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I had no idea I was so close to my due date. Months of bed rest caused me to lose any concept of time. All I could keep track of was my belly’s incessant growth; after a certain point even that proved pointless once I no longer saw how far it pushed past my lap.
I woke up to your gentle touch. You were brushing my hair back with your fingertips. I opened my eyes in a daze and watched your hand move down my gargantuan belly. You rubbed the underside of my abdomen.
Rolls of fat pulled at my sides to support my drum-tight belly. My thighs squished together underneath its heft. My jaw was soft. My cheeks were flushed pink and chubby. I drew in a breath from my compressed lungs and exhaled a broken moan. It was all I could do anymore—groan, cry, wheeze.
“Shhh,” you whispered, digging your fingers into my stomach. A baby kicked in response. My stomach lurched with it, which sent my sides jiggling.
I grunted. “Daddy.”
You did it again. I grit my teeth. Another baby kicked. Then another. Another.
“Oooh.” I lifted my hands to my stomach. I could only touch my sides. I was too big too reach the middle of my belly. I tried following every kick I could reach, but the babies were too fast and too numerous for me to quell them all.
Eventually I let my hands rest on the crest of my stomach. I closed my eyes, lips parted, brow furrowed, as I rode out the frenzy inside of me. I whimpered and gasped with every kick. My skin was stretched so thin. My organs were compressed and packed away around my womb. I felt sick. I could hardly breathe.
A wet spot bloomed underneath me. “Oh,” I said, blinking my eyes open. I shifted, too heavy and big to move away from my own mess. I used to wear diapers; they were discarded the same time I outgrew even the largest maternity clothes.
You hummed. “Another accident?”
“It was the kicking.” I winced, grabbing my belly again. “Oh, they won’t stop.”
“They’re pretty active today,” you commented.
You helped sit me up and swung my legs off the bed. I slung my arm under my belly and held onto the railing of my bed. My thighs spread apart and the underside of my stomach came to rest on the mattress.
Chest heaving, already dripping with seat, I eyed the specialized wheelchair at the side of my bed with trepidation. You pulled it over and bent down, supporting my back and belly, before forcing me upright, my feet planted flat on the ground. My ankles and knees blazed in protest and my spine spasmed.
I collapsed into the wheelchair and leaned back, panting. The babies were still kicking. My stomach seized up. My insides felt like they were being turned inside out. Bile rushed up my esophagus. I burbled a sickly gag. Suddenly you were pressing a bowl into my hands. I dropped my chin to my chest and spit up clear saliva. Another kick. I burped again, louder—something thick filled my throat.
I vomited in between acidic hiccups. Sweat ran down my face, into my eyes. I felt it on my shoulders and sides and belly. My nose burned. More sick came up. My throat was a column of fire. The babies were kicking, kicking, kicking. My belly sat on my lap, making my hips creak, flattening my pelvis like an anvil. It sloped out and downward, past my thighs, toward my knees, into a tapered torpedo.
“That’s it,” you said. I was dimly aware of you patting my back.
Another burst of wetness from between my legs. The smell of piss doubled. Puke and saliva dripped down my chin. Snot flowed from my nose across my upper lip. You curled your fingers into my hair, pulled my head back, examined the light glittering off my spit and sick and snot. I looked back at you, eyes half-lidded; through it all a familiar warmth coiled inside of me.
“Daddy,” I breathed.
You lit up with approval, grinning soft. “Let’s clean you up.”
You wheeled me into the bathroom, transferred me into the plastic chair sitting in the shower. You tugged off your shirt and pulled back your hair and stepped in after me, wearing your sports bra and bike shorts. Your arms and abs and thighs and calves were lined with muscle beneath a fleshy layer of softness. You had to be strong enough to move me when I could not move myself.
The water turned on. I gasped. It sprayed down my shoulders, my belly. You lathered a sponge and set to scrubbing. My arms, my back, my chest. You pressed in between the rolls of fat layered on my sides. You circled soap into my belly, my hips. You lifted my stomach and washed the soft, flat tops of my thighs.
I keened. My hips twisted. I couldn’t arch my back, so I dug my shoulders into my chair. You pressed your fingertips between my legs. I was swollen, hot. You thumbed my engorged belly button.
“Daddy,” I said.
You disappeared out of sight, squatting to wash my legs and feet. I couldn’t see you over the top of my belly. Your tongue laid flat against my belly button. I yelped. My skin flashed hot. You stood, washed my hair, rinsed me.
