🥀

Ps: im planning to update the folder with all sarah Schmids videos + if there is storage left some more birth videos

*WARNING: Fetish content*

This one features:

Fpreg

Very hard, intense birth

Husband's support and POV

Muscles

Medieval setting

This is a random secret birth in an inn that I wrote a while back but never posted. My first fpreg story on here! Björn and Kaya are original characters, part of a little group of freedom fighters that live in my head. It’s sometime in the medieval times, in England.

I have also posted this to AO3 (registered users only)

“Come on, my darling, keep going,” Björn encourages with bated breath, feeling his own skin perspire all over in the steam, despite the fact that it’s not him who is working hard. He is intensely focused on Kaya in front of him, sharing the wooden tub together in this small inn room. All he sees is Kaya’s muscular back, skin slick and shining with her sweat alone, flexing hard as her body surges and tenses with the motions of expulsion, at the mercy of nature.

“The head is almost out, Kaya, you’re so close.”

Björn’s love growls a truly horrific noise as she tenses again, flowing with the motion of her body’s will, the muscles popping out of her back and her lowered shoulders and her arms where she’s gripping the wooden tub on either side of herself. In his hands below the water, Björn feels the hardness of their child’s head drop down into his palms, their downy hair floating in the water, the tightness and heat of Kaya’s stretching tissue.

“....hrrrrmmmMMMUUUUUUUUUUUHHH!!!” Kaya growls out, her head raising and trembling severely, her long hair a sweaty and tangled mess. In Björn’s hands, the baby’s head bounces back behind Kaya’s tissues. Kaya chokes in two gasps, unable to draw in air, her hands scrambling to grip the sides of the tub.

Then before Björn can remind her to breathe, Kaya bears down again and Björn can feel every bit of her effort in his hands. Their child is coming. They are so close to making the passage, slipping beyond the threshold. This is the pivotal moment, Björn knows. His beloved is fighting for her life to bring their child into the world, into his hands.

What’s going on, bunnies? Week 65 drop is written for my favorite birth fic writer, @shhhsecretsideblog ^^ Hope ya’ll enjoy this public birth story ^_~

Word count: 4641 words

Summary: A heavily pregnant woman labors through a black-tie charity gala with her wife, both of them savoring the thrill of keeping her advancing labor a secret from three hundred oblivious guests until the baby refuses to wait any longer.

Content Warnings: MDNI. 18+ only. Contains hidden/secret labor, consensual birth denial, labor in a public setting, clothing birth...

I've posted the full uncensored warnings in the Vault to make sure this update doesn't go against the community guidelines of Tumblr ^_^

The glass is cool in her hand, beading with condensation like it’s trying to seduce her before she even tastes it. She lifts it to her lips, and the first swallow is molten cream and sugar, thick as velvet, rolling over her tongue with sinful weight. It clings there for a heartbeat, leaving her lips glistening before she swallows.

The drink is deceptively sweet—honey and vanilla at first, then something darker underneath, like caramel coaxed almost to burning. The richness presses down on her, but she doesn’t stop. She can feel it settling low in her stomach already, like a warm hand encouraging her to keep going.

Halfway through, her breaths are slower. The glass feels heavier, but so does she. Her body, already softened by quiet indulgence, feels as though it’s yielding even more with every mouthful—hips relaxing wider against the chair, her middle pressing just a little fuller against her dress.

By the last sip, it’s not just a drink. It’s a promise—thick, heady, and irresistible. The sort of magic that doesn’t fade with the night, but lingers in curves and softness long after the glass is empty.

She starts returning to that glass as if it’s calling her. Every evening, the same chilled weight in her hand, the same rich, silken flood spilling over her tongue. But what was once a single serving soon feels too brief—too much pleasure left untasted. So she pours more.

One glass becomes two. The second goes down easier than the first, like her body has already learned to make room. By the third night, there’s no pause between them—just the steady, heavy rhythm of swallowing, her throat working greedily while her eyes half-close in bliss.

By the end of the first week, the change is already visible, though she tells herself it’s only the richness of the drink sitting in her. After each glass—each heavy pour—her belly swells forward in a gentle arc, pressing against the inside of her clothes until seams whisper in protest. She leans back in her chair afterward, breathing slower, her hand idly cupping the warm, rounded curve as if to soothe it.

But the swelling doesn’t vanish as quickly as it once did. At first it’s just a slight pooch that lingers into the morning. Then it’s a small dome, soft and pliant but undeniably there, rounding her silhouette before she’s even touched her next glass.

