not a sound of pain, exactly, but of effort. Deep, guttural, animal. An elderly woman picking through the apples froze, her eyes wide. A young mother with a toddler in the cart seat stared openly, her mouth slightly agape. Hailey didn’t care. All she knew was the widening. She could feel her hips, her actual bones, shifting. A deep, burning stretch spread across her pubic symphysis. It felt like her body was being split in two from the inside out, like the baby was forcing her to open whether she wanted to or not.

She straightened up, grabbed the basket, and kept moving. Bread. She needed bread. Each step was a waddle, her legs forced impossibly far apart. Her inner thighs ached. Her leggings, a pair of soft, black maternity leggings, felt obscenely tight. She was acutely aware of the pressure between her legs, a bowling ball sensation that grew with every footstep.

She made it to the bread aisle. As she reached for a loaf of sourdough, another contraction hit. This one was different. It came with a wet, popping sensation deep inside her. A warm gush of fluid flooded down her thighs, soaking her leggings. A puddle formed instantly on the linoleum floor beneath her, a clear, shimmering pool that reflected the fluorescent lights. Her water had broken. And with it came the real pressure.

She dropped the bread. She abandoned the basket. She clutched a shelf of rye and pumpernickel, and she let go.

She bore down with everything she had, her face contorting, her teeth clenched. Her body was doing it now. She was just along for the ride. She felt the baby’s head, impossibly large, a solid, bony globe, inch down through the birth canal. The stretching became a tearing, searing fire. She let out a scream, short and sharp, and then stifled it with her fist.

Across the aisle, a stock boy dropped a box of bagels. Someone was calling for a manager. Hailey didn’t care. She needed to squat. Her body knew what to do. She sank down into a deep, primal squat, her back against the canned vegetable shelf. The position opened her pelvis, and the baby descended another inch. She could feel the head now, crowning. A tight, burning ring of fire. She reached down, her fingers trembling, and touched the top of her leggings. There was a bulge. A distinct, unmistakable, fist sized bulge pushing against the fabric. Her baby’s head. Halfway out, contained only by the thin layer of spandex.

She stood up, a new idea driving her. The checkout. She had to get to the checkout. Why? It made no sense, but her laboring brain had latched onto the goal. Pay. Then push. Then go.

She waddled through the store like a broken marionette, her legs spread so wide her hips ached. A trail of amniotic fluid marked her path. People stared. A teenager whispered to her friend. An older man actually crossed himself. Hailey’s face was a mask of concentration, her lips pulled back from her teeth, her breath coming in short, hitching gasps.

She reached the checkout. The only cashier was a young woman with blue hair and a name tag that read “Megan.” Megan’s eyes went wide as saucers as Hailey approached, leaning heavily on the conveyor belt, her belly hanging low, her leggings soaked and visibly distorted by the bulge between her legs.

“Are… are you okay?” Megan squeaked.

“Just… ring… it… up,” Hailey panted, pointing at the few scattered items she had somehow managed to grab. Sourdough. A carton of eggs. Coffee.

Megan’s hands were shaking as she picked up the first item, a can of beans Hailey didn’t even remember grabbing. She scanned it. The register made a cheerful beep. Then, a catastrophic grinding sound. The screen flickered, went black, and a red error message flashed across the display. The cash register broke down.

Hailey let out a sound that was half laugh, half sob. Of course. Of course this was happening.

“I… I have to get a manager,” Megan stammered, pressing a button on the side of the machine. Nothing happened. “I’ll be right back.”

She disappeared. The seconds stretched into minutes. Hailey stood there, her hands flat on the cold metal of the conveyor belt, her legs braced apart. Spencer was suddenly there, his face pale, his hands hovering uselessly.

“Hailey, we have to leave. Right now. I’ll drive. I’ll call an ambulance.”

“No,” she growled, the word a low, animal thing. “I’m not moving.”

The urge to push was no longer an urge. It was a tsunami. A force of nature. She couldn’t have stopped it if she wanted to. And she didn’t want to. She wanted it out. The head. The huge, massive, broad shouldered head that was stretching her beyond anything she had ever imagined.

She ripped off her leggings. There, in the checkout lane, in front of a dead register and a growing crowd of horrified and fascinated onlookers, she shoved the soaking, fluid stained fabric down her thighs and stepped out of them. She was naked from the waist down. She didn’t care. She lowered herself into a deep, agonizing squat, her heels flat on the floor, her knees wide.

And she pushed.

It was a brutal, silent, sustained push. She held her breath. Her face turned purple. Her entire body shook with the effort. She felt the head stretch her vulva, a searing, splitting pain that made her vision go white. And then, with a wet, gushing release, the head emerged. Fully. A dark thatch of hair, a wrinkled forehead, two closed eyes. It hung there, between her legs, the size of a small cantaloupe. A baby’s head, huge and perfect, turning slowly from side to side as if surveying the cereal aisle.

Spencer made a choking sound. Someone screamed. A cell phone was recording.

Hailey didn’t see any of it. She only felt the relief. But it was short lived. The shoulders. The enormous head had been the first obstacle, but the shoulders were the true test. The baby turned on its own, a tiny, instinctive rotation, and Hailey felt a fresh wave of burning, stretching pressure.

