Crown Her

He knelt behind her without a word. Rough hands gripped her hips, thumbs spreading her open wider, and then the blunt, scorching head of his cock was there—thick, leaking, pressing insistently against her slick entrance. He didn’t ease in. He drove forward in one long, claiming thrust, burying himself to the hilt. She cried out into the towel, the sudden fullness splitting her open in the best way, her walls fluttering helplessly around his girth as he started fucking her hard and deep.

Every stroke slapped wetly against her clit. His balls smacked her swollen folds. She pushed back greedily, moaning brokenly, chasing the brutal rhythm. Then—impossibly, instantly—heat exploded low in her belly. Her womb clenched violently around him as her abdomen surged outward beneath her, ballooning in violent, rippling waves. Skin stretched drum-tight over a sudden, enormous pregnant dome. Her breasts swelled against the towel, nipples darkening and leaking warm milk in thin streams. In heartbeats she was massively, undeniably nine months pregnant, belly so low and heavy it pinned her pelvis to the sand even as he kept pounding into her from behind.

She came screaming around his cock, the orgasm ripping through her changed body like wildfire. He groaned, hips stuttering, and flooded her with thick, hot spurts—then pulled out abruptly, leaving her gaping and dripping.

But he didn’t walk away.

He shifted to straddle her thighs, planting both hands on the taut, straining curve of her belly. Then he pushed—hard. Palms sinking deep into the firm, overfull flesh, compressing her uterus with deliberate, punishing pressure. She gasped, the air punched out of her lungs as the baby dropped lower instantly. Contractions slammed into her like breakers, one on top of the next. She sobbed, hips jerking, the crushing weight of his hands forcing everything downward.

He leaned over her back, hot mouth finding the side of her neck. His tongue dragged slow, wet stripes up the sensitive skin, tasting salt and sweat while his hands never stopped moving—rubbing firm, relentless circles over the massive swell of her belly, kneading the tight skin, pressing and stroking in hypnotic loops. Every circle sent fresh pressure bearing down. She writhed under him, panting, moaning, the constant motion of his palms turning the ache into something obscene and electric.

Hours melted away under the rising moon. The contractions grew savage, endless. Finally the burn settled between her thighs—low, fierce, undeniable. She reached back with shaking hands, spreading herself wide. Her pussy lips were already parted obscenely, stretched thin and red around the dark, glistening crown of the baby’s head.

He shifted again, sliding one hand down from her belly to cup her mound. His fingers found her clit—swollen, throbbing, hypersensitive—and started rubbing fast, slick circles, matching the rhythm he’d kept on her belly all this time. His other hand stayed pressed to the upper curve of her stomach, still rubbing slow, possessive loops while his tongue continued laving her neck in hot, open-mouthed strokes.

“Push,” he growled against her skin, voice rough with hunger.

She bore down with a raw, guttural scream. The head surged forward—crowning fully now, a thick, unyielding bulge stretching her entrance into a wide, quivering ring of fire. His fingers never slowed on her clit, rubbing faster, harder, slick with her arousal and the slick fluids of birth. The pleasure-pain collision made her shake violently, hips bucking as another contraction forced the head out another inch—half-born, glistening, stretching her to the absolute limit while he licked slow stripes up her throat and kept circling her belly and clit without pause.

She was crowning hard, helpless, split open and coming apart under his hands and mouth, the baby’s head bulging obscenely between her trembling thighs as the next push built inside her like a storm about to break.

The moon hung low and heavy over the empty beach, silver light spilling across her sweat-slicked skin as the contractions became merciless. She was beyond words now—only raw, guttural sounds tearing from her throat with every wave that crushed through her core. Her Tinder date stayed glued to her back, one arm banded around her ribs, the other hand never leaving the taut, straining dome of her belly. His palm rubbed slow, relentless circles over the stretched skin, pressing just hard enough to keep the baby locked low, forcing it downward with every rotation.