I sat air-drying in the wheelchair while you changed my sheets. Then I was back in bed. I melted into the fresh linen. The mattress molded to my heavy weight. I relaxed into my pillows. I felt clean and soft and warm. Midday light spilled in from the window. I let my eyes fall shut as you leaned down to kiss my forehead.
It was lunchtime when I opened my eyes again. You already had the tray next to my bed set. You swung it over my chest upon seeing I was awake.
A hearty homemade meal and dessert. I didn’t think about how fat I already was when I opened my mouth. I simply swallowed the forkfuls of food you offered. A long time ago I struggled with such feedings. Not anymore. I cleared one plate and there you were with the next. Sips of water between bites. You wiped food off my cheeks with your thumb and made me lick it clean.
There was a stack of plates by the time we were done. I didn’t know how many. My eyes were heavy. I felt sedated. Drool dribbled down my chin, out of the corner of my mouth. I looked disgusting. I had no idea.
“Nap time,” you announced, and turned me onto my side.
My legs opened. You bent my first leg up, much as you could around my belly. It was enough. I sighed contentedly as you pressed your fingers inside of me. I fell asleep to the rhythm of you fisting me. The penetration was decidedly foreign, separated from everything else inside of me. I felt it through my belly, my insides, my womb. Your fist felt big. A baby, I knew, would be bigger.
I wasn’t awake to see the bloody discharge on your hand when you pulled out. Your eyes dilated at the sight. You studied my belly. It tightened imperceptibly, then relaxed; what I had taken for deep, inner kicks had been contractions: I was in early labor, too fat and stupefied to notice.
I woke up and clenched around nothing and lifted my head. “Daddy?”
You rounded the doorway, changed into a fresh outfit with makeup on. “Sit up, baby.”
I obeyed, eyeing the clothes thrown over your arm. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing,” you said. “I thought we’d go for a walk.”
“Outside?”
“Of course, where else?”
I hadn’t left our home in months. “But—”
“Shhh.” You sat down next to me. “Lift up your arms.”
You pulled a shirt over my head. I recognized it as one of the maternity shirts I wore ages ago. It stretched over my chest and shoulders and stopped short at the crest of my belly.
I scrunched my nose. I didn’t like the feeling of fabric against my skin. I hadn’t worn clothes in so long. I whined and began to wiggle. You squeezed my wrists. Hard enough it hurt. I closed my eyes tight.
“We’re going for a walk,” you demanded.
I nodded.
You forewent underwear, instead pulling a pair of shorts over my thighs. My feet were so swollen I could only wear flip flops. I looked bigger than when I was naked, spilling out of my ill-fitting clothes like a cow, sitting grumpily in my wheelchair.
I squinted as you pushed me outside. The sunlight was oddly fuzzy, no longer immaterial. It wrapped around my belly like a blanket. The babies kicked, hard. I thought because I wasn’t in bed.
I put my hands on my stomach, protective, conscious of how exposed I was. I patted it once, twice; it was firm, then not—I smoothed my palm over the spot.
“Daddy,” I moaned. “I wanna go back. It hurts.”
“It’s okay if it hurts,” you told me.
I didn’t understand. I didn’t have the energy to ask questions. Not when you first knocked me up, and certainly not now.
We proceeded down the street. Rows of terraced houses rose up around us. The pavement jostled my wheelchair.
You turned right around the bend in the road. The sound of traffic increased as we neared an upcoming intersection. Suddenly we were at a crossing. Storefronts on either side of us. Someone walked past us, talking on the phone, too preoccupied to give a passing glance.
A car slowed to turn down the way we came; my eyes burned with tears as the driver took in my form. I circled my arms tighter around my belly as if I could hide it from view.
Your hand fell on my shoulder like an anchor. I exhaled, unaware I’d been holding my breath. The car completed its turn and you crossed the road.
It was a pretty day out after all. Greenery in full bloom. Birds chirping. Bright sunlight. Strangers, both on foot and in cars, streamed past. Half stared with their mouths agape; others instantly looked away. A select few stared not with derision or disgust but with something like desire.
A kick brought my attention to my belly. I stretched my t-shirt over its upper curve. Another kick brought a tightening sensation, which could’ve been anything. I passed it off with a grimace that turned into a frown when the pain didn’t go away. It ratcheted tighter and tighter—then all of a sudden released.