She stood up, driven by some new instinct. She couldn’t squat anymore. She had to stand. She straightened her legs, braced her hands on her lower back, and pushed again, this time with a raw, primal scream that echoed off the high ceilings of the supermarket.

The baby slid. One shoulder. Then the other. A torrent of fluid and blood followed. And then, with a final, shuddering push that ripped a guttural roar from her throat, the entire body came free.

It happened in a rush. A wet, heavy, impossibly slick weight fell through her hands. She caught the baby, her reflexes faster than thought. A boy. A huge, perfect, purple tinged boy with a full head of dark hair and lungs that announced his arrival with a furious, indignant wail.

Hailey sank to her knees on the linoleum floor, the baby against her chest, her body shaking with shock and exhaustion and an overwhelming, primal love. The umbilical cord pulsed between them, still attached. Spencer fell to his knees beside her, tears streaming down his face, laughing and crying at the same time.

The manager finally arrived. He stopped, stared at the scene, and slowly backed away to call an ambulance.

The baby’s head, even as Hailey cradled him, looked almost comically large. A family trait, Spencer would later joke, his voice shaky. The grocery store was a blur of sirens and blankets and paramedics asking questions she couldn’t answer. But all Hailey could do was look down at her son, born between the canned beans and the stale bagels, and whisper his name.

“Welcome to the world, little one,” she breathed. “You certainly know how to make an entrance.”

#headstrong determined mothers ignoring advancing labour is my damn weakness

peninae04

Confessional

The confessional smelled of old wax, dust, and repentance. From the other side of the lattice, the voices were ghostly whispers, minor sins dissolving into the twilight. But the greatest sin, the heaviest one, lay within him. Father Michael sat on the small wooden bench, his priestly vestments stretched to the point of tearing over his enormous pregnant belly. Every breath was an effort, every movement an agony.

The pressure began again, a slow, powerful wave originating at the base of his spine and spreading throughout his pelvis. He pressed his forehead against the cold wood of the lattice, biting his lip to stifle the moan struggling to escape. His hands, clutching a rosary, trembled so violently that the wooden beads clicked rhythmically, betraying him.

A woman on the other side confessed a trivial envy. Father Michael narrowed his eyes, sweat dripping down his temples.

“Envy is a poison, my child,” he began his sermon, his voice a little more tense than usual. “It corrodes the soul, turns us bitter, and blinds us to the blessings the Lord has bestowed upon us. We must…”

The pressure intensified, becoming a force pushing downward. The baby was settling in, descending to the exit station. She felt a deep, strange swelling, a fullness in her perineum that was new and terrifying. She looked down, despite the darkness. Beneath her habits, she could feel it, not as an opening, but as a bulge. The baby’s head was fully down, pressing against the bottom of her birth canal, but her body had not yet yielded. Her opening, still closed, simply bulged outward under the relentless pressure—an invisible yet palpable dome of flesh preparing to be stretched beyond its limits.

“...we must open our hearts to grace,” he continued, his voice now a controlled gasp. “Accept God’s plan, even if we do not understand it. For His ways are not our ways, and His will is perfect.”

The woman whispered “Amen” and left. Father Michael was left alone in the deathly silence. The pressure eased for a moment, and he took a deep breath, hoping it was over. But then the wave returned, stronger this time.

“Father,” whispered a new voice, young and trembling. “I’ve had… impure thoughts.”

Father Michael closed his eyes tightly. The irony was a dagger in his heart.

“Temptation is the test of our faith, my son,” he said, his voice a little louder to mask the sound of his own ragged breathing. “It is the fire that forges our devotion. The Lord...”

An involuntary spasm ran through him. He rested his hands on the bench, his knuckles white. The swelling between his legs was now a constant presence, a promise of imminent pain. The baby’s head was pressing down, and his opening was beginning to give way, a slow, agonizing stretching that made him see stars.

“…the Lord gives us the burdens we can bear,” he continued, tears threatening to fall. “And He gives us the strength to bear them. We must not fear pain, for pain is...”

He paused, biting back a scream as the burning began. His body was opening, slowly, reluctantly. The swelling was turning into a tear.

“...pain is a reminder of our sacrifice,” he finished, his voice breaking. “A reminder of the passion of Christ, who suffered for us. We must embrace our suffering, just as he embraced the cross.”

The young man on the other end was crying, moved by the priest’s words. “Thank you, Father. That is exactly what I needed to hear.”

Father Michael didn't answer. He was too busy fighting his own body. The burning sensation was a fire consuming him, and every time the young man on the other side said “Amen” or “Thank you,” Father Michael felt as if God himself were mocking him.

He stood there, in the darkness, preaching sermons on faith and sacrifice while his own body was being torn apart in a sacrifice he had never asked for. And no one, no one noticed the tears mingling with his sweat, or the moans he disguised as coughs, or the way his enormous belly contracted beneath the sacred vestments. They were all so devout, so blinded by faith, that they did not see the blasphemous miracle taking place just inches away from them.

The confessional had become his own personal hell, a box of wood and penance where his body was the only true penitent. Father Michael’s sermon had become a desperate mantra, a way to anchor his mind as his body crumbled.