His tongue was still on her neck—hot, wet drags that turned into sharp bites when another contraction peaked. He growled low against her pulse point, “Push harder. Let me feel it stretch you.”

She obeyed without thought. Legs trembling, she bore down with everything she had.

The burn between her thighs became apocalyptic.

Her pussy lips were already pulled paper-thin around the massive crown, but now the head surged forward in one brutal, unrelenting inch after another. The ring of muscle stretched impossibly wider—thicker than her widest toy, thicker than anything she’d ever taken—until it felt like her entire pelvis was splitting apart. The baby’s skull pressed outward in a slow, obscene bulge, the scalp dark and matted with her fluids, stretching her entrance into a wide, quivering O that trembled violently with the effort. Every tiny millimeter forward felt like fire and tearing; the pressure was so intense her vision whited out at the edges, thighs shaking uncontrollably, toes curling into the sand.

She screamed—long, broken, animal—hips jerking forward and back as if her body couldn’t decide whether to flee or force the head out faster. The crowning held at its widest point now, the thickest part of the skull locked behind her pubic bone, refusing to slip past the burning rim no matter how hard she pushed. Her entrance fluttered and spasmed around it, muscles clenching and releasing in frantic waves, the slick, glistening flesh stretched to translucence. She could feel every ridge of the baby’s head, every contour grinding against her raw inner walls.

He didn’t let up.

His fingers stayed glued to her clit—swollen to twice its normal size, hypersensitive, throbbing in time with her heartbeat. He rubbed fast, merciless circles, the pad of his middle finger pressing down hard and flicking side to side while his thumb kept the hood peeled back. The pleasure slammed into the pain like a collision, turning the agony into something blinding and electric. She sobbed, hips bucking wildly, torn between the stretch that felt like it would rip her in half and the orgasm building so violently it threatened to shatter her.

His other hand pressed harder into her belly—fingers splaying wide, kneading deep circles that forced the contraction to peak even higher. “Again,” he rasped against her ear, teeth grazing the lobe. “Give it to me. Stretch wider.”

She pushed with a guttural roar that echoed over the waves.

The head advanced another torturous fraction—then another—until the widest diameter was finally cresting. Her pussy gaped obscenely around it, lips pulled back so far they were almost white, the dark crown bulging outward in a perfect, glistening dome that pulsed with her heartbeat. Fluids poured from her in thick rivulets, soaking the towel and sand beneath her. The ring of fire consumed everything—burning, stinging, splitting—while her clit throbbed under his ruthless fingers and her belly contracted so hard she thought her spine would snap.

“My love, this perfect belly of yours deserves to be worshipped,” he murmurs tenderly, pouring fresh cream right onto the taut peak. His strong, gentle hands glide in long, sensual strokes—circling every inch, tracing the spiderweb veins and thick purple stretch marks until your entire dome shines like wet, dripping silk. He slides both palms underneath the heavy overhang, massaging the soft, sweat-damp crease where it rests on your mound, pressing firm and loving while the weight grinds against your swollen clit.

You moan as the cool lotion mixes with his warmth. Then a huge hot gush floods out of your cunt, soaking the sheets beneath you. He smiles softly, voice thick with arousal. “Goodness, darling… you just squirted so beautifully for me. You’re so wonderfully sensitive tonight.” You bite your lip and stay silent, letting him believe it.

Encouraged, he keeps going—hands roaming up to cup and knead your heavy, leaking tits while his thumbs still trace hypnotic circles over your slick, lotioned belly. Milk beads at your dark nipples as he gently pinches and rolls them. Your moans grow deeper, louder, turning into raw, desperate groans as the pressure between your legs builds unbearably.

A powerful contraction suddenly locks your massive belly rock-hard under his palms. At the same moment, frantic kicks erupt inside—sharp, visible bulges of tiny feet and elbows punching outward against his hands. He groans low and reverent. “My god, feel how strong and alive our baby is… your belly is so beautifully tight right now.”

