pregnant dad bod

Instead, you tell him that it’s after midnight and you’re not about to put in any more overtime. You tell him he’d better be done pushing out his punishment by the time you get back, and step out of the stables to get some shuteye. Outside, you recline in your hammock, your wide brim hat tipped down, and your hand idly slips into your jeans to tend to the arousal that’s been simmering since his labor began.

You wake when dawn begins to slip in pink ribbons over the high fences on your property. While blinking the sleep out of your eyes, you hear a low, animal groan warbling from the stable, and grin in anticipation. Your other hucow boys gather around the stable with worried faces, some of them nervously rubbing the pregnant bellies you gave them, while others ask, timid but desperate, for your help— on their hands and knees, their engorged breasts hang so heavy below them that their needy teats brush the dirt and make them wince. As much as you’d like to settle in to milk them, maybe suckle a bit for yourself, you tell them you’re busy and they’ll need to wait for the farmhands to arrive.

To your astonishment, your naughty boy still hasn’t even pushed out the first calf. He managed to get the head and shoulders out at least, but it’s so big that it won’t be slipping out of its own accord, like offspring usually would after the widest point. He seems to have gotten stuck on the hips, his trembling legs sprawled open, pussy a raw maroon around it. His heavy eyes and drooling mouth make you wonder if he was trying to get some sleep, himself, but at the sound of your boots, he jerks to attention.

Before you can say anything, he starts panting that he’s sorry, and you watch as he desperately throws his whole body into a grunting, shaking push. The hips lurch out of him, and he jolts in pain, legs twitching as the calf flops between them. You drag its hind hooves out of him and heft the gangly creature into your arms.

You force him to look at it. The proof that his womb is your property to use as you please, that you control what grows inside of it, that he’s nothing more than an incubator to you. He’s so dazed that you’re not even sure he realizes it isn’t cattle. He’s already learning that it doesn’t matter what’s growing inside him, just that he does his job and spreads his legs whether it’s going in or out.

You cut the cord and pass the calf off to one of the farmhands who’s begun to trickle in for the work day. By the time you join your naughty boy again, he’s clutching his misshapen belly and wincing as it tightens. He mumbles that he still feels heavy, and you just smile at him, waiting for the realization. In the mean time, you pull a pair of flanges down from the ceiling and affix them to his puffy teats. You enjoy his raspy, needy moos as his taut, veiny udders begin to release spurts of thick milk.

Stupid thing that he is, it isn’t until he finds himself bearing down again that he realizes his punishment isn’t over. His eyes fly wide, the milking tubes wobbling as his chest begins to jump with panic. He bargains fruitlessly, his delirious “no”s making you rest a hand on your crotch, tempted to please yourself right here and now. Instead, you pull on a glove and plunge your hand inside his gaping birth canal. You ignore his whimpers of discomfort, focused instead on the hoof-tips you find splitting his cervix. You tell him the rest of his punishment is on its way, and he starts to weep pitifully.

He’s so cute as he idiotically tries to push, like he’s already forgotten how much more effort he’ll need later in the birth. He uses what little remaining energy he has on a few pathetic, useless pushes, and then succumbs to hopelessness and goes limp.

With a roll of your eyes, you call in a farmhand to help you haul the still-hugely-pregnant hucow off the floor. You drape him against the chest-high fence separating this stall from the one next door, and tell the farmhand to grab some rope. You get him nicely set up, with his belly drooping below him, his tits hanging with the pumps still attached, and his quivering pussy nice and visible. A contraction hits him, and you appreciate the way you can see his belly lift and tighten from behind, and the abused red muscle clench inside his loose cunt, and tendons appearing near the base of his tail as it lifts instinctively.

When you have the rope in hand, you begin to bind him to the slats of the fence. He shakes his head and pleads with you weekly, but you ignore him as you work. After a few deft minutes of looping rope around limbs and wood, you finish tying off an impressive series of knots that keep him bent at the knees and waist, a partial squat with just enough range for him to rock his hips backwards. He groans at the weight of his contracting gut as it pulls on his back. You give him a nice smack on his cunt and tell him he should be thanking you for setting him up to be aided by gravity. He’ll need all the help he can get with this one.