“…and that is why, my children, we must find strength in humility,” he whispered, his voice a strained thread. “For it is in our weakness that the Lord’s grace…”

The sentence was cut short by a gasp. A new and terrifying sensation coursed through her body. It wasn’t the swelling, it wasn’t the pressure. It was a sharp, final stretching, as if an invisible seam were tearing. Her pussy opened wider, yielding to a force she could no longer contain.

The tiny tip of the baby’s head peeked out.

It was a minuscule yet monumental sensation, the rounded tip of the skull parting her lips from within. A point of hot, firm pressure that heralded the beginning of the end.

Father Michael jumped, a convulsive, violent movement that made the entire confessional shake. His head struck the top of the lattice with a dull thud. The repentant whisper on the other side stopped, confused.

“Father? Are you all right?”

But Father Michael didn’t hear him. In an instinctive and terrifying reflex, he brought a hand to his pussy, over the heavy vestments. His trembling fingers found the bulge, the impossible shape pushing its way into the world.

His fingers touched the wet, hot tip of his own son’s head.

The shock was electric. A chill ran down her spine, a chill of panic and revelation. It was real. It wasn’t a nightmare; it wasn’t an imaginary punishment. It was real. He was being born. Here. Now.

“Father?” the voice on the other side sounded worried. “I heard a thud.”

Father Michael couldn't respond. He stood there in the small space, his hand pressed against the lower part of her belly, feeling the life struggling to emerge. Her pussy lips parted a little more, and the baby's head slid another centimeter forward—a slow, relentless advance that took his breath away.

“The Lord… the Lord is testing us,” he managed to say, his voice a hoarse, broken gasp. “He is testing us in ways… unimaginable.”

She leaned against the wall of the confessional, eyes closed, her hand still pressed against the spot where her body was opening. Labor had truly begun, and no sermons or prayers could stop it.

The world narrowed to the point of contact between her fingers and her child’s head. And then, that point turned to fire.

It burns. It’s starting to burn badly.

The burning was an explosion, a sharp, white pain that spread from her opening to the very core of her being. It was the flesh reaching its limit, stretching beyond what nature had intended for a body like hers. A trapped scream turned into a stifled silence.

She clung tighter to her pussy, her fingers pressing hard against the head trying to be born, a pathetic and desperate attempt to stop the inevitable. The pressure from her own fingers only intensified the pain, but it was all she could do.

Now it is a tear.

The flesh opened a little more, not with a clean cut, but with a slow, agonizing tear. She saw in her mind the tissue of her own body turning into a tear of flesh, a wound giving birth. The pain was so intense that her vision blurred, tears welling from her eyes and falling onto the black robes.

“The Lord… the Lord asks us for sacrifices,” he continued, his voice a trembling, broken thread, almost inaudible. “He asks us to carry our cross… to… to endure the pain… for salvation…”

The young man on the other side of the grille listened devoutly, unaware that the sermon on sacrifice was not a parable. It was the real-time chronicle of Father Michael’s own hell.

Only four left... four more and she could give birth in peace.

Father Michael’s mind, fragmented by pain, found a strange and terrifying logic. He counted the contractions, the irresistible urges of his body. If he could endure four more, he could end this. He could surrender, let his body do what it had to do, and find a peace he hadn’t known in months.

He just has to hold his cunt tight.

He clung to the idea like a lifeline. Hold. Contain. Resist. His fingers dug into his own flesh, an act of violence against himself in an attempt to buy time. Every contraction he held back was a small, bitter victory.

It’s uncomfortable with his member in the way, but no one notices anything...

The baby’s pressure pushed downward, and his own member, erect from adrenaline and panic, was trapped in the middle, pressed against his thigh by the emerging head. It was a strange and humiliating sensation, a constant reminder of his duality, of his sin made flesh. He felt clumsy, deformed, a monster halfway between two worlds.

But no one noticed anything. The young man on the other side kept listening, devout and blind. The outside world kept turning, oblivious to the miracle and the nightmare unfolding in the darkness of the confessional.

“For in suffering… we find redemption,” Father Michael finished, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Amen.”

“Amen,” replied the young man, his voice full of gratitude.

Father Michael stood there, alone in the silence, his hand still clenched around his burning cunt. He held his breath, bracing himself for the next contraction, the next step in his own personal Stations of the Cross. Just four more. Just four more and he could give in.

The third push took him by surprise, an earthquake that originated in his pelvis and shook every bone in his body. The burning intensified, turning into a bonfire that consumed him. The tear in his flesh opened wider, and the baby’s head slid out, a slow, torturous advance that made him scream into his own hand.

“My God, have mercy on me!” he whispered, the words a mixture of prayer and blasphemy.

The young man on the other side of the lattice, confused by the muffled sound, asked, “Father? Did you say something?”

Father Michael shook his head, though no one could see him. He clutched his pussy tighter, his fingers pressing against the emerging head, a desperate attempt to halt the progress. Just one more. Just one more push and he could give in.

“Faith... faith is a flame,” he said, his voice a hoarse gasp. “A flame that burns in the darkness, a light that guides us through the valley of the shadow of death.”

The fourth push was the strongest. A wave of pressure that swept her away completely, a force she couldn’t contain. She clung to the bench with her free hand, her knuckles white, while her other hand continued to press against her burning pussy.