Night after night, the ritual continues. Each gulp sends another slow, molten wave into her middle, pushing it outward by degrees. Her belly is no longer a gentle curve—it’s becoming the centerpiece of her body. It rises from her lap in a taut, rounded mound after a heavy evening, the skin stretched smooth under her palm.

By the third week, it has claimed space she didn’t know she had. Sitting, it presses firmly against her thighs, spreading outward as it rests there. Standing, it juts forward in front of her, announcing itself before the rest of her follows. Even the smallest movements cause a subtle sway—an inertia that wasn’t there before, a reminder of the weight she now carries.

When she drains her glass these days, she can feel the expansion in real time: the pressure growing beneath her ribs, the swell pushing against the waistband until she must ease it down under the dome. The drinks are still decadent, still irresistible—but now they leave her so distended she moves slowly, as if her body needs to adjust to its own roundness.

It’s no longer just a belly. It’s a claim.

The magic has gathered there, shaping her into something fuller, heavier… and still hungry.

She notices it most on a morning when she tries to dress as she once did.

The blouse hangs in her closet, crisp and neat, a relic from when her middle was only a polite curve. She slips her arms through the sleeves, but when she draws it around her, the fabric halts mid-belly, gaping wide. The dome beneath is firm from the night’s indulgence, rounded high enough to catch the bottom hem and push it upward.

She tries the buttons. The first few close easily enough over her chest, but by the time her fingers reach the swell below her ribs, the fabric is straining like a drumskin. The next button barely catches—her belly already bulging between the fastenings, soft flesh squeezing outward in pale crescents. By the one at her navel, it’s hopeless; the dome juts too far, its curve untamed.

She steps to the mirror and sees what the magic has made of her: a proud, heavy mound pushing forward, leading her body’s motion. It rounds out in every direction, not just front to back but from side to side, hips now framed by the low drape of its weight. When she shifts, the belly moves with her, swaying just slightly before settling back into place like it owns her stance.

Reaching for a skirt is no better. Once it would have slid over her hips in one smooth pull; now she has to wrestle it up past the widest point of her belly, the waistband catching and rolling as it tries to contain the soft, full curve. Even when it’s on, the fabric skims tight over the mound, leaving no doubt that it is the centerpiece of her figure.

She presses her hand into the swell, meaning to smooth it, but the flesh simply yields and then pushes back, taut from last night’s three-glass ritual. It’s not just size—it’s dominance. Her belly decides how she moves, how she dresses, how she stands.

And when she steps away from the mirror, she already feels the craving stirring, deep in her chest. The magic calls again, promising to push her even further out, to round her into something more decadent still.

That night, she doesn’t just pour her usual three glasses—she lines up six.

The first few vanish as always, slow and luxuriant, the cream coating her throat, the sweetness blooming on her tongue. But with the fourth, she begins to feel it—her belly, already softened and eager, pushing outward faster than she’s used to. Each gulp adds another slow surge of weight inside her, a spreading warmth that forces her to shift in her seat as her waistband tightens.

By the fifth glass, her middle is tight. Not the gentle, pliant swell she’s come to adore, but a firm, stretching dome that resists her palm when she presses it. She can feel it climbing higher under her ribs, rounding forward like it’s been inflated. The bottom curve presses so firmly into her thighs that her legs angle slightly apart, forced by the fullness.

The sixth glass is pure indulgence. She has to pause between swallows now, her breaths shallow as her belly strains for room. When she sets the empty glass down, her hands go instinctively to cradle the swell—taut, high, and impossibly round. It pushes far past where it was when she sat down, a glossy mound that forces her spine to arch just to balance it.

She tries to stand, but the fullness commands her to move slowly. The dome protrudes in front of her like a balloon, swaying with her steps. Her top has ridden up, baring the underside of her belly, where the skin feels warm and stretched. She catches sight of herself in the mirror and gasps—not in shock, but in awe.

The magic has claimed her tonight in a way it never has before. The swell is so pronounced, so forward-thrusting, that she can’t see her own toes. It dominates her reflection, a perfect, distended curve that announces exactly what she’s done.

And even through the ache of fullness, she wonders—what would happen if she tried eight?

Morning light spills across the room, but the first thing she notices isn’t the sun—it’s the heaviness.

