Just a lovely Baby Trap 🔞 (Extra)
The One Shot
What happens when you have to take care of your male wife cuntboy and you guys' little kiddo?
Top!male reader, male wifey cuntboy, male pregnancy, baby bearing, SMUT, nsfw.
Weeks blur into a whirlwind of quiet preparations, your hands guiding Ethan's every step as you plan the small, traditional wedding. He insists on keeping it proper—traditional vows etched in ancient script, respectful guests limited to close family seated in careful order by age and relation, the ceremony steeped in the cultural weight of your shared heritage. Purity, commitment, unbreakable bonds; it's all a perfect cage for him, disguised as love. You watch him fuss over the details, his small frame bustling with nervous energy, huge breasts shifting under his shirt, and your obsession tightens like a vice. He's radiant already, and soon, he'll be yours in every way the world demands.
The day arrives under a soft autumn sun, the intimate venue a modest hall adorned with red silk and white lilies, symbols of eternal fidelity. Ethan stands at the altar in a flowing white dress that clings to his curves like a second skin, the fabric straining against his massive, milky breasts, the deep neckline barely containing their heavy swell. His big, round ass jiggles subtly with each anxious shift, the dress hugging his plump hips and the secret of his pregnant belly just beginning to show. He looks too fucking sexy, a vision of shy innocence begging to be claimed, and you have to clench your jaw to keep your arousal in check—no boner now, not when you'll ravage him tonight.
You stand beside him, steady and composed, your hand resting lightly on his lower back, possessive fingers pressing just enough to remind him of your presence. To the outsiders—family murmuring approvals, elders nodding sagely—you're the perfect partner: supportive, responsible, protective. Ethan bows his head slightly as the officiant calls for thanks, his voice soft and trembling. "Thank you all for coming," he says, cheeks flushing pink, eyes downcast in that adorable, naive way that makes your heart—and cock—throb with need.
The vows begin, Ethan reciting them nervously, his voice a melodic quiver echoing the room's hushed reverence. "I pledge my heart, my body, my future to you," he murmurs, the words heavy with emotion, his huge breasts rising and falling rapidly, nipples pebbled against the thin white fabric. You lock eyes on his trembling hands, folded in front of him, imagining how they'll clutch at you later, desperate and marked by your grip. Your own vows come out smooth, unwavering—"I will cherish, protect, and bind you to me forever"—each syllable a dark promise of the chains you've already forged.
Rings exchanged next, the simple gold bands sliding onto fingers slick with his nervous sweat. His hand shakes as you slip yours on, a soft gasp escaping when your thumb brushes his skin, and his voice wavers on 'I do'—not from doubt, but from the overwhelming rush of love you've manipulated into his soul. Tears glisten in his eyes, pure and trusting, as the officiant pronounces you wed. You pull him close for the kiss, claiming his lips possessively, tongue delving deep to taste his surrender while family applauds, oblivious to the fire in your veins.
That night, back in your home—now eternally shared—you pace the living room, the weight of the ring on your finger fueling your obsession. Ethan slips into the bathroom first for a shower, the sound of water running like a tease. You imagine it already: streams cascading over his swollen breasts, milk beading on his nipples, trickling down to his plump, pregnant cunt, lips puffy and slick. Your cock twitches, pulse pounding at the thought of worshipping every inch, marking him as yours anew. When he emerges, towel wrapped loosely around his small frame, you take your turn, bathing quickly, soap barely rinsed as visions of his body in that towel—barely hiding those jiggling assets—make your skin flush hot.
You step out, steam following, and there he is: Ethan perched on the bed in revealing lingerie, a wedding gift from some distant relative, the sheer black lace barely containing his huge milky breasts, the cups overflowing with soft flesh, nipples dark and erect through the fabric. The thong rides high on his hips, exposing the curve of his big, round ass that jiggles as he shifts shyly, his plump cunt outlined obscenely, already glistening with anticipation. "It... it was a gift," he stammers, face crimson, hands twisting in his lap. "I thought you'd like—ah!"
You don't let him finish. Obsession surges, and you cross the room in two strides, hands fisting the lace as you rip it off with a savage tear, the scraps fluttering to the floor. 'Mine,' you growl, voice thick with possessive hunger, shoving him back onto the bed. His eyes widen, a whimper escaping as you pin his wrists above his head, your mouth crashing down on his in a bruising kiss. He melts into it, moaning softly, his small body arching up, breasts heaving against your chest.
You trail bites down his neck, marking the pale skin with red blooms—hickeys that scream ownership—before latching onto a nipple. You suck hard, tongue lashing the sensitive bud, drawing out warm milk that floods your mouth, sweet and addictive. "Ah! Oh god!" Ethan gasps, hips bucking, his plump cunt grinding against your thigh, leaving a wet trail. You knead the other breast roughly, pinching until more milk leaks, smearing it across his skin as you worship lower, nipping at his jiggling ass before spreading his thighs wide.