The baby’s head slid out, a slow, agonizing movement that made him see stars. The burning was a white fire, a pain that stole his breath and wrung tears from his eyes.

“Save me, Lord!” he cried, his voice broken by pain.

The young man on the other end, now terrified, asked, “Father? What’s going on? Are you okay?”

But Father Michael couldn’t answer. He was lost in his own hell, a world of pain and sacrifice from which there was no escape. The baby’s head was almost out, a crown of dark hair and stretched skin that defied him to give up.

“No! I can’t!” he screamed, his voice a heart-wrenching cry.

He clutched her pussy with both hands, a final act of desperation. But it was useless. Her body gave in, and the baby’s head slid out in a gush of fluids and flesh.

The relief was so overwhelming that she nearly fainted. The pressure in her pelvis vanished, replaced by a strange, dangling weight between her legs. She looked down, gasping, and saw her baby’s head, turning slowly as the shoulders lined up for the final push.

“Thank you, my God! Thank you!” she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

The young man on the other side, now completely bewildered, asked, “Father? Is it over?”

Father Michael nodded, though no one could see him. He leaned back against the wall of the confessional, exhausted and defeated. The baby was almost out, and for the first time in hours, he felt a flicker of hope.

“Amen,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Amen.”

Her head hung down, a heavy, foreign weight suspended from her torn pussy. It was both a victory crown and a mark of Cain all in one. Every beat of Father Michael’s heart sent a throb of dull pain through his perineum, a constant reminder of the torn flesh and the life hanging from it.

“Father… are you sure you’re all right?” the young man’s voice was a trembling whisper, filled with a concern Father Michael could no longer process.

“The… the Lord’s blessing… is immense,” the priest gasped, the words a monumental effort. “Go, my son. Go… and live in peace. Your confession... is complete.”

There was a silence, and then the sound of the small confessional door opening and closing with a soft click. The whisper of footsteps receding down the church aisle. And then, silence.

He was alone.

The mask of the saint crumbled away, leaving the man naked and broken. Father Michael collapsed sideways onto the narrow bench, his breath escaping him in a painful gasp. The baby’s head, dangling between his legs, swayed with the movement, tugging at his flesh in a way that made him scream into the now-empty silence.

There were no more sermons. No more congregation. Just him, the pain, and the child.

With a groan that was pure agony, he leaned forward. The movement was slow, torturous. Every muscle in his back and abdomen protested. He clutched his knees, his fingers digging into the fabric of his pants. He had to end this. He had to get it out.

He spread the cheeks of his ass, an instinctive and vulnerable act that made him feel exposed and animalistic. The pain was sharp, a deep tug on his already fatigued muscles. The weight of the head was immense, an anchor dragging him down. His cunt… his cunt was an open wound, a fire burning with a ferocity for which there were no words.

And there her baby was born.

There was no heroic push. There was no final scream. Just a collapse. Her body, having reached the absolute limit of its endurance, simply gave up. The last resistance of her tissues gave way, and with a wet, painful slide, the baby’s shoulders passed through the torn flesh.

Then the rest of the body slid out in a torrent of fluids, a heavy, slippery mass that fell onto the wooden floor with a dull, wet thud.

Father Michael stood there, leaning forward, gasping, his eyes closed. The relief was so overwhelming it was almost painful. The pressure was gone. The fire had gone out, leaving only a dull, throbbing pain.

He opened his eyes slowly and looked down.

There, on the floor of the confessional, in a pool of blood and amniotic fluid, lay his son. A real, tangible baby, covered in vernix and blood, with dark hair plastered to his cone-shaped head. He lay still for a moment, and then his little chest heaved, and a weak, whimpering cry filled the small space.

Father Michael—the man of God, the sinner, the father—stood there, gazing at the life he had created in the darkness. There were no singing angels, no divine light. Only the smell of blood and old wax, the sound of a baby’s cry, and the silence of an empty church.

With trembling hands, he bent down and picked up the baby. It was heavy, real, and perfectly imperfect. He pressed it to his chest, feeling its warmth and weight. And for the first time in months, Father Michael did not pray. He simply wept.

peninae04

Idea: A pregnant husband supports his wife through labor, quietly experiencing contractions himself and keeping it hidden to stay focused on her, until his water breaks.

The air in Daniel and Clara’s room was thick and electric, heavy with tension and anticipation. Clara stood by the bed, arched like a taut bow, her hands resting on Daniel’s thighs. Her breathing was a rhythmic, ragged gasp, a mantra of pain that filled the room. Daniel, standing before her, was her rock. His arms were strong, his voice steady, his attention completely focused on her.

“That’s it, my love, breathe with me,” Daniel said, his voice a calm she didn’t feel. “A long exhale. Yes, like that. Dola says you’re doing an incredible job.”

Dola, the midwife, moved with quiet grace around the room, adjusting the pillows and checking the monitors. “Dilation is going well, Clara. Just keep listening to your body.”

No one looked at Daniel. No one saw the cold sweat beading on his temple, or the way his fingers dug into Clara’s thighs with a force that was more than just support. No one noticed the slight pallor of his skin or the almost imperceptible tremor in his jaw.