She rolls onto her back and feels it instantly: the dome hasn’t gone down. Where once a night’s swelling would melt away to a softer, smaller curve, now her belly remains high and forward, a rounded hill rising above her hips. It feels dense under her hand, the skin stretched smooth from the double-ritual of the night before. When she sits up, it tilts outward, swaying just slightly before settling into her lap with full, assertive weight.

Standing is a slow process. The protrusion commands her balance, forcing her to plant her feet wider. Her nightshirt, loose just weeks ago, now clings to the swell’s forward slope, the hem riding high enough to leave the undercurve bare. She runs her palms over it, tracing the sheer distance it juts from her body. There’s no disguising it now—not from herself, and not from anyone else.

And that’s when she feels it—the craving, sharp and insistent, far too soon for her nightly indulgence. Her stomach isn’t hollow; it’s still full from last night. But it wants. It wants the thick sweetness, the molten creaminess sliding down her throat, the steady push of pressure as it fills her further.

She pads to the kitchen, the sway of her belly dictating her steps, and pours her first glass of the day. It’s almost surreal—morning light glinting off the creamy liquid as though it were just a harmless treat. She drinks it slower than usual, savoring it, feeling the already-prominent mound grow firmer beneath her touch. The pleasure is almost dizzying.

When she’s done, she doesn’t stop.

A second glass follows, then a third—her hands moving on instinct, the sound of the liquid filling the glass like a lullaby she can’t resist. By the time she leans against the counter, the dome is straining even higher, her nightshirt now a wrinkled band beneath her breasts. She rubs the sides of the swell, feeling the tautness, the undeniable claim the magic has over her.

Breakfast has a new meaning now. It’s not a meal—it’s an expansion, a start to the day she can no longer go without.

By midday, the morning’s indulgence has barely settled.

She moves through the house with a slow, deliberate gait, her belly leading every step like a proud, heavy prow. Even the smallest turns or bends force her to accommodate it—feet angling wider, back arching to balance the forward pull. She can feel the weight of it in her core muscles, a constant, solid presence pressing outward against the waistband of her softest skirt.

When lunchtime comes, she doesn’t even think of “food” in the old sense. She wants the drink. The mere thought of it makes her mouth warm, her hands almost fidget with anticipation. She sets out a tall pitcher instead of a single glass—why bother pretending she’ll have less?

The first pour is gone in a minute. The second takes longer, each swallow adding to the firm swell she’s carried since breakfast. She strokes the slope of it absentmindedly, feeling how high and forward it sits, the surface stretched enough to make her skin gleam. Her skirt waistband is already rolling under the bottom curve, the mound too assertive to be contained.

By the third glass, she’s leaning back in her chair, breathing deeper. The fullness is mounting again, that dense, tight ache that makes her belly feel like a drum. She can see it from where she sits—her breasts now resting lightly atop the high crest of it, her lap completely consumed by its curve. It domes upward in the center before flowing down to her sides, wide and heavy against her thighs.

The fourth is pure indulgence, a surrender she no longer questions. Each gulp sends a pulse through her middle, the pressure mounting until she feels stretched from rib to hip. She can’t even pull her skirt back up over it now; the belly owns the space, warm and gently throbbing with fullness.

When she finally pushes the empty glass away, she stays there for a long time, hands spread across the mound as if claiming it—or perhaps acknowledging that it has claimed her. The thought of waiting until evening to drink again seems unbearable. The magic isn’t a ritual anymore. It’s a constant hunger, and her swelling belly is the shrine it feeds.

Evening settles in, and by now the dome has never once emptied, never softened back to what it was before. The morning and lunch indulgences have stacked inside her, building layer upon layer of fullness so that when she lowers herself into her chair for dinner, her belly presses tight and proud against the table’s edge.

She should be satisfied—she is already heavy, already round, already brimming. But the thought of stopping now feels absurd. Tonight, she isn’t just going to drink until she’s full. She’s going to drink until she’s unmovable.

The first glass is ceremonial, warm and thick, a familiar greeting. The second and third come fast, building pressure in her middle until it feels like her skin is straining to contain her. The dome rises higher, pushing her breasts up and out, making her shift just to keep breathing steadily.

By the fourth, she has to lean back; her belly is so taut it presses unyieldingly into the waistband of her stretched skirt. She pushes the fabric down beneath it, freeing the curve so it can round fully forward, unencumbered. The swell is vast now, the surface tight and hot under her palms.

The fifth is slower. Each swallow sends a deep ache of expansion through her core, her body’s instinct to stop warring with the magic’s siren pull. She rubs her sides, feeling them bow outward as the mound claims more and more of her lap, forcing her knees apart.