“Oof!” I gasped.
“Alright?” you asked.
I swallowed. “Yeah, just. Uncomfy.”
You made an inquisitive noise. “We should get you on your feet.”
“What?” I blinked and you were in front of me, pulling me up out of my wheelchair. I gripped your elbows. “Daddy, no—please—”
“Yes,” you said. “Come on, baby.”
I clung to you, my face pressed against your chest, my belly between us. My legs quivered. My hips threatened to split in two. I was standing, standing on my swollen feet. My back bowed dramatically.
“Ohh,” I whined. “Oh, ohhh.”
You gathered me against your side. I wrapped my arms around your waist. You had one arm supporting my lower back and held my belly up off my hips with your other hand. “That’s it,” you encouraged. “One step, baby. Take a step.”
I was breathing so hard spit sprayed from between my gritted teeth. I couldn’t lift my feet. They were glued to the ground by my insurmountable weight. Heavy with fat, fat with babies.
Finally I lifted my foot up. I swayed against you and put it down. Then my other foot. Left, right. I was walking.
My hips moved as if torqued by some massive mechanical force. My pelvic bones ground against each other. I moaned with every step. “Ohhh, hah, ah, ooh.”
My shorts dug into my thighs, my ass; the elastic waistband cut into my hips and abdomen. My shirt bunched up uselessly at my sternum, my belly on full display, sweat percolating at my armpits, turning the fabric black. My hair fell across my eyes. I kept my head down. My belly was so big. I couldn’t see past it. I couldn’t see anything but my skin stretched and marked purple and red. I heard people beginning to murmur around us. People were watching. Watching me fight with every step. Watching how my womb hung to my knees, how it swayed full of amniotic fluid, how my skin bulged all over.
My belly thumped with a kick. The babies weren’t used to their vessel moving on its own accord. They squirmed, distraught. It felt like they were rolling on top of one another. My entire stomach tightened in a deformed seizure.
I stopped. My body couldn’t take it. I let go of you and put both arms around my belly. My spine caught on fire. My pelvis burned. My legs bowed out. I felt the pavement against my knees before I realized I’d dropped to the ground. My belly sat between my thighs flat on the pavement. It was that big, curving out in front of me.
I sat there on my knees, panting, moaning, furiously rubbing my belly. “Something’s wrong, daddy. We need to go back home—”
You knelt next to me. “Shhh. It’s too late, baby.”
“Too late for what? What’s happening?”
You rubbed my back. I felt people staring. I looked up and saw strangers all around us. I was attracting a crowd. People were circling me, pulling out their phones, taking videos and pictures. My vision blurred. Hot tears rushed down my face.
“Daddy,” I sobbed.
You sat behind me and pulled me back against your chest. Showing me off. People began murmuring, speaking amongst themselves. Someone wondered aloud whether anybody should call an ambulance; no one did. The crowd pressed closer. I uselessly kicked my legs, trying to keep them away, trying to escape my predicament.
“Ahh!”
I screamed and clutched my belly. The pain was worse than ever. I started hyperventilating.
“Daddy, daddy, daddy—ahhhh—”
Your voice in my ear, hushed and hot: “What is it, baby?”
“M’ gonna—gonna—” Something built up inside me. Pressure. Heat. Pain. I wanted it out. It was coming, fast. I couldn’t stop it. I started leaking between my legs, staining my shorts. “Daddy, I have to potty!”
“Then go potty, baby,” you murmured.
I shook my head. “I can’t, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can.”
I clenched my teeth, pressed back against you, curled my legs up, and—
“Ohhhhhhhhh!”
Like a valve released, liquid burst out of me. I felt it drench my shorts, dirty the underside of my belly. The crowed shuffled backwards as it splashed their shoes.
“Good boy,” you praised. “Good, good boy.”
My guts twisted. I grabbed my belly. It lost its smooth, convex silhouette and took on a lumpier shape, squeezing itself between my hands.
The pressure didn’t let up. Something dropped inside of me. “Ooooooh,” I whined, spreading my legs impossibly wider, wiggling my burning hips. “Oooh. Ohh. Ohh, god.” I grabbed at your thighs and tried lifting myself up on shaking arms. My ass rose from the ground, but my belly stayed—too heavy and big. I twisted my back, trying to bend over, to escape, to move positions—
You sat up on your knees and snatched my waist and forced me to roll forwards. I shrieked, landing on all fours; the added pressure on my belly multiplied my pain, but it took weight off my back and hips.