Because Daniel was in labor, too.

It had started that morning, a dull ache in his back that he’d attributed to stress. But then the contractions had begun, rhythmic waves of pressure that gripped his abdomen, squeezing the enormous belly of his own pregnancy. He’d ignored them, buried them under layers of determination. This was his wife’s day. Her moment. He didn’t exist.

“I think I need to push,” Clara moaned, clutching Daniel’s nightgown.

“Wait, my love, wait for Dola to tell you,” Daniel whispered, kissing her forehead. As he spoke, a contraction of his own swept over him, a wave so strong it forced him to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from moaning. His stomach hardened beneath his shirt, a solid rock of pain. He leaned more heavily on Clara, using her pain as an anchor to mask his own.

“Ready, Clara,” Dola said. “When you feel the next one, push.”

Clara’s next wave of pain was a scream. Daniel clung to her, feeling her body tremble against his. And in that very instant, his own body decided it could wait no longer.

It wasn’t a scream. It was a surrender.

A wave of immense pressure, unlike anything he’d ever felt before, swept him away completely. He felt a deep tearing inside him, a movement that was both violent and liberating. And then, the heat.

He broke through.

A sudden gush of warm liquid soaked his pants, running down his legs and forming a dark puddle on the wooden floor. The sound was a wet whisper, almost inaudible beneath Clara’s screams and Dola’s words of encouragement.

But Daniel felt it. He felt the wetness spreading, the shame and panic mingling with the pain. He stood completely still, eyes wide open, feeling his secret world crumble around him.

He stood there, in the midst of the pool of his own heartbreak, his heart pounding so hard it hurt in his chest. He supported his wife, whispering words of love to her, while his own birth unfolded in silence—a secret river that only he could feel. His wife’s day had become their day, but only one of them knew it.

peninae04

🫃🍼2️⃣ 💊🩲🫴✈️🪑💨⁉️

(Pregnant man goes into labor while on a plane, thinking he still had time. He tries taking labor suppressants but when those wear off he hopes his tight pants will be enough to keep the baby in, and then he palms the head bobbing in his crotch, trying to keep the baby in until the plane lands and he can get to a hospital. He doesn’t want alert the other passengers after all. Labor progresses really quickly though, and it’s a long flight, can he hold his baby (secretly babies) in for that long?

- @distended-domes

The plane flew through the night, a metal tube filled with sleeping, oblivious people. The cabin lights were dimmed, creating a false sense of privacy. Julian was trapped, sitting in his seat, his baby's head pressing firmly against the fabric of his crotch, while the other baby stirred restlessly inside him, waiting for his turn.

The work was progressing very quickly. Each contraction was a step closer to disaster. He could feel the stretching, the burning, the flesh giving way. His jeans, already damp from his water breaking, were stretched to the point of bursting. The quality denim fabric, designed for durability, was now the only thing standing between its secret and exposure.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the captain informs you that we are experiencing some turbulence and will be activating the seatbelts. Please return to your seats."

Turbulence. The universe was mocking him. Each jolt of the plane was a new form of torture, a constant threat of his secret being exposed. One particularly strong jolt threw him forward, and the baby in his groin pressed with a new and painful force. He felt a tear, not in his body, but in the seam of his pants. A broken thread. A weak point.

He laid like that, for what seemed like an eternity, his hand pressed against the baby's head, praying the plane would land. But the flight was long, and his babies were impatient. He could feel the second baby descending, a double pressure that made him feel like he was going to burst from the inside.

Denial was no longer an option. Reality was here, pressing against his hand, about to be born on a plane at 30,000 feet. And Julian, alone and terrified, had to make a choice: continue fighting the inevitable or surrender to the miracle and the nightmare of giving birth, in secret, in the middle of nowhere.

Another contraction, stronger than any before, doubled him in half. He leaned his forehead against the folding table, his hand still on the baby's head. The pressure was immense, an intense burning sensation consumed him. He felt his vagina stretch beyond what he thought possible, a sharp, definitive burn. His body tore, fighting against the barrier of the fabric. He heard the snap of the elastic, a wet, desperate whisper, followed by the scraping of the inner seam of his pants.

The baby's head slid forward, and the seam of his crotch gave way completely. A long, wet tear echoed in the silence of his mind. The baby's head, covered in damp hair, poked through the opening, pressing against his hand and the cold air of the cabin. The relief was immediate and terrifying.

But it wasn't over. The baby's shoulders were stuck, a shoulder dystocia caused not by biology, but by the torn denim that now acted as a fabric trap. The baby couldn't get out. He was stuck halfway, a head being born on a plane, with the body still trapped inside.

Panic was blinding. He braced his hand against the seat in front of him and pushed with all his might, an instinctive movement to free his child. With each push, the fabric takes a little more, but not enough. The baby cried, a muffled, weak sound only he could hear.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent to San Francisco. Please ensure your tray tables are stowed and your seatbacks are upright."

The descent. The end was in sight. But the first baby hadn't been born. And the second baby was already on the way. The pressure was immense, a force he couldn't stop. He leaned back against the seat, his first baby's head peeking out from between his legs, his other hand pressing against his violently contracting abdomen.

