I am 23, I prefer she/her and wouldn’t object to they/them. I am very happily taken by my wonderful Dom and boyfriend. (updated Dec 2025)
want to support me and my work? find out more information about that here, in the hashtag #commission info below, or shoot me a DM! I would love to discuss it with you!
FAQ:
what are you into?
this is my kink blog to save random things i enjoy, some of my favorite kinks are:
- rapid pregnancy
- pregnancy curses
- rapid weight gain/weight gain transformation
- breeding
- dom/sub play with pregnancy
- oviposition
- hucow transformation
- some inflation
- consensual NonCon
- stuffing/feedism
- weight gain (please don’t write about me being fattened, i’m not as into anymore, thank you!!)
im into being bred, impregnated, and pampered, please feel free to tag me in your fics that include anything above! however, do not reach out to me with any other kinks beside what is listed above.
do you answer your DMs?
not really, I’m very particular about my DMs. A quick question is fine, but for writing you’re better off sending asks, and if I like what you’re asking/writing, I might reach out to you in the future! You’re a lot more likely to get answers from my asks. (mutuals see below) Do not open with flirting or demands or anything you wouldn’t want me to show to my boyfriend and laugh about with him.
do you answer your asks?
yes! I do try to keep up with them but my inspiration is very finicky, so some might slip through the cracks. However, I love answering asks, especially when I get horny, so you’re pretty likely to get even a little something for your troubles! Even just comments and compliments are fine too!
do you RP?
occasionally, but I’m more comfortable reaching out to people than receiving random offers in my DMs. not trying to offend, it’s just my preference! (mutuals see below)
can you write something about _________?
- yes!! send me an ask! I might not respond, or be late to respond, but it's more than likely I'll write a little something that you're asking for.
- commission me! my information revolving that is here (and the #commission info) but commissioning me is the best way to receive a prompt, personalized, and longer piece from me.
what are your hard no’s?
my do not interact (DNI) list is as follows:
- minors
- transphobes/detrans
- rape
- repressed individuals/slut-shamers/kink-shamers
- incest
- scat/piss/vomit/farting
- race play
what about for mutuals?
omg hi mutuals, please feel free to DM or send me asks, I’m much more comfortable interacting with other content creators rather than blank blogs or viewing-only blogs. I also am a big fan of collabs and writing swaps so if you have something you think I could contribute to I would love to hear about it!
🏅 thank you for reading this to the end this is your medal
Oh to have the start of a second trimester belly, just enough that it’s obvious I’m pregnant when naked but just barely still concealed by a big, loose shirt. To have that small, swollen curve at the bottom of my belly, right where my womb is hot and firm. Maybe have some budding, milky tits to match. Both are swollen and hot to the touch, even at this size. I want my burgeoning belly and small, swollen tits to be worshipped. Hands rubbing and caressing, all while my soaked pussy and tdick get stroked and played with— is that too much to ask?
I loved your story about the secret feedee/unknowing feeder coworkers!! so cute!!
will you write something about a dominant (preferably male) feeding his submissive (preferably female) as a way of putting her in subspace, comforting her. maybe she has a high stress job, and so she doesn’t even notice as those tight pencil skirts start to get even tighter….
i've been trying to figure out which post you mean. this one?? either way, thank you.
i'm not great with bdsm stuff (not really into it, at least not when it comes to explicitly labelled stuff), so sorry if this isn't what you were looking for.
i imagine out of the two, she's the one with the higher paycheck. she's an overachiever, forgets to take care of herself in favor of working hard, so he makes her promise to never bring work home with her. ot promotes balance; if she needs to catch up on stuff, she stays at the office after-hours.
he picks her up on one of these later nights. the proverbial timer starts.
she gets in. thighs spread, the ball of her starter belly presses against her high-waisted pencil skirt. he hands her a weed pen. she takes a deep drag, moans on the exhale.
he remembers how thin and leggy she was when they met. prioritizing work over food. reluctant to smoke anything other than the super-length menthols she used to relieve stress. she hasn't touched those in over a year. he's doing this for her health, when you think about it.