Your groans get even louder as the head begins to crown deep inside. Your pussy lips stretch obscenely around the dark, wet bulge that slowly emerges… and then stops, lodged there for a long, burning five minutes while the ring of fire pulses. The stretch is exquisite agony. Your moans turn into loud, throaty cries of pure filthy pleasure-pain.

Only then does your gentleman husband finally glance down between your legs. His eyes widen in shocked awe as he sees the baby’s head crowning, your cunt stretched wide and glistening around it.

“Darling… oh my God, it’s happening right now,” he breathes, voice urgent but still so gentle. Without hesitation he places both strong hands firmly on top of your still-hard belly and begins to push down with steady, controlled pressure. “Breathe and push for me, my love… I’ve got you. Let me help you bring our baby into the world.”

Your husband walks in, bottle of thick, creamy lotion in his hand, eyes locked on your obscene fertility porn of a belly. “Fuck, look at you,” he growls, climbing onto the bed between your legs. “This thing needs my hands on it right now.”

He squeezes a generous palmful of cool lotion right onto the peak of your dome. The shock makes you gasp as it drips slowly down the curved sides. Then his big, warm hands are on you—spreading the slick cream in long, firm strokes that make your stretched skin glisten even more obscenely. He rubs slow circles over the top, thumbs pressing into the taut flesh, tracing every bulging vein like he’s memorizing the roadmap to your dripping cunt. The lotion soaks in, turning your belly shiny and slippery, highlighting every silvery stretch mark as his palms glide lower.

He leans in closer, breath hot against your skin, and works the lotion underneath that heavy overhang where your belly rests on your mound. His fingers slide into the warm, sweat-damp crease, kneading the softest, most sensitive skin while the weight of your globe presses down on his wrists. You feel every slick stroke grind against your pubic bone, sending filthy sparks straight to your engorged clit. Your pussy clenches visibly, leaking down your ass as he massages deeper.

Right then a strong kick punches outward—sharp and visible—stretching a tiny foot-shaped bulge right under his palm. He groans and presses harder into it, rubbing the lotion right over the moving lump while it throbs and shifts. “That’s it, baby… feel Daddy worship this fat, bred belly,” he murmurs, pouring more lotion and attacking your popped navel. He circles it, flicks it, then pinches the sensitive nub between slick fingers until you moan like a whore.

His hands never stop—long, possessive strokes from underboob to hips, slapping the lotion-slick sides so your whole sphere jiggles and bounces, then soothing it with deep, hypnotic rubs that make the entire thing quiver. Every pass leaves your skin glowing, tighter, hotter, the lotion mixing with your natural sheen until your belly looks like a dripping, overfilled fuck-toy begging to be touched.

By the time he’s done, your massive pregnant belly is shiny, lotioned, and throbbing under his worshipful hands… and your cunt is a soaked, pulsing mess, aching for whatever comes next.

Picture it ballooned into a heavy, glossy sphere sagging right against your swollen pussy mound, skin stretched drum-tight and shiny with spiderweb veins and thick purple stretch marks slashing from tits to hips like filthy breeding trophies. Your belly button pops out fat and dark, throbbing like a slutty little clit begging to be sucked, while that deep chocolate linea nigra arrows straight down to your engorged, leaking cunt.

The weight arches your back, thrusting your ass out as the dome sways and bounces with every step. Rub it—feel that hot, taut skin quiver under your palms, the soft, sweat-damp underside grinding your mound and driving you wild.

Those kicks? Pure internal fucking. Tiny feet and elbows punch sharp, visible bulges outward, rippling the paper-thin skin while deep thumps slam electric jolts straight to your clit. Your cunt clenches and gushes with every savage ripple, like the life inside is pounding you from within.

Then he slams you against the wall, cock buried to the hilt, hips snapping mercilessly. His palm cracks hard across that tight round belly—slap—sending it jiggling, followed by a firm punch straight into the center that makes it bounce back against his fingers. He grips tight, then rubs slow, hypnotic circles over every inch while he grinds deeper, pressing right into the next savage kick. The bulge pushes back against his hand as your walls flutter and milk him, the whole obscene globe jumping and tightening with every thrust and thump.