I spread my legs wide, my knees digging into the hard ground; liquid kept gushing out of me, into your lap, onto the pavement, down my thighs, down the underside of my belly. So many babies, so much amniotic fluid.
My elbows hurt. My shoulders shook. I needed something to rest my upper half on. I looked up at the crowd of people watching, my mouth agape, too ashamed and terrified to ask for help. No one stepped forward. I watched someone shove their hand down their pants.
“D-daddy, they’re watching me.”
You hummed, palming my fat ass, feeling up my thick sides. “They are, aren’t they?”
My belly tightened—fluid gushed out of me—the weight within me inched downward. I pressed my hands into the ground and pushed up and screamed. It was coming, coming, coming—a ball of molten metal eking out of my womb—
I was shocked to silence when cold air hit my damp ass. You’d ripped my shorts off and spread my thighs apart. I was dripping wet. I felt your thumbs spread me open. I was so tight, swollen, cramping. My insides chafed against the finger you inserted.
“Oh, baby,” you breathed. “You’re so hot. So tight. I can feel you—squeezing...”
I shook my head. “I don’t like it, daddy, I don’t like it.”
You put in another finger and scissored me open, forced my contracting insides apart. I was puffy and pink and leaking, throbbing against the spread. You began fucking me with your fingers, in and out, testing the depth of my opening, feeling how the swelling shortened the length of my canal.
I was shaking on weakened arms. My elbows gave out. I put my forehead on the ground and let all my weight rest on my belly. My hips angled upward; my pelvic floor shifted. Your fingers probed deeper, farther. You added a third. You spread me open.
The descending pressure from my belly quickened. I surrendered to my body, to your fucking. Panting, wheezing, drooling against the hard ground. My stomach contracted. My insides squeezed. You kept fucking me, curling your fingers, spreading them.
Something sharp popped inside. You pulled your fingers out. I smelled blood. You wiped it off on my ass. It dripped hot and burning out of my hole, down my thigh. A trickle of red. My head pounded. I closed my eyes. My skull felt fuzzy.
Suddenly I was pulled upright. I opened my eyes, dizzy, beset with vertigo. You had me by my hair. I stared at the crowd of people before us, eyes half-closed, lips half-parted, moaning weakly. My insides fluttered. Slick, hot blood and fluid dripped down my legs with every pulse of my insides, every squeeze in my belly.
“It’s coming, baby,” you warned.
“Yes,” I whispered.
You dropped my head. I fell on my back with a grunt and saw stars. My belly was crushing me. I couldn’t breathe. My hips widened. I bent my legs up and tried spreading them open but I was too big. I gasped for air. My belly squeezed, squeezed, squeezed—
“Push,” you ordered.
I shook my head. “I can’t—I can’t breathe—”
“Push!”
“I can’t—”
You rounded my side and forced my legs up and apart. My back scraped across the hard ground. My thighs framed my shuddering belly. The stretch widened my hips, making room for that hot weight inside of me to drop down yet again. It traveled like lava inside of me, burning me up from the inside out. My belly churned and gurgled and cramped and twisted. Bile rose up my throat. My body forced me to spit it up, lest I choke; translucent phlegm bubbled past my lips and ran down my jaw. I gasped and turned my head. Puke weakly surged out of my mouth and spilled across my face, across the ground, wetting the hair that fell over my features.
I felt like I was going to die if I stayed on my back. I twisted my shoulders, slapped my palms flat on the ground. My belly remained resolute, the quivering boulder it was. I tried rising above it despite the sharp pull at my spine. I felt your palms along my sides. You seemed to understand, helping to roll me around so that my stomach sat beneath me once more.
Gravity set in, drawing the pressure down, making my vomit recede from my throat. I breathed easier through the increasing pain. I spread my legs, my bulging, bloody opening facing you, facing the crowd that gathered around us.
“Push,” you said.
This time, I listened.
With a guttural roar, I tossed my head back and gave in to yours and my body’s demand. The awful weight dislodged from between my hips and filled my pelvis with dense fire. My belly undulated with the release, not hanging beneath me but large enough to be wedged between myself and the ground.
Spit flew from my lips. I sucked in a deep breath. As the contraction passed, my muscles relaxed, and my voice dropped to quieter grunts and groans. I swayed my hips from side to side, waiting...