And then she pours the sixth. She can’t lean forward without the dome colliding with the table, so she draws the pitcher to her, drinking directly from it in slow, heavy gulps. By the time it’s empty, her belly is a perfect globe—smooth and distended, so forward-thrusting she cannot see the table’s surface in front of her. The sides swell wide, pressing firmly into her chair arms, while the crest rides high enough to nestle under her ribs.

She tries to shift, but the size and weight root her in place. Each small movement makes the mound sway sluggishly, as if it takes a moment to catch up. Her hands cradle it from underneath, feeling the unyielding fullness, the immensity she’s built through the day.

Sadie had never known what it was to labor. Her first birth, nearly fifteen years ago, had been a clinical event: twins, breech and transverse, scooped from her body while she lay numb behind a blue curtain. She remembered the strange tugging, the weightlessness of the babies lifted out, the antiseptic smell of the operating room. No contractions. No pain that mattered. She had been a passive vessel, and her daughters had been delivered like gifts handed through a window.

When she remarried in her mid thirties, her new husband Marcus spoke often of his family's tradition. His mother and three sisters had all given birth at home, in the same farmhouse outside Durham, surrounded by the women of their blood. They had caught each other's children, had washed the linens and brewed the raspberry leaf tea. They had roared and wept and emerged holding slippery, squalling infants. Sadie wanted that with a hunger that surprised her. She wanted to know what her body could do. She wanted to feel the fire.

The first contraction came at four in the morning, a low pull across her lower back like a fist slowly clenching. She did not wake Marcus. She lay in the dark, counting the seconds, waiting for the next one. Seven minutes later, another. She had been told that labor with a second pregnancy might be faster, but no one had accounted for the size of this child. At her thirty six week appointment, the midwife had raised her eyebrows at the fundal measurement. "You're measuring large," she had said. "Possibly a ten pounder." Sadie had laughed. She was tall, broad hipped, sturdy. She could handle a ten pound baby. She did not know then that ten pounds was a shy estimate, a gentle lie the body told itself before the storm.

By six in the morning, the contractions were four minutes apart and Sadie was on her hands and knees on the living room rug. Marcus had called the midwife, a no nonsense woman named Ruth who had attended over two hundred home births. Ruth arrived with a leather bag and a calm that felt almost clinical. She checked the baby's heart rate with a Doppler. Strong. Steady. She checked Sadie's cervix. Four centimeters. "Long way to go," Ruth said. "But you're doing fine."

The hours that followed blurred into a single, grinding agony. Sadie tried every position she had read about in her natural birth books. She squatted with her back against the couch, her thighs burning, sweat dripping from her chin. She hung from Marcus's shoulders, swaying her hips in slow circles while the contractions built and crested and receded. She lay on her side with one leg draped over a stack of pillows. But something was wrong from the beginning. The pain was not the manageable fire she had imagined. It was a crushing, splintering pressure at the base of her spine, as if the baby were trying to exit through her tailbone with a hammer.

By noon she had been laboring for eight hours. The contractions were coming two minutes apart, each one lasting a full ninety seconds. Between them, she panted and sweated and drank water from a straw that Marcus held to her lips. Ruth checked her cervix again. Seven centimeters. Seven centimeters after eight hours of active labor. Sadie wanted to scream. She did scream, a raw, ragged sound that came from somewhere deeper than her throat. She felt the baby moving inside her, a great, heavy bulk that seemed to shift and grind against her pelvis with every wave.

"I can't," she gasped. "I can't do this."

Ruth knelt in front of her, her face calm but her eyes sharp. "You can," she said. "But I need you to listen to me. I think this baby is posterior. Facing up instead of down. That's why your back is hurting so badly. And I think this baby is big. Much bigger than we expected."

Sadie felt a cold spike of fear cut through the haze of pain. Posterior. She had read about that. The hardest presentation. Longer labor. More back pain. Greater risk of tearing and intervention.

"What do I do?" she whispered.

"Get on your back," Ruth said. "I know you don't want to. I know you read that it's inefficient. But your legs are shaking. You've been on your knees for six hours. You need to rest your muscles so you can push when the time comes. Gravity isn't going to help you anymore. This baby needs to be pushed out by force."

Sadie let Marcus help her turn over. She lay flat on her back on the rug, then propped herself up on a mountain of pillows until she was semi reclined, her thighs spread wide, her feet planted on the floor. In this position, the pressure in her tailbone became a steady, screaming ache. She could feel the baby's head, impossibly large, wedged against her sacrum like a stone. Ruth examined her again. Nine centimeters. Almost there.