Now the birth crashes over you. Contractions turn your veiny orb rock-hard as you spread wide, moaning like a whore. He slams both palms onto that glistening dome, squeezing and pushing down hard—feeling the baby shift lower under his grip while your pussy burns and stretches around the crowning head. He slides under to that hypersensitive underside, kneading the hot crease, rubbing firm circles that make your tits spray milk in thick, warm jets. His mouth follows, licking and sucking that damp skin while you scream and squirt, the head finally popping free in a hot, gushing rush that wrecks you in the filthiest orgasm of your life.

Your belly deflates soft and spent, loose skin twitching, stretch marks glowing like badges of the sluttiest performance ever.

He pushed the heavy door open. The air inside was thick—warm, musky, scented with sweat, amniotic fluid, and expensive perfume. Soft red lights bathed the long room. Ten wide leather chairs lined the walls like gynecologist tables, each one tilted back at a steep angle. Every woman was naked from the waist down, ankles locked high and wide in cold steel stirrups. Their massive, glistening bellies rose and fell with each labored breath. Between their spread thighs, dark, slick crowns of baby heads stretched their pussies wide open—some already bulging an inch out, others just beginning to part the lips. Moans and grunts filled the air like a filthy symphony.

A tall, tattooed woman in a black corset—clearly the madam—smiled at him.
“First time? Pick any girl. They’re all in active second stage. Touch anything you want. Push on their bellies. Kiss them. Fuck their asses while they push. Just don’t touch the baby when it’s fully out—that’s house rule. Cash up front.”

Marcus slid five crisp hundreds across the counter and walked straight to the center chair.

She was stunning. Early twenties, long black hair plastered to her sweat-slicked face, enormous belly tight and round, navel popped out like a cork. Her name tag read “Lila.” Her pussy was stretched obscenely around the baby’s crown—dark hair visible, the head pulsing forward with every contraction. Her ankles trembled in the stirrups.

Lila looked up at him with glassy, lust-drunk eyes. “Please… I need it harder,” she gasped, voice thick with pain and need.

Marcus didn’t hesitate. He stepped between her spread thighs, placed both hands on the huge, drum-tight dome of her belly, and pressed down firmly. Lila cried out, half scream, half moan, as the pressure forced the baby’s head another inch forward. Her pussy lips thinned around it, shiny and stretched.

He leaned down and crushed his mouth to hers. Their tongues tangled instantly—wet, desperate, sloppy. She tasted like cherries and pure exhaustion. While they kissed, he slid one hand lower, fingers finding her swollen clit poking out above the crowning head. He rubbed tight, fast circles. Lila bucked hard in the stirrups, belly rippling under his other palm.

“Fuck—yes—push me,” she begged against his lips.

Marcus kept kissing her, kept rubbing her clit in slick little circles, and kept pressing down on her belly with steady, rhythmic force. Every time he pushed, another thick inch of baby head slid out. Her pussy made wet, obscene stretching sounds.

He broke the kiss only long enough to unzip. His cock was already rock-hard. He slicked it with the natural lube dripping from her stretched hole, then moved lower. The head of his cock nudged her tight asshole—already relaxed from the massive pressure above it. One smooth thrust and he sank halfway into her ass.

Lila’s eyes rolled back. “Oh my god—yes—fuck my ass while I push!”

He started thrusting deep and steady, cock sliding in and out of her clenching asshole while his hands worked. One palm grinding down on her belly, the other frantically rubbing her clit. Every thrust of his hips made her belly jolt, forcing the baby’s head further out. The crown was now the size of a baseball, glistening, pulsing with her heartbeat.

He kissed her again—messy, biting her lower lip—while he fucked her ass harder. The leather chair creaked. Lila’s moans turned into guttural cries of pleasure and pain.

“I’m coming—fuck—I’m coming while it’s crowning!” she screamed into his mouth.