she has the car ride to air out any grievances. once they reach the drive, the window is officially closed. she's snacked on the chips and chocolate on the way, finished both family-sized bags in her high. as he helps her out of the car like a gentleman, her brain is threaded into silk from a few hits.
he leaves her to order when she's rife with munchies. he helps her put her feet up with some tv, takes her blazer and hangs it on the door.
he feeds her under the guise of treating her after a long day. fingers her, enters her, whatever the night calls for.
the side-zipper on her skirt splits open. she's so unwound that she barely acknowledges it until he says, "oh, babygirl, look at that." she gives a negatory moan. nothing more.
these habits continue. the need for the pen lessens as he trains her eyes to glaze over at the first taste of fast food. that dome of a belly continues to grow. she starts to prioritize lunch more; the other workers at the office notice this as she sucks vampirically on a milkshake, nursing a big taut ball of a belly, straining in her skirt. thighs wearing her stockings thin. breasts separating the buttons of her shirt.
she's asked a few times if she's pregnant. she's confused, says no.
beyond this, when she leaves work, she forgets to worry or recognize the weight she's put on. the focus seems to go right to her stomach, always hard with food. she waddles to the car these days after a quick trip down the elevator. work is still stressful. as she makes her way through two bacon cheeseburgers, fries, and a large coke, she complains about workplace stresses. complains that the seatbelt is digging in so her boyfriend tells her to just sit on it and put the top part over her chest.
her desk chair is getting tight and she doesn't know why. she's hungry and can't get much done which is why she ends up working later. her breasts are sore. her bras don't fit right, the underwire always tugging over the bottom of her breasts.
she thinks the kitten heels she wears to work are affecting her ability to climb stairs, so she starts wearing flats.
her boyfriend makes sure that the moment she starts feeling full, that's when that dumb, submissive state sets in. she's pliant and happy. he massages that large dome of a belly. she's padding out elsewhere, of course, but that belly is something else. she looks overweight and pregnant with twins. her breasts spill out of her bra, granting her boyfriend teasing rights.
"pretty slut," he tells her. "walking around like this."
pencil skirts have become too much of a hindrance to keep up with her fattening ass, widening hips (her boyfriend convinces her it's just shitty design, cheap product), so she replaces them with stretchier, shorter shirts. she doesn't need to size up as much, until they're stretched so far that they shorten enough to flash panties, no matter how many times she pulls down.
her panties don't get sized up prequently enough, much like her bras, so they always get overwhelmed by the embonpoint of her ass and shrink into thongs.
thighs chafe during the day now. she can't separate them in her upsized office chair. she balances her keyboard on her belly when she's too full to lean in. her work ethic doesn't falter much beyond the stress, becuse her boyfriend is always there to remind her what life really is about.
good food. a little weed. sex. finding that happy little place in your mind where the struggles of the real world can't get in.
It's hard to explain how addictive it is to be pregnant. It's the way you gain weight in your hips and thighs, how the breasts grow heavy and the belly... The feeling of growing rounder, the heaviness of your womb, feeling its fullness constantly.
How the hormones drive you crazy for more dick, desperate to feel someone stretching your pussy as your tits, filled with milk, painfully bouce with each thrust.
How you become unrecognizable as the months go by, your body getting rounder and heavier and fatter to accommodate the growing offspring within...
I had promised myself that I wouldn’t let this pregnancy change me. Not the strong, slim body I’d worked so hard for and not my coveted schedule of hard work and interesting hobbies. I would find a way to maintain my life and my body, and I would not alter what makes me, me.
The first thing I let go were my clothes.
Shortly after I’d decided to continue with my pregnancy, I started to lose the extra room in my tops. My tender chest began to bloat and then continue with growing over the first month. With the doubling of my cup size came the halving of my wardrobe choices.
This trickled down my body, my hips expanding outwards and my thighs thickening. It took maybe two months for me to give up my fight against the numbers on my scale, and give my body to the process of growing this child.