“Ngh—!”
Your fingers spread me open again. “You’re dilating. Good boy. Keep at it, baby.”
I nodded. I felt my abdomen bulge outward. The chasm of skin between my navel and pubic bone. My inner channel tightened underneath. “Hoo...ahhh...ohhhhh.” Pressure built up and up. I pressed closer to you, as if you could take away my pain. “Hhhh...daddy...”
“Shhh,” you hushed, scissoring your fingers, testing the strength of the impending contraction. “Listen to your body. Push when you need to.”
Fire like a line of gunpowder shot down my legs. I leaned forward, shelving more weight onto my belly to take some off my lower half. The babies made their discomfort known—their kicks bulged against my thighs, against the ground. I dazedly lifted a hand to pat my belly, only to dig my nails into my skin as another contraction took hold.
“Push,” you said, no doubt watching my insides curl outward, watching the blood run down my legs, feeling my muscles grind against your fingers. I pushed, stopped, pushed again. I pushed till my face grew red, till I saw stars behind my eyes, till the mass inside of me fully entered my canal.
I screamed. It took over me. The terrible, encompassing weight of it. Like an anchor point dragging me down, drowning me. I gasped for air.
“Breathe,” you reminded me.
“Ah, oh, oh, haah, hah,” I chanted.
“Good boy,” you murmured.
A camera flash blazed white across my eyelids. I opened my eyes, suddenly reminded of the audience around us. The pain made me shameless. I felt like an animal thrashing for my life.
“It’s coming,” I wheezed. “It’s coming, daddy.”
“It is,” you affirmed, probing your fingers deeper. “I can tell. Almost here. Keep pushing, lovely.”
I doubled down and pushed. Wait. Breathe. Burn. Bleed. Push!
“Ohh, god,” I moaned.
“Oh, god,” you said. “I can—I can feel it!” You removed your fingers to spread me open. “Oh! Oh, it’s here! Push!”
I rocked forward on my knees and reached between my belly and thigh and palmed the lumpy flesh stretched atop my pubic bone. I pressed down and felt it—the heavy, immutable shape of it. I pushed.
“Daddy,” I begged. “Take it out. Take it out! Please, god, take it out of me.”
“Too tight,” you said, running your fingers along my thin-white labia.
“Ohhhhhhhhh. Ohhh. Ohh.” I swayed my hips again. Push. Sway. Push. Push. Push. “Oh! Oh, oh—”
“That’s it,” you said. “Crowning. Oh, you’re crowning—go on love, a little more—”
“Aggghhhhhh!!!!”
My vision whited out. The head popped out. Blood and viscera gushed down my legs in waves. The shoulders. Oh, god. They were so wide. I pushed then stopped, fearing I was going to tear. I felt your fingers hook around my opening. You pulled me open.
“Push,” you ordered.
“Hhgggg,” I groaned. Vomit raced up my throat again. My belly seized with pressure, with the exertion from the force of my pushing, all my organs compressed and stretched and warped around the payload in my womb. “Agh—!” Puke spluttered past my lips, down my chin, on to the ground. I dropped my head, moaning through the pain, the pushing, my mouth half open and spilling vomit and drool.
I grit my teeth and pushed and didn’t stop. Stars exploded behind my eyelids. A great throbbing agony pulsed between my legs. Wider, wider, wider—oh—then—
You caught the baby in your hands. The umbilical cord snaked out of me, what was once internal made external, tugging at the core of my being from my womb through my gaping insides to your hands. My body spasmed, still throbbing, pulsing, contracting, pushing. Fluid and blood spilled out of my hole. My belly rolled and squirmed underneath me.
One down, and—unbeknownst to me—three to go.
I collapsed on my side, my knees and hands and front of my belly aching. A bystander offered a jacket to wrap the baby in, which you set aside. There was nothing to cut the cord with. I wondered how many would be hanging out of me by the time I was finished. The thought made me woozy. I moaned, My head flooded with fuzzy heat. A cramp cut into my belly. I messily passed the placenta.
“Baby.”
You were at my shoulders, lifting me into your lap. Someone had given you a water bottle. You tipped it over my mouth. I drank greedily. Half of it spilled down my face, washing away vomit and tears and snot. Afterward I pressed my face into your thighs and collected my breath, desperately ignoring the dull ache building in my stomach, and fell into a half-sleep.