The plane descended, and the pressure shifted. He felt his body tighten, the babies moving in response. Another contraction hit him, and this time he couldn't hold back the push. The first baby slid out, landing on his thigh with a soft, wet thud, finally free from the fabric prison.

But there was no time to breathe. The second baby was already descending, pressing against his vagina, the place where his brother had just passed. Julian sat there, with one newborn in his lap and the other about to be born, as the plane touched down on the runway. The drone of the engines transformed into a high-pitched whistle, followed by the screech of the brakes. The plane came to a stop and the cabin lights came on.

People began to stir, gathering their belongings, stretching. Julian stood motionless, his son wrapped in his jacket, praying no one would look. The man in the next seat smiled at him. "Have a good trip."

sapphicbump

A bit of labor struggle after careless potion intake... OC pic for notsafeforbak

thelyghtofdayone

really in the mood to kiss caress and praise a beautiful partner as she grunts and shoves our baby down and out into the world like the strong, amazing, awe-inspiring, heroic mama bear she is

donotpush1

Forever in the mood for an office birth.

Your water breaking with a gush and ruining your favorite pair of pantyhose. Biting your lip to avoid moaning out loud, trying to hide your labor from your coworkers. The contractions coming faster and stronger, one behind the other as you squirm in that uncomfortable office chair.

John is giving an important presentation but you couldn't care less because this baby is coming right now.

Stifling a cry as your baby crowns under your skirt or as you can't push anymore because the head can't go any further, stuck against your new pair of nice pants. Are you pushing that baby out under your desk, or you're just too happy to see me, hun?

bigpushes

mutual birth with a domme who finds herself in labor at the same time as her sub and struggles to try to hide her contractions and then hide the fact that she's pushing while she guides her sub through their own birth— she's tied the wrists of her sub to the bedframe, leaving them flat on their back and curved over their belly while they push to give her the best possible view of what's happening between their legs; she kneels on the bed in front of them and keeps her thighs squeezed tightly together, sweat beading on her brow as she guides her sub through their pushing ("you're doing so well for me, pet" and "spread those legs just a little bit wider for me" and "im going to need you to push harder than that" and "there you go, thaaaaaats it" and "you look so perfect like this, that sweet little pussy bulging wide open for me, you're going to be crowning soon- can you feel that?") all the while fighting off the very same instincts— the head of her own baby is grinding down through her birth canal and past the tight ring of her cervix and just as her sub begins to show their first signs of crowning, the urge to push becomes too strong to ignore and she can't fight it anymore.

she falls back onto the bed and grabs hold of her thighs, pulling her legs back towards her chest as she frantically bears down, eager to get her birth over with as quickly as possible so that she can get back to the experience of watching her sub. "just... need to get it out." she grits her teeth and shoves, the naked swell of her belly pulled so low and taut that it blocks the sight of her bulging cunt.

"y-you've been pushing?" they cry, twisting against their restraints so that they can get a clearer view of her without the obstruction of their belly in the way. "don't- hnnnnngah-ah- don't rush it like that! you'll tear."

she shakes her head, rising up on her heels and bringing one hand down to cup her gaping vagina. her perineum bulges into her palm as she inhales and pushes again, and she grunts as she feels the lips of her pussy slowly start to part. "just let me do it. its- fuck, its coming anyway. cant stop it."

her sub stares at her with wide eyes, caught off guard by seeing her so uninhibited. so animalistic. she looks both frantic and determined, bearing down with gravity as the unrelenting urge to deliver the baby consumes her. "crowning," she announces through gritted teeth, skin flushed and dripping with sweat. "just... just breathe for me, 'kay? i'm almost- hoooo, almost d-doneeee."

they do take in a deep breath, momentarily distracted from the stinging pain between their own legs as they watch the sight happening between hers.

"one more," she mumbles to herself, head slipping just past a full crown. her hand trembles around it as she provides as much support as she can, body powered by pure adrenaline. "just one more- p-pushhhh."

the slide of the head's emergence is slow, and she feels every bit of the burn as the lips of her cunt stretch around the head. "get... out," she roars, throwing her head back as her hips jut forward—the head pops free in a burst of fluid, dangling between her thighs just for a moment before a final push sends it sliding onto the fluid soaked sheets beneath her.

"okay," she mutters, giving her wailing infant- a daughter, much larger in size than the rapid nature of her birth would have suggested- a quick once over. "okay, okay. I did it."

her attention immediately shifts back to her sub, currently panting their way through a contraction as the head of their own baby begins to peek through their furled slit. "now," she says, still somewhat breathless. "where were we, pet?"

bigpushes

What do you think about people who don't know that they are pregnant, ignoring their cramps, bad this month, suddenly feeling the urge to push, thinking they are taking the dump of their life until they are crowning hard. How do they comprehend the fullness in their birth canal?

Did their partner guess or are they both shooketh?

And when the hind brain takes over and all they can do is grunt and groan and push for their life, gripping their partner and squatting desperately trying to widen their legs.