By the end of the first trimester I could no longer fit into my loosest pair of jeans, and my sweatpants were beginning to feel tight around my ass and thighs like leggings. Looking at myself in the mirror, I didn’t look pregnant yet but the pregnancy was taking its toll. The smallest amount of fat was beginning to collect around my waist, but the majority was filling out my lower body in preparation for carrying this baby for the next 6 or so months.
The next few weeks saw the beginning of this growth. My little paunch began growing outwards, and each day I imagined that my hips had widened a little more. I was losing my slim and athletic silhouette inch by inch.
It felt like I had blinked and my belly had grown to fill both my hands. And again, two weeks later, beyond even that. At the doctor I found out why, that I had two babies growing in me, changing me into a better carrier. The twins grew rapidly, so that my belly edged into my lap before the third trimester even started.
The morning I got up and failed to stand at first was when I decided to halt my hobbies. How could I attend any kind of athletic event when even getting up was a challenge?
I had to rock myself forward and back a few times before I had the momentum to push myself up and out of bed. I fell back thoughtlessly into a stance with my belly tilted up, one hand supporting it from below and the other behind my back. I took a deep breath and knew that this was just a part of carrying a child, and I would not let this take away my pre-pregnancy life for any longer than was necessary.
My pregnant belly grew despite my tenuous grip on independence. As month eight approached it grew beyond “large” and into the realm of “enormous”. I tried to keep as active as possible, going on outings outside to keep up my cardiovascular fitness. I would hardly make it to the end of my driveway before I was breathing heavily, both arms propping up the giant mound of my belly.
Wearing my loosest fitting long sleeve shirt in the cool weather did very little to protect the skin of my mid-drift, as the fabric crept up to rest above my belly as I moved haltingly forwards. Each step became less of a stride and more of a stagger as a struggled to make my way around the block. I waddled to the best of my ability, one foot swinging with my large hips and enormous mass followed by another halting step.
Even with my legs spread wide by my bare stomach I could feel my thickened inner thighs rub against each other.
The harshness of each step as I waddled farther from my home emphasized the baby weight I’d been gaining in my body. My ass jolted and shook with each ponderous step.
‘How pregnant I must look right now’ I mused to myself, before my attention was drawn entirely to the strain in my back. I was struggling to get in enough air with the growing mass of my womb pressing up into my lungs. My arms, back, and legs ached with the fight to carry the weight jutting out in front of me and dragging me down. I had to turn back early from that walk.
The ninth month had me nearly on bed rest. My rocking back and forth to leave bed was no longer working as well, as my enormous belly rested entirely along the tops of my legs, out to my knees, and did not allow my upper body further forwards. I had to shimmy from side to side until I rested on the edge of my bed before pressing the weight of my heavy body up and off of the bed.
Waddling from there to the kitchen was another long task. I frequently had to rest with a hand thrown up against the wall, breathing hard, my other hand desperately trying to keep my full womb from dragging me down to the floor.
My hips and waist had outgrown my table armchairs, and so to eat I had to balance my breakfast plate on top of my big belly. One day, when I had made the mistake of grazing my ever-growing chest with the plate as I set it down, I quickly felt a wetness saturate the front of my shirt. I had begun lactating, and my milk was soaking through the fabric of my top.
I sat there feeling miserable, I was double what I weighed before and my body was enormously grown into a blimp. My hips had widened to accommodate the load and were more than ready to bear children. Thick fatty padding covered my ass, hips, and waist. My enormous chest was full to bursting with creamy milk, now dripping down my side.
And more than all that, my enormous belly dominated my body. It was laughably huge and seemed heavier than it should be. It edged out over my knees, having grown larger and longer than my thighs before bulging out to the sides, packed full with babies.
I felt like a pregnant cow, hardly fit to stand out in the field, just waiting to give birth. I certainly was producing milk like one. Thoughts like these were becoming more common with more situations like this. Each one sent a new electric feeling through me that I wasn’t sure I liked.