I don’t know how much time passed before you roused me awake. I blinked and looked around, expecting everyone to have dispersed, but the crowd was still there, if not bigger, gathered around us in the middle of the walkway.
“We need to move,” you said, and nodded toward a nearby alcove with public seating.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Yes.” You forced me to sit up without fanfare. Pain snagged at my stomach and between my legs. I whimpered miserably. “Come on.”
I was too tired to get up. So I crawled. I crawled across the pavement, my belly dragging on the ground, trailing blood, as you walked behind me carrying our baby, the umbilical threading out of my body like a leash. The crowd followed. Someone had stolen a tablecloth from a cafe down the way and laid it out on the cobblestone. You positioned me so that I was sitting reclined on the white linen, my back against the brick wall.
Someone else brought a pack of bottled water and rags. Others offered their own form of charity, too: ibuprofen (I took four), a grocery tote of fruit and snacks (you hand fed me orange slices), a thin towel for the sake of my own chastity (you spread it across my open legs), flowers (picked from the grassy knoll across the street), scissors and rubbing alcohol (you finally cut and disposed of the cord).
Still no mention of an ambulance. It seemed I was going to give birth to all of the babies like this: on the side of the road, surrounded by strangers, like some modern day fertility icon.
I winced and grabbed at my belly. You placed your hand next to mine, your fingers wet with orange juice; it glistened sticky against my skin.
“Again?” you asked.
I nodded, swallowing. “Uh-huh.”
Our viewers pressed closer. I sat up higher against the wall and rolled my head back. My belly protruded between my legs, still gargantuan but slightly more malleable, pink and shuddering and shining with a layer of sweat. It tightened and lifted as the first contraction took hold.
“Ohhh. Ohh. Hooo.” I breathed through it, beginning to learn the pattern in the pain. Once it released you gave me water and rubbed my belly.
We carried on like this for some time, riding the waves of my contractions, me nestled against your side. I looked up at someone else’s touch: a woman with bright eyes wide in awe had swept forward to rub my belly, then backed away. After her, a young man came to feel my womb contract between his hands. Powerless, I looked to you, but you watched everyone line up with passive excitement, as if I were an offering of good fortune.
Single file, the audience took turns touching my belly and whispering words of encouragement. I felt perverse, put on display like this, as an endless rotation of strangers touched my womb, smelled the blood and mess between my legs, while my insides worked open to bring forth another child. A telling heat coiled between my thighs, and a new wetness joined the blood and birthing fluids leaking out of me.
You took notice, nosing my ear, kissing the side of my neck. As hands passed over my belly, yours dipped underneath, your fingers finding my cock swollen red. I bit back a groan. Slick drooled between my legs. You thumbed my cock, rubbing your fingers over the head, then gathered the length between your fingers and proceeded to jerk me off.
Noticing the carnal turn, the strangers’ hands grew more bold and perverted. No longer were innocent young women coming up out of curiosity. Now it was girls with flushed faces, boys with bulges in their pants, old men with big hands, women whose lipstick smeared across my belly as they kissed my tight skin. I grew hotter and hotter, feeding off the attention, the eroticism taking away from the pain, as the second baby pressed lower and lower within me. You were relentless with my cock, never stopping, never slowing, never giving relief, much like the cramps which now wracked my body uninterrupted.
Your hushed voice exploded hot against my ear: “Push, baby. Show everyone. Let them see.” You finally let go of my cock to press your palm flat against my fluttering opening. “You’re so wet. Such a slut. Showing off like this...”
“Daddy,” I moaned. Your words unlocked something within me. The baby dropped abrupt and heavy, splitting my channel open, forcing my hips apart. I curled my hands behind my knees and lifted my legs up with a shout as my water broke for a second time, splashing everyone around us.
You went back to touching my cock. A woman’s soft hands lifted my belly up out of the way, while a man’s wide hands helped push my legs up higher. Others came to lend their aid: petting my sides, threading flowers through my sweaty hair, dabbing my face with a wet rag.
I twisted my head, panting: “Water,” I begged. “Water, water, please—”
Someone poured water down my throat. I swallowed quickly, desperately, then burped as they lowered the bottle.
“Thank you—”
Their thumb pressed against my bottom lip. I froze, then stuck my tongue out, lathing their skin. They pressed their thumb into my mouth. I suckled on it, moaning, my eyes rolling into the back of my head.
“Whore,” you hissed into my ear. “Slut.”