Two o'clock. Ten centimeters. Ruth nodded. "You're fully dilated. And you're going to have to push now. This baby is not coming out on its own."

What followed was the longest four hours of Sadie's life. She pushed with every contraction, bearing down until the veins stood out on her neck and her vision went white at the edges. Marcus held one leg, Ruth held the other. The rug beneath her was soaked with sweat and amniotic fluid and a thin smear of blood. Each push lasted ten, fifteen, twenty seconds. Between pushes, she had barely a minute to catch her breath before the next wave seized her.

An hour passed. Two hours. The baby's head appeared with each push, a small bulge at the opening of her vagina, the size of a walnut. Then a golf ball. Then a small orange. But each time she stopped pushing, it slid back inside. The burning was unlike anything she had imagined. She had heard of the ring of fire, that brief, intense stretch as the head passes through the vaginal opening. But there was nothing brief about this. It was a relentless, tearing heat that made her think her flesh was splitting open in slow motion.

"Small pushes," Ruth said. "Pant. Don't bear down. Let the skin stretch slowly."

But Sadie could not stop. Her body had taken over, bearing down with a force that felt like a seizure. She heard herself making sounds she had never made before, guttural animal noises that rose from her chest and broke into screams. Marcus pressed his forehead to hers, his face wet with tears, and she could smell his fear. Ruth's hands were between her legs, fingers slick with oil, trying to ease the perineum over the head without cutting.

Three hours of pushing. The head finally, finally emerged. The relief was instantaneous and horrifying, because the head was free and the shoulders were still inside. Sadie looked down between her legs and saw her daughter's face, purple and wizened, turned upward toward her. The baby's eyes were closed. Her mouth was a small, tight line. She did not cry. She could not cry, because her shoulders were wedged behind Sadie's pubic bone.

Ruth's face went pale. "Shoulder dystocia," she said, her voice tight. "The shoulders are stuck. Sadie, I need you to listen to me very carefully. I need you to push harder than you have ever pushed in your life. This baby is twelve pounds. Maybe thirteen. And she cannot stay where she is."

Sadie had nothing left. Her body was a vessel of pain, her abdomen bruised from the inside, her vagina stretched to the point of numbness. But something in Ruth's voice cut through the fog. Fear. The midwife was afraid. Sadie gathered the last shred of her strength, planted her feet harder against the floor, and pushed. She pushed until she thought her heart would stop. She pushed until the room dissolved into a gray haze and Marcus's voice became a distant echo. She pushed until she felt something give inside her, a deep, tearing release that sent a shockwave of agony through her pelvis.

And then, with a great, wet, gushing rush, the shoulders came free and the rest of the baby slid into Ruth's hands.

A girl. Enormous, purple, and silent for a terrible three seconds before she drew a shuddering breath and let out a cry that filled the room. Ruth placed her on Sadie's chest, and she was so heavy, so solid and warm, a loaf of a baby with dark hair and cheeks like ripe fruit. Her arms and legs were thick with rolls of fat. Her hands were the size of a small peach. The cord pulsed thick and blue between them. Sadie looked down at her daughter and wept.

The placenta came easily, a soft rush. But the damage was done. Ruth examined her gently and found second degree tears that required eighteen stitches. The perineum was swollen to three times its size, bruised a deep eggplant purple. There was a small hematoma on her labia that would take weeks to heal. Sadie could not feel the needle going in, could not feel much of anything below her waist except a profound, hollow ache. She held the baby to her breast and let Marcus press cold witch hazel pads against her, let him feed her ice chips from a spoon.

Ruth brought a portable scale. Thirteen pounds, two ounces. The baby had a head circumference in the ninety ninth percentile and shoulders as wide as a football. "I've been doing this for twenty five years," Ruth said quietly. "This is the second largest baby I've ever seen born at home. You should not have been able to do this. But you did."

Sadie looked down at the infant nursing at her breast, the tiny mouth working with fierce determination. She thought about the twins, the ones who had been lifted from her body without her having to work for them. She loved them. She would always love them. But this baby, this enormous, late arriving girl, belonged to her in a different way. Sadie had earned her. She had paid for her in sweat and blood and torn flesh, in hours of pain that had stripped her down to something raw and primal. She pressed her lips to the baby's downy head and breathed in the scent of vernix and new life.