‘I’ve blown up like a blimp’
‘I can hardly move with this huge belly’
‘I’ve been thoroughly bred’
Each of these thoughts added to a heat in my center, and I could feel myself growing wetter.
‘I can’t see my lower body’
‘I’m growing these babies so well’
‘I wonder if I will be bigger next time’
The last thought gave me pause. Next time? Enjoying this was one thing but planning to be bred again was not something that I thought I wanted. The unending growth and the loss of mobility were things I hated. The more I thought about it the more turned on I became.
To be like this, over and over again? To grow and grow without end, having as many babies as I could? My body expanding outwards even more, belly crowded with two, three, even four babies at a time?
I felt my hips involuntarily grind up against the weight of my huge belly.
Maybe that was a future I could get used to. It almost seemed inevitable now.
I love imagining what it would be like to start the “pregnant waddle”. The first few days where my hips shift further back, my belly is angled up, and my legs are forced to bow outwards. The pressure increase on my hips with every step. I imagine being paraded around by a partner, my hands both supporting my aching back with my full belly thrust forward for everyone to see. So obviously bred full of baby and unable to move around like I used to. People might even stare, trying to figure out how long it has been since my partner bred me, fucked a baby into me, knocked me up. What they don’t know is that I’m growing multiples, and have a long way to go before I’m done growing.
"Do you feel that?" I ask, rubbing the growing swell of your belly. "They're kicking." I'm grinning, feeling the little thumps and pushes as they get stronger. You're getting really big, now. You can feel the increasing weight of my babies pulling on your body, making you heavier and more pregnant by the second. Your belly button is an obvious outie, jutting out far on the front of your overdue looking womb. ((hope you enjoy this!))
They always seem to move more when you touch me, I'm caught between groaning, at the pressure as they push against the already taut skin of my bloated belly and sighing, to relax further into your comforting touch.
Everything is tight and sore at this stage, my breasts have ballooned in size as they've filled with milk, as my hips grow wider and wider, desperately trying to grow fast enough to keep with the expansion of my truly massive womb. I'm straining from the scale of it all, so heavy and weighed down by your babies, that I can barely do anything but think about how huge I've become.
I try to shift, to find some position where I don't feel like I'm about to pop, but the movement merely causes them to start squirming again. "I'm so heavy" I cry staring woefully down at the great swell of my bump, wincing at the pressure from their kicks, my skin tight, shiny and covered in stretch marks from how fast and large I've swollen.
I'm growing rounder and rounder day by day helpless to stop to the growth.
I’m nowhere near done yet but I’m getting so, so heavy. I feel like an overripe fruit about to burst. I’m plumping up so fast I can’t contain my belly in any of my tight maternity dresses, let alone anything I used to wear before I got pregnant. I get winded to easily to do any work, my waddle slows me down so much that I’m better off staying off my feet entirely, which leaves me with no choice but to just keep swelling until I pop. Every morning I wake up thinking I can’t grow any rounder than I already am, only to wake up plumper and fuller the next morning. It doesn’t matter how heavy I feel or how much I want to move around or fit in my clothes, I have no choice but to keep growing.
I think the hottest part about pregnancy is how much of a mark it leaves on your body. Your hip bones literally widen to make it easier to push a baby through, you gain a pretty substantial ammount of weight all around your hips and thighs and ass. Your belly rounding out enough it is a struggle to even walk. You are optimized to just sit there & grow a child, Your breasts aching & swelling...
You don't even have to want it really. The female body is optimized for childbirth, and not for any of your actual wants/desires. A random mans sperm has more agency over your body then you do. Even if you hate every part there is nothing you can do to stop it after a certain point. You have to watch yourself swell up day by day. Watching as none of your pants button. How things start to strain around your chest. How everything keeps riding up and exposing your tummy. How your walk gradually turns to a waddle. Having to hold your hands on your back, moaning & panting W/ exertion at pretty simple tasks.
