What Have You Done to Yourself?
God, it consumed your every thought.
Night after night, the silhouette of your young, fertile body was projected on the far wall of your bedroom, colors dancing around you, scrolling endlessly on your laptop or your phone or whatever window you used to peer into the unsavory reaches of the internet. Your eyes glazed over as you took in their perfect forms. Full, heavy breasts capped with darkened, leaking nipples. Hips, widened, softened, altered down to the very bone underneath, gave these women shapes of motherhood and femininity. Their bodies were padded and plush, a byproduct of their natural inclination to feed the life growing inside them, a delightful, maternal plumpness that found its way to their cheeks, their chins (double or otherwise), their hips and thighs and rear and even the mounds between their legs. Most of all, however, your eyes were drawn to the image of their gravid, swollen middles. Your eyes naturally followed the curve down their torsos, out to the furthest extent of their shape. It didnāt matter how far along she was. If the women were barely showing, just a subtle dome that wouldnāt be out of place after a big meal, your eyes would still be drawn to the spot just below her navel, knowing the little life growing day by day inside it. Just as much, you enjoyed the sight of a woman on the verge of bursting, her skin almost reflective in its taut state, angry and red, covered in stretch marks as if she had been trying to claw at her own body for even an inch more space. In your eyes, in your heart, in the fiery core of your need, these women were perfect; they had the ideal figure; they were the epitome of everything that they had been designed by evolution to do.
It wasnāt merely an appreciation for their bodies, though.
You wanted it for yourself.
You couldnāt stop thinking about yourself in her place. Whimpers rose out of you as you pictured yourself, swollen and heavy, struggling to lift yourself out of a chair like you had in countless videos. Arousal surged through your body as you imagined the aching fullness in your breasts, swollen several cup sizes beyond your current size, a tightness both inside from the swelling supply of milk and outside from the tightness of bras that show just how far your body has warped. You feared breaking the skin of your lip, biting so hard, as you pictured yourself from behind, womanly hips swaying with every step and an ass, doughy and round and soft, wobbling in time with the swishing of your hips. You wanted to watch yourself grow, experiencing, as so many so-called educational videos had described it, āthe miracle of motherhood.ā When you closed your eyes, you could see yourself standing in front of the mirror, watching as you move quickly through the stages, your body changing before your eyes. Nine months, forty weeks, passed in a matter of seconds, culminating in twin screams. One scream burned in your imagination, the first sign that youāre finally ready to bring your child into the world. The other scream echoed around your small, empty room, complimenting the spasm of a body wracked with orgasm, bucking and tensing your hips against nothing at all.
And as you laid back, breathing heavily, sweat matted to your forehead, a simple, familiar thought surfaced:
You wanted it. You needed it.
It seemed so familiar and so obvious. You needed to be bred. You knew youād love it. You knew it would feel like the epitome of everything youāve ever done, every decision leading you to that moment. A constant and familiar thought, you assumed it would never change.
Until that night, when your friend was on top of you, thrusting into your needy cunt. His hands gripped your hips, holding them steady as he used your body. Animal. Primal. Lustful. Even if he didnāt know it, he needed it, too. Written into the very core of his existence, a singular and overwhelming desire to bring his progeny into the world and ensure the continuation of his species. No command could be so pure, no desire so honest. He didnāt have second thoughts. Hell, he didnāt have any thoughts, save for the repetition of the simple order to breed, breed, breed.
You, on the other hand, were no longer as sure as you once had been. As he filled you, as he touched parts of your body in ways that you had never experienced before, doubt crept in. Maybe it was just a kink. Maybe it was just a fetish, one to be enjoyed in abstract, something that happened to other women. Now that you were there, now that you were facing the reality of your entire life being upended over a single night of passion, that certainty was gone. You looked up into his eyes and found none of the friendly affection you knew, that led you to ask him for such a monumental favor. All you could see was a beast, rutting, claiming his mate. It was too much. You couldnāt take it anymore. You pushed on his shoulders, realizing for the first time just how much stronger he was than you. You tried to open your mouth to beg him to stop, but only moans would emerge, stifling your pleas in your throat. You stared into his eyes and hoped he could see the desperation behind them. In the end, all you could manage, was a hoarse, whispered āP-pleaseā¦ā Such hopes went unanswered as, a moment later, his whole body tensed. His fingers left bruises on your hips, the nails crescent marks. The muscles of his neck tightened. His jaw set. An ancient growl, echoing sounds made by ancestors tens of thousands of years hence, ripped from his throat.
His cock thickened inside you.
Your own body betrayed you.
The feeling of his cum filling you, pouring into your deepest crevices like molten desire, brought you to the edge yourself. In the dark room, bright spots burst in front of your eyes as your hips bucked up into him, delighted to finally do so against a warm body. Pleasure courses through your every nerve, muscles twisting and tensing. Nothing could have prepared for those feelings, your imagination utterly failing to do it any kind of real justice. Your head swam for a few minutes after, the room spinning around you, the only constants being the soft bed beneath you and a new feeling of fullness inside you.
A test confirmed it a short while later, after days of agonizing unknowing.
You had been bred. You were pregnant.
Now you stand in front of the mirror, watching as every day your body becomes a bit more foreign. You poke and prod at the softness slowly enveloping you. You watch as your clothes become tighter, so many of your shirts now leaving a band of stretched skin exposed, a bellybutton threatening to become smooth in just a matter of weeks. Your breasts ache in ways that no amount of massaging can ease. Every time you put on your favorite pair of jeans and feel how much closer they are to being painted on, you wonder if itāll be the last time you wear them. Similar thoughts arise when you lift your swelling body out of a chair or out of a bed, wondering if the next time you go down will be your last beforeā¦ beforeā¦
You swallow as you reach down and place a hand over belly button, wincing at the rawness of nearby stretch marks. The time for wondering whether you wanted it or not is over. You have it: a life growing and occasionally squirming inside you. Flashes of worry move through your mind. Will you be able to keep your job? Keep going to classes? Will your friends support you? Will your family? Will you have to move? How much are diapers and cribs and clothes and toys and-
The only way out of the spiral is to shut your eyes tight and simply will yourself not to think about it, deep breaths bringing you back to reality. You swallow, your eyes slowly opening, looking at ruined body before you. Even after giving birth, this will be your body. Swollen breasts, widened hips, stretch marks faded but still present. The body of a mother. Young and mature in the same stroke. Your thumb slips into your belly button and your fingers curl underneath, grabbing the swollen mound.
What have you done to yourself?
jbbartram-illu
snowghoul
pixelskylines
kaledo-art