I shrieked as the strongest contraction yet arrested my belly. The stranger pressed their thumb flat against my tongue, gripping my chin. I suckled their thumb like it was a pacifier, bucking up against your hand, my belly thumping into numerous other hands, my hair being pet and soothed, my legs rubbed and folded and pressed up, up, up—
“Mmmnnn!!!” I shouted, muffled, as I came to a full crown with a spray of fluid. My hips stuttered in a frenzied seizure. I kicked my feet wildly—two people came up to grasp my ankles. I dug my heels into their hands for purchase and pushed, pushed, pushed—
“Good,” you said when the head popped out. You were breathless, electrified, torturing my cock with your fingers. “Cum for me, baby. Cum for all these people.”
I pushed, groaning, shuddering. My brain melted. My body set alight, taken apart piece by piece, jumbled back together in pleasure and pain. The baby stretched me open, open, open, so full, so big, so hot, so heavy, and then—
It slid out into your waiting palms. The thumb in my mouth and the hands on my belly retreated. You cut the cord. I feebly released a final gush of fluid ahead of the placenta.
Water. Snacks. Nap. Contractions. Slow. Then fast. Hands all over me. You, whispering, holding me, touching my cock, my belly. A baby dropped. Push, push, push. Crowning. Cumming.
I gave birth to another baby and still had one more inside. Despite the relative speed with which I birthed the first three, my labor slowed down and came to a near standstill. My belly had shrunk enough in size for me to maneuver myself and I laid down on my side, my head in your lap, rubbing my belly in wait. Contractions had lost their consistency and rolled over me at random intervals. I was running out of energy physically and mentally. My body’s natural rhythm took over, and it was slow going.
A comparatively stronger contraction gripped my middle. “Ohhhh,” I moaned, feebly clawing at my belly.
You sighed. “Can’t give up now, lovely. You’ve got a ways to go yet.”
The sun was beginning to set. Fatigue overtook me. My belly squeezed. I writhed and whined, too exhausted to react further. I was covered in sweat, blood, vomit, and birthing fluids, flowers still strung through my greasy hair, hanging upside down by their stems. Sticky remnants of fruit juice glistened where it dripped across my chin, clavicle, and stomach. I smelled terrible and looked disgusting. My stomach sagged with the expelled weight of three babies, whilst still bloated with one more, totaling for a misshapen balloon of bruised flesh.
You crawled out from under me and balled up my discarded t-shirt under my head, then moved between my legs. I rolled onto my back. You parted my thighs with ease, watched my hole flutter and flex as another contraction visibly warped my stomach. I blinked up at you, slow and stupid and sleepy. I’d shouted myself hoarse, bled enough to stain the white linen beneath me red, and sweat until my hair turned rank and damp. If this last baby was coming out—which it had to—it wasn’t going to be by my own doing.
I barely felt your fingers through the numbing throb of pain in my lower half. My chafed, swollen muscles wrung around your hand with a tight contraction. You probed deeper inside of me upon its release, easily adding a third and fourth finger into my gaping hole. You tucked your thumb against your palm and made a fist. Deeper, deeper, deeper—the shape, force, and weight of your hand nestled far inside of me. I felt it from the inside out, from my core; my hips twitched in a feeble attempt to escape the probing violation, but I was too tired to put up a fight, and eventually sagged in surrender as your wrist spread me wider, then your forearm, until....
“Ugghhnn,” I moaned. The width of it felt almost like a baby’s head. You pumped your arm once, twice, experimentally. My hips jerked and my belly roiled, my loose skin jiggling with the remaining child within me. I pushed against your hand on instinct, weakly bearing down around your arm. You smoothly worked past my resistance, nearly up to your elbow inside of me. You pressed your other palm flat against my navel; we both tossed our heads back once you pressed down on the silhouette of your fist.
You slowly retracted your arm, turning my insides out with it. Blood and fluids dripped off your hand. My insides pulsed and quivered, forced open wide enough to catch open air. I felt vulnerable and exposed.
My belly heaved as the second to last baby dropped. I shook my head. My hips shuddered in pain but I made no effort to push.
A man stepped forward from the crowd. I screamed as he bent down to hold my legs open. I expected you to react with anger, but you remained impassive.
“Let go,” I begged. “Let me go, please!”