But you don't stop. You flip him onto his stomach, ass up, and bury your face between his cheeks, tongue delving into his puckered hole while fingers fuck his cunt relentlessly. He begs, voice muffled in the pillows, "S-slow down... the baby... oh fuck, too much!" But his hips push back, greedy, and you growl against his skin, "You're mine to fuck, darling. All of you." You rise as you impatiently pull away your towel, grabbing your dick—thick and unyielding—and slam into his pussy without mercy, the wet slap of your hips against his jiggling ass filling the room.
Thrust after brutal thrust, you angle deep, hitting his core, making him cum again—walls clenching like a vice, milking your seed. 'Another one,' you command, hand rubbing his swollen clit, and he shatters twice more, sobs mixing with moans, body trembling. "Ah! Ah! B-Be gentale! Please... Ngh! it's too intense... for the little one... Hngh!" he whimpers, but his legs wrap around you, pulling you closer, love overriding fear.
You slow only to worship more—sucking his breasts until they're bruised and leaking, tongue tracing every curve of his fuckable body, from the swell of his ass to the slick folds of his cunt. Finally, spent but insatiable, you pull him into your larger arms, his small frame curling possessively against you, your hand splayed over his belly. 'I love you so much,' you mumble into his hair, voice soft now, laced with that obsessive truth. 'Forever mine.' He nuzzles closer, whispering it back, oblivious to the depths of your trap, as the night stretches on with unspoken promises of more.
-
Months slip by in a haze of obsessive devotion, your hands never straying far from Ethan's swelling belly, fingers tracing the taut skin where your child grows. You pamper him relentlessly—cooking every meal, massaging his aching back, bathing him with gentle strokes that tease but never push further, no matter how his huge, milky breasts strain against his shirts or how his plump cunt glistens when he shifts in his sleep—too risky, too precious now. His huge milky breasts have grown even fuller, leaking sweet streams that you lap up during stolen kisses, but you hold back from fucking him raw like you crave. 'You're too precious,' you whisper, voice thick with restraint, even as his plump cunt weeps for attention when you change his clothes. He blushes, nuzzling into you, trusting your every word, your manipulation weaving him tighter into your web. No heavy lifting, no stress—just you, shielding your fragile male wife from the world, ensuring he's dependent, bound by the life you forced into him.
The due date creeps up like a shadow, and when Ethan's waters break in the dead of night, panic flickers in his wide eyes. You bundle him into the car, one hand on the wheel, the other clasped in his, squeezing reassurance as contractions twist his small frame. At the hospital, the sterile lights buzz overhead, but you refuse to let go, your presence a constant anchor in the chaos of beeping monitors and hurried nurses.
You cradle your pregnant Ethan through the endless hours, soothing his fears with soft whispers against his damp temple. 'I've got you, darling. Breathe with me.' Your gentle touches roam his sweat-slicked skin—stroking his heaving breasts, careful not to squeeze too hard lest milk sprays, thumbing circles over his knuckles as he grips your hand like a lifeline. He trembles quietly, tears streaking his flushed cheeks, overwhelmed and scared, his plump body quaking with each wave of pain that rips through his cunt, stretching him toward the inevitable.
The long hospital night drags on, Ethan's cries muffled into your shoulder, not loud but heartbreaking whimpers that fuel your yandere fire—you'd kill anyone who dared make him suffer more. You never leave his side, brushing damp hair from his forehead with tender fingers, promising safety and endless love.
Ethan labors quietly at first, his small hand crushing yours as contractions ripple through his body, making his massive breasts heave and leak milk onto the hospital gown. Sweat beads on his forehead, his face pale and twisted in fear, but you never waver—perched on the edge of the bed, stroking his damp hair back, your voice a steady anchor. 'You're doing so good, darling,' you murmur, pressing kisses to his knuckles. 'I've got you. We're in this together—me, you, and our little one. Safe. Always safe.' He cries then—not the loud sobs you're used to in passion, but soft, broken whimpers that twist your heart even as they fuel your resolve. 'It hurts... I'm scared,' he whispers, tears tracking down his flushed cheeks, his free hand cradling the swell of his belly where your baby kicks defiantly. You lean in, forehead to forehead, breathing him in—the salty tang of sweat mixed with the sweet milk scent from his leaking nipples. "Shh, my love. You're the strongest person I know. I'll protect you both forever. No one takes what's mine." Your words are a vow, laced with that yandere edge he mistakes for devotion, and he clings tighter, nodding through the pain.
