Hot idea: your pharmacist boyfriend promises to get you plan B after a condom breaks, but he swaps the pill with a look-alike fertility drug.
I lovvvvve a cheeky little drug swap >:3c I also love the idea of this pharmacist boyfriend getting ahead of things and sneaking me remedies so that I don’t really notice my morning sickness or the new aches and pains. He starts encouraging me to eat healthier, both for the baby’s sake and so that when my stomach bloats and flutters inside, he can say that it’s just all the fiber I’m taking in nowadays.
When my belly has grown so big and active that even I, gullible as I am, can no longer believe it’s just gas, I tell my boyfriend I’m gonna take a pregnancy test. He helpfully gets me a box from his job. I distrust the negatives i keep getting, but if I’m as far along as I feel, the only reason the tests would fail are if they’re expired, and when I look at the box, I find they’re well in-date. I don’t think about the fact that my boyfriend opened them in front of me, and how easy it would have been for him to fill the box with expired tests then just pretend like he was breaking the seal for the first time.
When the cramps start, I assume it’s my irregular period finally coming, further supported by my chest feeling tender and puffy. My caring boyfriend pampers me with hot water bottles and little treats that I’m not really hungry for. He tucks me into bed and turns on my favorite show, and I watch, wincing every few minutes at the pain deep inside me. After a few hours I call him over and tell him I’m worried I have an ovarian cyst, but he knows I’m afraid of hospitals, and exploits my fear to convince me to ride the pain out a little longer before we try the emergency room.
When the pressure inside me starts crushing painfully into my spine, towards my perineum, I think maybe I’m just having a bad case of PMS constipation, and I’m glad I didn’t go to the ER and embarrass myself. I’m already on my way to the bathroom when I start to feel the desperate need to push.
A half hour later, I call my boyfriend in, my exhaustion-paled face blotched with overheated red. Humiliated tears mingle with the sweat pouring down my face as I tell him something is wrong, that I think I need to go to the hospital for some kind of bowel problem. His eyes shine with what I perceive as love and concern as he helps me stand from the toilet. I groan as he pulls me up onto bowed legs, and grunt a deep animal noise at the sheer pressure and weight in my pelvis.
Pain seizes me—in my back, my belly, my pelvis, my hips, my inner thighs—and a strained little noise whistles from my throat as all the air goes from my lungs with an involuntary push so powerful that every muscle in my body locks tight. I throw my arms around his neck and press my scrunched face against his shirt, and he holds my arms steady and tells me I’m doing such a good job.
I don’t hear him, because the very last effort of my most recent heaving push turns the dense clenching pain into a burn between my legs. I shriek, then begin to wheeze as my head catches up to my body and I realize all at once that the oppressive feeling inside me is a baby, and the unbelievable fiery sensation is its head settling just inside my pussy lips.
My boyfriend tries fruitlessly to get me to breathe, but I’m still hyperventilating when the next contraction comes. I sob no, that this can’t be happening, I don’t want a baby, as my traitorous body wrings it lower, feeling like it’s tearing my crotch.
I reach a shaky, disbelieving hand around my heaving belly—my big, round, pregnant belly—and squeak in pain as my searching fingers find my cunt bulging horrifically. I whimper despaired whines and half-finished thoughts into my boyfriend’s shirt as I cup the grotesque deformation, my thighs trembling around it, this unwelcome passenger violating the very structure of my body, displacing my bones, threatening to rend my flesh.
I cling to my boyfriend, pitifully rock my hips, and weep as I slowly, slowly push out his big baby. The massive lump its head makes beneath my pussy lips grows larger and larger until finally I feel the flesh begin to spread, winking open around a strip of something hairy and slimy.
I start to sob no again, no, no, no, I don’t want it, I can’t keep pushing, it’s not fair! With his voice endlessly—even suspiciously—patient, my boyfriend asks if I want to push in an easier position. I sob that I don’t want to push, I don’t want a baby!
His warm breath pours over my sweat-drenched head, and he kisses my crown.
“But you are having a baby.”
I wail, voice pitching awkwardly in pain as the head bobs behind my lips with each spasm of my lungs. He runs his big hand up and down my shaking back.