Her asshole clamped down around his cock like a vice as her orgasm ripped through her. At the same moment, Marcus shoved down hard on her belly. The baby’s head surged forward another two inches, stretching her pussy to its absolute limit. The sight and the squeeze sent him over the edge. He buried himself balls-deep in her ass and came in thick, hot ropes, flooding her while she pushed and squirted around the crowning head.

Panting, he stayed inside her, still rubbing slow circles on her clit, still pressing gently on her belly to keep the pressure perfect. Lila smiled up at him, dazed and glowing.

“That was amazing. Now comes the afterbirth,” she whispered, tongue flicking out to lick his lips. “Stay inside my ass… and thrust harder this time.”

Marcus grinned, already feeling himself harden again.

You’re on your knees, leaning forward over the edge of the bed, hips rocking instinctively with each long, rolling contraction. Between your thighs the pressure has grown enormous, alive, insistent. Your husband—your midwife, your everything—kneels behind you, bare-chested, skin already slick with sweat despite the cool March air slipping through the cracked window. His broad hands rest reverently on your lower back, thumbs circling the dimples above your tailbone.

Another wave builds. You drop your head and groan, low and animal. He answers instantly with a rough, hungry sound of his own—half moan, half growl—his breath hot against your shoulder.

“Fuck, baby,” he rasps, voice thick. “Listen to you. That sound you make when you let go… it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You laugh-shudder, the sound breaking into a whimper as the contraction peaks. He slides one palm around to your belly—huge, tight, drum-hard—and presses firmly downward, helping the baby descend. The pressure changes instantly: deeper, fuller, more obscene. Your thighs tremble.

“Look at you opening for me,” he murmurs against your ear, lips brushing damp skin. “So fucking beautiful. Every push, every stretch—God, I can see how much you want this. How much your body loves it.”

You bear down hard, vocal, unashamed. A long, keening moan spills out of you. He matches it—deeper, rougher—his chest pressed to your back now, heart hammering against your spine. His free hand slips between your legs, not to check dilation this time, but to cradle the swollen, straining lips as the baby’s head presses against them.

“Crowning,” he breathes, almost reverent. “Baby, you’re crowning so slow and perfect. I can see the head… dark hair, stretching you wide. Fuck—look how gorgeous you are down here. So pink, so full, so ready.”

The ring of fire arrives and you cry out—sharp, wild. He presses harder on your belly with the next urge, helping you ride through it, his own hips rocking forward involuntarily like he can feel the stretch in his own body.

“You’re doing it,” he groans. “Pushing my baby out… so strong, so sexy. I can feel you shaking—fuck, are you—?”

You are.

The orgasm crashes through the burn, through the impossible stretch, through everything. Your whole pelvis locks and flutters around the widest part of the head; you come hard, loud, sobbing his name. He moans with you—long, broken—his fingers still framing the crowning head, feeling every rhythmic clench.

“That’s it, love,” he pants against your neck. “Come while you birth. Let it all happen at once. So fucking hot… you’re coming and pushing at the same time… my perfect, filthy, beautiful wife.”

Another press on your belly—firm, possessive—and you give one last, shuddering push. The head slips free into his waiting hands with a wet, exquisite sound. He laughs, ragged and adoring.

“There you are, little one,” he whispers, but his eyes never leave your face. “Look what you did. Look how fucking incredible you are.”

He guides the shoulders with gentle, practiced pressure while you ride the aftershocks—half birth, half climax still rippling through you. A minute later the rest of the body slides out in a warm rush. Your husband catches your daughter against his chest, cord still pulsing between you.

He lays her on your breast, skin to skin, then wraps both arms around the two of you. His forehead drops to yours. He’s trembling too.

“God,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “I’ve never seen anything more erotic in my life. You—pushing, coming, birthing—all at once. I’m never going to recover from how sexy that was.”

You smile through tears and leftover contractions, reaching up to thread shaky fingers through his damp hair.

“Next time,” you whisper, “you get to catch again.”

He laughs softly, kisses you deep, tasting of salt and awe.