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The moment you feel that pain, you know what's coming… oh, and the desire to be touched and kissed also comes to mind, you want it.

I woke up with my abdomen swollen and hard, like the twins had pulled an insane growth spurt overnight. At 22, the difference from just a week ago was ridiculous; my skin was tight, and my core muscles felt stretched to the absolute limit.

When I got up, my boyfriend—the coach—looked me up and down, dead-set on stopping me.

"You’re huge. You can't play, you're gonna snap," he blurted out, staring at my stomach with that mix of anxiety and control.

I didn't bother arguing with words. I pressed myself against him, driving my belly into his hip, feeling my still-defined abs tighten under his touch. I grabbed his hand and forced it down, dragging it across the hard, hot curve of my stomach so he could feel the firmness for himself. I whispered right in his ear, using my body as my only leverage. He went completely speechless when he felt that heat and the pressure of my skin against his. He dropped his guard, totally surrendering.

On the pitch, the ache low in my stomach was constant—a dull throb that spiked with every sprint. But I didn't stop. I scored two goals, moving with that raw power I'm known for, ignoring how heavy and stretched my body felt. By the time I finished, my jersey was glued to me with sweat, outlining every single ripple of my abs and the disproportional roundness of my belly.

Now, off the field, the pain is sharp and stinging. I’m touching the area, feeling my muscles trying to pull themselves back together while the swelling just drains me. I’m absolutely spent, pushed to the brink, needing him to take care of what’s left of me after those 90 minutes.

NICE ASS MANNN

Another thing is that his penis keeps bumping against my belly. He gets really turned on and it's like a sword thrusting into my stomach. I tell him he doesn't realize how big his thing is, he's going to hurt the baby. Although I don't say that to him in bed, lol.

Julián’s body, transformed into an altar of excess, had become a battlefield where life and toxicity danced in an agonizing choreography. Each craft beer that paraded down his throat was not merely a drink, but a slow architecture of his own perdition. Under the influence of alcohol, his metabolism had fractured: his abdomen, distended and heavy with artificial weight, not only housed the little one but swelled with an unwholesome roundness—a bloating that stretched his skin to cruel limits, turning him into a caricature of a gestation he himself was sabotaging.

Julián observed himself in the mirror with a lucidity that pained him, watching how his features lost their harmony; his face, marked by fluid retention and perpetual fatigue, looked swollen and bore a waxy pallor that contrasted with the unnatural turgidity of his belly. There was a dark sensuality in that decadence: the way his body denied health while he, with a magnetic negligence, caressed his own ruin.

The toxic stagnation: The accumulation of fluids not only disfigured his silhouette, rendering him heavier and more vulnerable, but created an environment of constant pressure within his womb, slowly suffocating the vital space the fetus needed to grow.

The aesthetics of collapse: The swelling of his face and extremities was the physical signal of an organism unable to filter the poison he consumed, turning his skin into a canvas of exhaustion where every pore exuded the malnutrition and systemic stress to which he subjected them both.

Next week, I enter the third trimester, and I suspect his joy might be tempered when the doctor lays down the law: no more intimacy for us. It’s a high-risk pregnancy, and we have to be extremely cautious. But look at him—he’s a total powerhouse, radiating this intense, insatiable pride at having knocked me up yet again. Tomorrow is his birthday, so I promised I’d squeeze into that jockstrap he loves so much. Honestly, I’m not even sure it’ll fit anymore; my backside has grown so much lately, and with the way my body is rounding out, it’s going to be a tight, delicious struggle.