Hours blur—doctors coming and going, your hand never leaving his. When the final push comes, Ethan's cries peak, raw and vulnerable, his body arching as he bears down. You hold him up, muscles straining, whispering nonsense about how beautiful he is, how this binds you eternally. Then, a sharp cry pierces the air—not his, but the baby's, tiny and furious. Relief crashes over Ethan like a wave; he sobs openly now, exhausted laughter bubbling through as the nurse places the squirming bundle on his chest as the doctor cleans and swaddles the tiny form.
They place the child in his arms, warm and squirming, and something inside him settles, his tear-streaked face softening into awe. His plump cunt throbs visibly, spent and gaping slightly from the birth, a mix of blood and fluids trickling down his thighs, but he doesn't care—eyes locked on the bundle. The infant latches instinctively onto one of his huge breasts, suckling with greedy pulls that make Ethan gasp, milk flowing freely. You watch, mesmerized, a possessive heat stirring low in your belly despite the fatigue—the sight of your family, marked by you, complete.
Ethan's tearful gaze meets yours, glossy with emotion. 'We're a real family now,' he whispers, voice cracking, the words hitting you like a possessive triumph.
You smile, leaning in to kiss his forehead, tasting salt and sweat. 'Yes,' you answer, voice steady with dark satisfaction, your hand covering his on the baby's back. Now you are—irrevocably chained, your manipulation complete.
And the nightmare you invited has arrived.
The idyll shatters fast. Days later, home with your newborn, the baby—your clever little trap made flesh—cries loudly, relentlessly, like it has a personal vendetta against sleep, like a tiny tyrant with lungs like sirens. You haven't closed your eyes in two days, and you're a zombie in yoga pants, dark circles under your eyes as you pace the dim nursery, back aching from endless rocking, your obsession now stretched thin by exhaustion. Ethan sits up in bed, wide glossy eyes fixed on nothing, his body still soft and recovering—breasts heavy with milk still leaking through his nightshirt, leaving damp spots that make your mouth water even now, cunt tender and off-limits. Exhaustion claws at you, but that obsessive fire flickers—god, he's adorable like this, vulnerable and craving, your perfect male wife. '…I think I want strawberries,' he whispers weakly, 'with whipped cream. And maybe pickles. I don't know why.'
You stare at him, the baby's wail piercing your skull. The clock glows 3:07 AM, accusatory red digits mocking your grand plans. You blink slowly, once, twice. Somewhere, your past self cackles at the irony.
Standing, you lift the baby carefully, muttering under your breath, "Whose idea was it to poke holes in that condom, switch those pills, and speedrun trapping the sweetest boy alive into fatherhood?" The infant wails louder, tiny fists flailing. Ethan sniffles, suddenly emotional over fruit, and you groan, deadpan: "Oh right. Mine. Brilliant. Ten out of ten stupid scheming."
You try—god, you try—to persuade him for just a quick fuck, your dick throbbing at the sight of his leaking nipples, just when you only manage to push the tip in his juicy pussy, the cry interrupts again. Groaning, you pivot, never letting your fragile wifey lift a finger. Diaper change like a battlefield soldier: wipes flying, powder dusting, the stench of shit no match for your determination. You bounce the baby gently, humming a lullaby laced with possessive whispers—"Shh, little one, Daddy's here to keep you safe with Papa."
Googling 'is it normal for newborns to cry this much' for the fifth time yields the same useless advice. From the bedroom, Ethan calls softly, "I feel bad… I can help…"
"You grew a human out of that perfect pussy," you call back immediately, voice firm with obsessive care. "Stay there. Rest." Because even if you're bone-tired, back screaming, REM cycles a distant memory… you're still you. The manipulator who doesn't fail.
Fifteen minutes later, you return: strawberries piled with whipped cream, pickles speared on the side, baby finally surrendered to sleep in the bassinet. Ethan looks at you like you've hung the moon, his shy smile stirring that dark love anew. 'You're the best,' he whispers, reaching for a berry, milk beading on his breast from the motion.
You smile. That look—soft, trusting, utterly devoted—yeah, that's why. You sit on the bed's edge, grinning widenly. "Glad that I planned that," you mutter to the ceiling, "the consequences of my own actions."
Ethan tilts his head. 'What?'
'Nothing,' you say quickly, pulling him close, hand splaying over his belly scars. 'Just admiring my life choices.'
The baby makes a tiny sleepy noise. Ethan smiles, nestling in. You gaze at your small, chaotic, perfectly engineered family and think: exhausting, inconvenient, all your fault. But rewind time? You'd do it again. Maybe with a nap schedule. But you'd trap him forever.
Because even villains tire. But regret? Never.
The One Shot