The man spread my legs even more. He wasn’t looking at me at all, but between my legs. I could barely see him over my gargantuan belly. It undulated, visibly twisting from one side to another, then billowing out again, releasing. I took in a breath and screwed my eyes shut, trying to block out the feeling of a stranger’s hands on me, the weight of his gaze taking in my bloodied and bulging opening.
Something nudged at my opening. I thought it was your hand until you began rubbing my belly. My eyes widened with terror upon realization as the man shoved his cock into me. Tears rolled down my face. My body forced me to exhale with every thrust.
“Hah, hah, hah,” I chanted. “Ha—ah!”
“That’s it,” you encouraged, following the contractions coiling through my abdomen. “Just needed some extra help, hm?”
Another man stepped closer and unzipped his pants. Something inside of me broke at the sight of his heavy, turgid cock dripping pre-cum. I let my mouth fall open and lapped up the underside of his shaft as he gripped my hair and pushed past my lips.
The two men eventually worked into a rhythm, raping me from both ends while you rubbed my contracting womb. The baby inside my canal kept inching down. At this rate I could hardly register its descent. My head felt fuzzy and my sight went dark. I gasped for air whenever the man fucking my throat retreated, threads of spit leashing my lips to his cock. Whenever he pulled out the man fucking my laboring hole pushed in.
“Mmmnggf—” I grunted around the shaft in my mouth, spit drooling down my chin as a contraction clenched like a vice around the cock inside of me. Hot cum spurted out of his dick as the contraction released, coating my burning insides. He pulled out and finished himself off with his fist, spraying my belly with a last few spurts of cum. It dripped down my stomach thick and heavy, the rest of his load oozing out of my baby-swollen hole. You rubbed your hands through the mess, rubbing it into my skin, humping against my side, curled over my womb like you owned it—and you did.
The man fucking my mouth followed soon after. Cum geysered down my throat till I couldn’t breathe. He then pulled out and finished on my face, chest, and stomach. Each man rubbed their spent, dripping cocks against my belly before returning to the audience.
I wheezed for breath and hacked up globs of cum and spit from my mouth and nose. I was dripping and drooling and leaking jizz. It spilled out of my hole with each contraction. The baby dropped lower inside of me. It was going to come out covered in another man’s cum.
All of a sudden you yanked me upright into a sitting position then rolled me onto my knees. I cried out, catching myself on my palms, half-leant forward with my weight rested on my protesting belly. The added pull of gravity forced my hips apart as the baby slid down again.
“Hooo, hoo, ooooh,” I wailed, trying to remember to breathe as I gathered the last of my energy to push. My exhausted cries turned into a scream when I felt myself starting to bulge. The baby was deep in my abdomen now, bulging through my skin. My opening winked open and closed shut with every haggard breath I forced past my parted lips.
Thick wads of cum burbled through my canal and burst out of me, drenching the inside of my legs with wasted seed. Blood followed and turned the cum pink. The force of my pushing upset my stomach and my throat bubbled with an acidic burp. I spat cum on the ground. I pushed. I belched. Cum-puke rushed up my esophagus. Blood and cum squirted between my legs. I heaved an awful push while I vomited, no longer in control of my bodily functions. I lost scant amount of fluids I was able to recuperate during the calm spells between births in a hot stream of piss.
My arms wobbled and gave out. I swayed forward and collapsed on my side. The baby kept bulging at my opening, a molten ball my body didn’t have the means to expel.
You rolled me onto my back and spread my legs. I writhed and screamed as you inserted your hand into my hole, stretching me around our child. Another contraction. You eased your hand deeper. Your other hand pressed into my abdomen. You were manually working the baby down in my stead. The head inched into a full crown. I felt my hole quiver and stretch around its circumference and the added width of your fingers.
A hot gush of fluid sprayed across your lap as the head popped out. The shoulders proved insurmountable. Black dots crowded my vision. My head swam. You shoved your hand deeper into me. Four babies, a massive cock, and your fist and widened my hole beyond imagination. My insides were torn open no doubt, ruined beyond repair—destroyed with such ferocity that I could take your first alongside our baby. Fiery agony reverberated throughout my hips and belly. My lungs locked as I hyperventilated through the pain. Just when I thought I was about to split in half for real, you guided our baby out into your waiting hands.
The crowd around us cheered. As the darkness overtook me, I felt another pair of cocks lining up at my hole and half-open mouth. The last thing I saw was you lifting our final child, smiling at me with pride and joy.