There is no way you come out of it W/o looking like a mother, once your body develops the extra ducts in your chest it becomes really simple to reactivate your ability to lactate after already being pregnant once. Your hips so much wider then before. The female body yearns for the cycle of being pregnant again and again
I’m pinned under you, legs shoved wide, wrists trapped above my head. You’re so much bigger, so much stronger, and I’m thrashing, pleading with my whole body not to let you finish inside. I keep saying no, no, please pull out, I don’t want a baby, I can’t be a mom yet, Im 19, I’m too young, but you don’t listen. You just keep slamming in deeper until your hips lock against mine and I feel it. the hot, thick pulse of you cumming, flooding me, filling me up even while I’m crying and begging you to stop.
You stay buried inside after, cock still twitching, plugging every drop in so it has no choice but to take. I can feel it already, that heavy, warm weight settling low in my belly like it’s claiming me from the inside out. You finally pull out slow, and I watch thick white leak from my sore hole, but most of it stays trapped. I’m ruined already and it’s only the first time.
My tits hurt first. They were D cups, cute in tight tops with a push-up bra. Now they swell fast, ballooning several cup sizes bigger, growing impossibly full and round, skin taut and firm. They hang heavy on my chest, straining every bra and top I own until i can’t even get them on anymore. The weight pulls at me constantly, making them bounce and jiggle with every step. My nipples darken and thicken, spreading wide and prominent, stiff and sensitive. I cup them and they throb, sloshing with milk I didn’t ask for, so engorged they ache for relief. They’re massive now, obscene and impossible to ignore. I stare in the mirror and hate how they hang, how none of my shirts or bras fit, how everyone can tell just by looking that I’ve been bred.
My hips crack and widen next. I feel the bones shifting, spreading, making room for the baby you forced into me. My ass gets fatter, rounder, thighs thickening until my jeans won’t button anymore. I waddle a little already and I’m only a few weeks in. My center of gravity is fucked. I look like I was built to push your kid out.
My pussy is ruined. Your cock stretched it so wide it doesn’t snap back. The lips stay puffy and loose, gaping a little even when I’m empty. It’s always wet now, slick dripping down my inner thighs no matter what I do. I clench around nothing and it aches, throbs, remembers exactly how your cock split me open. I’m horny all the time, leaking, desperate, clit swollen and sensitive. I rub myself raw trying to make it quiet but it only gets worse.
Pregnancy brain hits hard. My thoughts feel slow like I’m underwater. I forget words mid-sentence, lose my keys five times a day, stare at nothing for minutes. All I can focus on is the ache between my legs and the weight in my tits. My mind keeps looping back to that night, replaying how full you made me, how good it felt even when I hated it. I get dumber every week, foggy and scatterbrained, a ditzy knocked up teen who can’t string thoughts together without thinking about cock.
I walk around town and people stare. They see the swollen belly starting to show, the heavy leaking tits, the way I press my thighs together to stop the constant leaking. All they see is a dumb knocked up slut who let some guy pump a baby into her. I can’t hide it. I’m just a milky, cock-hungry mess now, waddling and leaking and aching to be used again, and there’s nothing I can do to take it back.
Something I’ve been thinking about lately is how much I crave the heaviness of pregnancy. Not only would you have filled me up so good that my belly arches forward in front of me, an enormous rounding curve of fully pregnant belly leading the way when I waddle, but it will feel so heavy.
I’ll arch my back, hand firmly placed on my lower spine, just to try and carry it but the weight of the huge belly you’ve given me will just sink farther and farther down into my hips; the oblong shape of the belly will keep pulling me forward and down. I won’t be able to waddle anywhere without letting out desperate little grunts, each step forward a monumental effort to manage the huge load you’ve given me to haul around.
My hands will restlessly shift from the top of the rounded curve to my back, as I shift my weight from side to side, and then desperately try to hold up some of the weight from the bottom of my belly. But nothing I do provides relief for long, especially as my belly hangs low on my hips the farther along I get in this pregnancy, overdue by days….so I continue to restlessly moan as I try to move anywhere.