Does their partner help hold them steady and kiss them through a surprise orgasm as the mystery slides through their cunt?

loveeee cryptic preg so much.

you're in a little bit of denial, admittedly— something is definitely off, but you couldn't be pregnant. it doesnt make sense. doesnt fit. there's only a small little bloat that juts out from between your hips, and its not even noticeable unless you're naked. it never grows, never moves, and there's never any other symptoms—feeling tired, feeling sick, feeling an odd flutter deep in your belly now and then; it's all explainable. it all goes away.

until it doesn't.

"what- jesus, baby, what the fuck is going on?"

your partner comes home to find you kneeling on the bathroom floor, your plans to sweat your way out of the cramps abandoned as soon as your water had broken, everything clicking into place as you'd watched the fluid gushing down your thighs. you'd been dressed in nothing but your underwear and one of your partner's t-shirts—the shirt is now rucked up underneath your breasts, and you've only managed to work your panties down as far as the tops of your thighs, creating a small sliver of space for the head that's emerging from your bulging cunt, stretching out the flimsy, sodden fabric.

"'fucks it look like," you grunt. one hand clings to the edge of the bathroom sink and the other to the rim of the tub, and your knuckles turn white around them both as you let your chin fall to your chest and push. you've spread your knees as far as you can, thighs quivering violently on either side of your gaping sex, labia and perineum protuding quite significantly as the head- god, you hope its the head, you hadnt even thought to check, but then again, you hadnt even realized you were giving birth until you had the hefty mass of an infant in your vagina- slowly grinds through your birth canal. "w-we can talk... nnngh, la-aaater. gotta pushhh."

"shit. shit!"

they frantically run a hand through their hair as they shed their jacket and scramble to kneel in front of you, placing one hand on each of your thighs. "can you spread a bit wider for me, baby? maybe get your panties down? you need to let me see what's going on."

"can't," you bite out. you bring one hand down to slide your panties to the side and press two fingers inside of you, letting out a small gasp as you brush against... something. the mass is hard, and a little more exploration confirms it is, in fact, the head. and fuck, it's even bigger than you thought. was it possible you were overdue? the sheer size of it made you feel as though you had to be. "t-the head is right here." the next contraction comes with no warning, and you let out a thin scream as you bear down, your fingers sliding out of your yawning pussy in another trickle of bloody fluid. the head sits just behind the enterance of your tightly furled slit, and you grit your teeth as you stuggle to clear it through your unrelenting lips. "pus-s-shinggg."

"okay. uh, that's good, baby! you're doing really well." your partner slides their hands up and down your thighs, massaging the shaking muscles as you scream and howl your way through each push, completely lost to your animal instincts. "i'm so proud of you, love. look at you. you know exactly what you're doing. you're- oh, good push, baby! that's it!"

something finally seems to give way, and you throw your head back and shriek as the head begins to crown. "burning! holy fuckkk." the tight tissue of your pussy stretches and stretches and stretches, burning white-hot as more and more of the head slides free. "its so fucking big."

your partner gentlely eases you back onto your heels, their eyes going almost comedically wide as they get a clear view of your battered sex, gaping around a half-born, posterior, and clearly very overdue head. the width of the skull alone is at least two inches across, and even the size of the brow is massive. "it is," they agree. "and they're sunny side up, baby. its facing the wrong way, but- no, no, dont panic! its coming. you're getting it out. one more big push for the rest of the head- can you do that for me?"

you nod your head in agreement, but your body has already begun bearing down. "mmmm, coming o-out," you grunt, squeezing your eyes shut as you pause for a second to take in another breath before you shove down hard. the head lingers for a moment as your pussy stretches around the nose and then the mouth before your tissues finally give way and slip over the chin, leaving you a sobbing wreck with a giant head dangling between your thighs, cushioned only by your panties.

"oh god, oh god, oh godddd. I can't stop pushing! I can't stoppp-hnnnnnng."

your instincts are screaming at you to slow down (it might not even be your instincts- it might just be your partner), trying to warn you that you're going to tear, but the weight in your birth canal and the squirming of the unexpected infant and the stretch and the burn as your pussy opens around it is all too much to bear.

"gotta. get it. outttt."

with one final push, the shoulders and body pop free, sliding out in a massive rush of fluid. for one single breadth of a second, the room is totally still and silent, and then a thin wail rises up from the bulging stretch of your underwear, joining your own relieved sobs.

your partner laughs, leaning in to kiss you as they untangle the baby from your panties and pass them up to you between your spread thighs. "well... that was quite a welcome home, I must say."

"and how was your day?"

pushingparty-deactivated2023032

She’s already birthing the head of the first triplet and she can’t even get her dress pulled up.

donotpush1

A second thought you might enjoy: woman deep in labor driving to the hospital through a blizzard with her husband. Car spins out and gets buried in snow. Husband goes to get help, she thinks she can wait, water breaks, okay maybe she can’t wait. But by the time she completely succumbs, she finds out the seatbelt got damaged and won’t budge. She’s stuck tightly pinned to her seat with a quickly progressing labor/birth. Does help come in time? Of course not ✨

hey there!! what a thought. here's what it inspired:

You learned rather late why everyone told you that it was better to be safe than sorry. Even when you thought that everyone else was slightly overreacting, that it couldn't possibly be that substantial to be a control freak over every single detail about the birth of your baby.

It was probably very, definitely necessary.