“You’re doing so good, sweet boy,” he murmurs. “Come on. Let me help you get this baby out.”
I’m still sobbing, but with no will of my own, he easily steers me back towards the bedroom. I moan and groan pitifully with the weight hanging shockingly low between my legs. I don’t understand how it’s even still inside me. He doesn’t complain about how slowly I waddle, and helps lower me into a deep squat on some towels on our bedroom floor. It doesn’t occur to me to wonder when he put them there. I’m too busy groaning ruggedly at the pressure, feeling like my hips will pop out of place.
He sits behind me on the bed and loops his hands under my arms, his strong arms crossing over my gasping chest. I cling to his forearms and go limp, finding myself suspended in this impossibly low squat, him supporting me completely.
I realize my eyes are clenched shut and peel them open with difficulty. The world is blurry with the pressure in my head and the sweat stinging my eyes. It takes me a moment to understand what I’m looking at.
When I do, a heavy, mourning groan rises from deep in my belly. In the mirror, I see the round, heavy mass clench with my breathing. And below that, the nightmarish, unreal sight of my cunt protruding ridiculously from my pelvis, dark red, clinging tightly to the head of a baby I don’t want. Towards my puffy asshole, the opening of my cunt has begun to round with the child’s head, making a slim teardrop shape.
Squatting there, I gasp for air and blink through tears at my reflection: a man, scruffy beard, hair thinning a bit at the temples, hairy arms flexing harshly as he clings to his boyfriend. I look so normal, just a guy who the world would never guess has a pussy between his legs. Then I confront the crease where my surgically-flat chest gives way to a bulbous pregnant belly. And below that, a gaping birthing hole. A man stuck in a deep squat, turning purple with each push as his labia slowly, slowly opens.
I never think to question why my boyfriend would situate me here, or why he’s so even-headed and calm as we both watch me push out the head. I don’t notice how keen and thrilled his eyes glitter when I make sharp, pained noises. I don’t catch the hint of delight on the edge of his mouth as I struggle over several contractions to reach the crown, charmed with my pattern of declaring it’s coming out, only to find with the next push that I still had further to stretch.
When I finally reach the crown, I try to scream, but my voice is too spent. He kisses my head and tells me how amazing I am. I pant against his grip on my chest and make noises like a flat harmonica in my throat as I try to master my lungs or my voice. I can’t pull my eyes from the dark oval of the head, reducing my cunt to forced-aside furrows of flesh.
A head is coming out of me. I’m crowning. A baby is coming out of my pussy. I’m giving birth.
After crowning for two agonizing minutes, my body contracts, and I put everything I have into getting this fucking thing out of me. I throw my hips forward and grunt like a Neanderthal, chin hitting my sternum and chest depressing and eyes darkening and hearing fading as I push beyond my limits. I black out for a moment, only to find that my arms have instinctively fallen limply between my legs to catch the baby that I just shoved head and shoulders out of my birth canal.
I wince as I drag its weird little feet out of my pussy. My arms tremble as I hold it before me, staring at it, how it moves in strange jerky motions, how the disgusting blue cord dangles from it, into me. How did I not know this was inside me?
“Oh, she’s beautiful,” my boyfriend says, and ducks down to kiss my cheek. I numbly let him seat me gently on the ground, and blink blankly as he grabs another towel and cleans the baby up until it cries. His brilliant smile makes no sense to me. I stare at him as he peels my sweaty shirt up from my chest, and don’t protest when he helps me cradle the child against my pec. I don’t even have the energy for shock when it latches onto my fattened nipple and apparently gets a few drops of something from my ever-so-slightly swollen chest. Sure. Why not?
While the thing I just pushed out sucks nutrients from my body, I hear myself say, “I guess Plan B isn’t 100 percent effective.”
“Hm?” my boyfriend hums absentmindedly, staring at the baby. It takes him a long time to finally say, “Oh. No, it’s 89 percent effective at most.” That smile lights up his face again. I feel cold. “Lucky for us, huh?”
I look back at the mirror, him fawning over his baby that I had to push out, blood still leaking from my ruined pussy.
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