If you saw me like this when you came home…panting as I slowly waddled towards the kitchen, heavy belly torpedoed and arched in front of me…breasts resting full and milky on the long shelf of my belly…my gait impossibly wide and hands roaming all over my body, desperately seeking relief….what would your reaction be?
When I knock a girl up - especially if it took some persuasion - I like to take her out to a sex club when she's just starting to show. With a gag in her mouth and a collar around her neck.
There's a real purity to it. I can show her off to a dozen strangers, and the only things that they'll know about her is that she's starting to change, and that it was my decision. The first time she's seen as a pregnant woman - when people let their eyes linger on her belly, and understand - they don't see her as a happy little mother-to-be: they see her as my bred bitch.
I won't let anyone else fuck her; I'm too possessive for that. But I'll let them run their hands over her bare belly, and tell them how far along she is. When I fuck her, afterwards - on her hands and knees, in front of all of them - I want them to be thinking about how much more she has to grow.
I want her to meet the eyes of people in the crowd as I use her, and see lust or envy or fear or disdain in them - and know that, no matter what they're feeling, they're all seeing the same thing: a tame little babymaker with her future set out for her.
easily one of my favorite parts of pregnancy in my head is the discomfort of it. not the pain, not even the labor. just the constant reminder that my body is growing beyond my control, forced to it’s limits, as my tits gorge with milk, as my bones warp and shift, as my skin is pushed to its limit. as getting up, walking around gets harder. as I get more tired, more lethargic. and it’s all because of something I didn’t even want in the first place
Beautiful, isn't it? Pregnancy is completely natural, it's an experience shared by the vast majority of human women who ever lived through their fertile years - and for most girls, it's the hardest thing their bodies will ever do.
Evolution doesn't care about pregnancy being difficult and uncomfortable, because you don't have to choose to get pregnant - you can just be clueless, or careless, or scared, or weak - and once it happens, there's no turning back. You can't just say "this is a bit much, I'm out" if it's too hard for you. You have to have a baby, or literally die trying.
That's what makes sex so perfectly unfair. The biological reason it's so much fun for men is because we make the choices and we don't bear the consequences. Because the more sex we have, and the more women we have it with, the more our genes spread - and the aching hips, and sore breasts, and stretching skin, and weary waddling under heavy bellies, are always someone else's problem. Every time some bro high-fives his buddy for getting laid with some random chick, that's the evolutionary undercurrent: she might grow your baby, and you don't have to care.
thank you ao3 for being an archive and not an algorithm. thank you for letting me like things without consequences, thank you for being free with no ads, thank you for having lawyers to defend our freedom of speech. thank you tag wranglers. thank you to all authors and thank you ao3
I want to be pregnant. I want to wake up knowing that I have a little piece of my partner hidden away inside of me, safe and warm. I want him to keep an eye on me as life goes on, mostly as usual, looking for any signs or symptoms that stay just between the two of us.
He'd cup my breasts differently, feeling for the weight and growth that can show up long before the belly does. Maybe he'd stroke over my stomach, practicing for when it's curved and itchy and stretched.
And then, when it does start to show, I want the whole thing. The physical changes that come with pregnancy are amazing (I mean, there's several thousand pregnancy and breeding blogs on tumblr alone), but it's also just intimate.
He'd hear my breathing change as the baby starts pushing my lungs aside to make room for itself. He'd see me slowing down, having to ask for help, being vulnerable. He'd watch me struggle to roll out of bed, or listen to me complain about heartburn, all the while watching what his baby was doing to me.
There's some maelstrom of intimacy and vulnerability and biological primacy that can only be tapped into with pregnancy, and I think that's what I want. I want him to slow his steps to match mine when I start to waddle. I want him to check in on me during the day while he's at work. I want him to hold warm compresses on my overfilled breasts, and smooch my stomach, and to flirt with me just as much as he does now. I want to feel my body morph out of my control and into his, because he did that. He put a baby into me, and he's going to be there to help get it back out.