You learned that when you only found out that the weather was not gonna be on your side the moment you stepped out of the door. After your water had broken. After you had spent the last few hours with increasingly worse contractions rocking your body.

You probably should have listened to your mother and left for the hospital the moment you knew you were in labor.

Ideally, you thought you had time. But you realized late, as usual, when the snow started to fall, when you started to notice the nervousness growing in your partner's eyes with every glance they sent your way, every time they had to slow down just a bit more to avoid a fatality.

It really didn't help, because just like that, in the blink of an eye, it all went to shit. And the only thing you could think of as your heart slammed against your ribcage was the sharp pain shooting through the base of your stomach, and you weren't sure if that was a contraction or just the wrecking nerve of the situation.

Your partner said they were gonna get help. Assured you would be better off in the car. And of course, you believed it would be for the better, right? Even when you could feel the small trickling of amniotic liquid dripping from inside of you down your leg every time a contraction took over, even when you could feel the weight of your baby settled down in your pelvis, the heavy feeling pushing down with every minute that passed.

You thought you could wait. That you had time. That this baby was definitely not coming just right now.

You learned rather late why everyone told you that it was better to be safe than sorry. What the hell was that guy's name, the one you had just at the tip of your tongue, that said that everything that could go wrong would go wrong?

It didn't matter. That was not gonna help you the moment you felt the unnerving wave of pressure that made you grunt, groan, and squirm in place, your hands tightening around the door handle as you pushed it open. Your hips were grinding against the seat, damp with your own fluids, as you felt the girth of the baby's head moving down, starting to stretch you open. The cold air hit your red face, and when your hand moved to unclasp the seat belt, ready to let your body breathe—

The damned thing didn't budge. And it didn't budge. And as you breathed, chest heaving and body squirming against the now claustrophobic seat, in the ridiculously small space of this damned car—good God, had it always been this small, or were you just fucking huge now? — things trembling as you tried to fight against the sudden urge to spread your legs open wide, buck your hips forward, and fucking push.

Better safe than sorry, but there were some things in this life that no matter how much you planned them, they just did whatever the fuck they wanted. That you learned when the only sound that echoed in the cramped space was your labored breathing and the guttural, shameful screams escaping your throat when you felt the pressure of the baby's head pushing down and pressing you open. When you felt the fabric of your underwear straining against your crowning hole, when you felt the burning as you started to stretch open around the girth of the head that was slowly forcing its way out of you as your body pushed.

I mean, it was not like you could have planned for this. Neither you nor your partner nor the medical team came with them minutes later, only to find you there, with your swollen body trapped against the seat, legs spread wide to accommodate the gravid stomach that protruded from your body, winter jacket hastily spread open, pants barely down from a useless attempt at pulling them down, shirt lifting slightly at the base of your stomach to allow the view of barely a glimpse of red, furious, stretched skin, and beneath, the round, unmistakable bulge of the head of your baby as it crowned against your pants, ignoring your efforts of pushing because it didn't have anywhere else to go.

professor-mpreg

He calls for a taxi to take him to the hospital. He doesn't need an ambulance, right? He's not that close to giving birth.

The taxi driver makes smalltalk. He asks what plans he has later today.

"Oh, not much," he lies through a contraction.

The taxi driver nods and makes more smalltalk. "I don't have much else to do either."

He can feel the head deep in his pelvis. He tries to suck it in, somehow, keep it from falling out of his body and onto the taxi seat.

Now, apparently, it's also a matter of hiding the embarrassing fact that he's in active labor to the taxi driver.

"Yeah, me neither," he says with a chuckle that hopefully didn't sound too nervous.

The taxi driver makes more smalltalk. "The weather's nice. Might go on a walk later."

Was it just his increasing terror, or was the taxi going way too slowly?

"Yeah! Nice weather we're having!" Surely he wasn't actually doing this. Surely, he wasn't actually talking about the literal fucking weather with a taxi driver on the way to the hospital so he can give birth somewhere else than this backseat.

He was trying so fucking hard not to start pushing and giving birth to this goddamn baby in the backseat of a taxi through his clothes.

The taxi driver makes more smalltalk. "Sometimes, I like to go on walks just before sunset. Really take in the sights."

He's really starting to sweat now. He feels the pressure of the head threatening to spread his legs and split him open. He can't keep this up. He can't. He can't stop himself from pushing. He can't keep this act up. He should have just called for an ambulance. He can't stop himself from pushing and giving birth. He can't. He can't. He can't. He can't.

He stops staring at the taxi driver's head and turns to look out the window.

They are, in fact, going much slower than everyone else on the road. He's not even sure if they're still going to the hospital.

The taxi driver makes more smalltalk. "Yeah, it really is some nice weather we've been having lately."

cinwritesbirth

Moss

send me one word birth prompts!

Stella knew this trail like the back of her own hand. She'd hiked it hundreds of times since picking up the hobby in her teens. If someone asked her what her happy place was, all that would come to mind were the vistas and twisting game trails she knew so well.

When her waters had broken just as she'd started to waddle back toward the start of the path, she'd hoped that would be to her benefit, that the familiarity would keep her calm and steady long enough to get to a place with signal.

Now, as she finally dropped to her knees on a thick patch of moss and pushed, she'd never yearned for the comforts of the city more.

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