In a small voice, he asks you how big the one he already birthed was, and you proudly tell him it was 45lbs. And this next one? he asks. You grin. 50lbs. He makes a thick, senseless noise of despair and hangs his head. You tell him not to be so dramatic.

To his credit, the little breeder tries to push. He even tries really hard, sometimes. But he makes no progress. For days, the hooves poke grotesquely out of his pussy while the head remains heavy in his pelvis, the muzzle of the beast peeking through his cramping cervix, bobbing with his contractions but making no progress. His hips simply aren’t wide enough. Even though they’re noticeably wider now than they were even just before his labor began, they still have further to spread before the larger twin will fit through. He can do nothing but wait, body limp with despair as his muscles try to pry his skeleton beyond its natural limits. You make him useful, at least, and keep the pumps on his bulbous, sagging udders.

For five days, he labors on the second calf. You leave his stall door open and take special care to have your new purchases lead by so that they can all see what will happen to them if they step out of line. Your fresh hucow boys walk away from the sight looking haunted, flinching as they hear the broken groans of a naughty breeder echoing after them.

You’re a caring farmer, so you hand-feed him, and care for his waste and his cleaning, yourself. Twice a day you soap him down in cool water, washing layers of panicked sweat from his laboring body, paying special attention to the delicately stretched flesh of his belly and the splay of his pussy. At first, his body keeps his birth canal nice and wet, naturally lubricating it for the birth, but as the days go on and his gaping hole remains exposed to the open air, he starts to dry up. So you take it upon yourself to push your fingers in around the legs of the calf—ignoring his whimpers and yelps—and coat his insides in industrial livestock lube. You make sure to get his pussy lips too, tracing your fingers liberally around his labia and even his swollen boyclit.

You’re in the process of rinsing him off after a good scrubbing when a contraction comes, and instead of the lifeless moan of almost-numb pain you’ve gotten used to, he whips his head up and wails, then releases a threadbare laugh. It moved, he starts to whisper, he felt it move down. You step back and survey his hips, finding the jut of his hipbones so extreme that you bet he won’t ever walk the same.

His horribly overdue belly, a deep purple from pressure and broken veins, tightens suddenly much harder than it has been, and the boy wheezes a low noise and his head drops down as he pushes for the first time in days. The atrophied muscles in his back shake, and his tail quivers as it struggles to lift. You push your fingers inside him, and feel the knees sink ever so slightly down. Barley any progress, but it’s something. He starts to whimper about his back, that it hurts, it hurts so bad, but you ignore him.

On his next push, you jam your hands against the tops of his hips, a counter-pressure technique that you read about. His deep, rumbling pushing sound spikes with a startled yelp as the calf surges down, and you laugh in triumph as you see the calf’s lower front legs dangling from his pussy. Shoving your hand inside him, you wriggle your fingers up and feel around. The muzzle is almost through his cervix.

With the help of your counter-pressure, his shaking, desperate pushes manage to ever so slowly move the calf forward. Distantly you’re aware that a naughty cow like him doesn’t deserve the help, but you’re tired of dealing with this birth. Who knows how much longer it would take with just his meager pushing.

His grunting grows louder and wilder as the head fills his cervix. The legs dangle out of his pussy, and his cunt lips are just starting to spread for the muzzle. For three hours, you stay with him and push on his hips, feeling yourself pry them wide each time, watching your livestock come a bit further out. Your hands get tired around the time he crowns, so you take a break to stretch them, ignoring his shrieks and pleading as his useless cunt spasms around the gargantuan head and large, knobby knees. You see his face turning purple as he struggles to push without you.

Enjoying his desperation, you decide to save this moment, and take out your phone. What you intend to be a quick video ends up being forty minutes of pleading breeder boy, rising to hysterics with the pain of punishment burning his hole wide. For the camera, you trace your fingertips around the impossibly splayed gape of his lips, gently caressing his bulging asshole, one wrong move from prolapsing, and his clit stretched so tight against his pubic bone that he sobs in pain at the slightest brush. You command him to push, and watch his ears quiver and enjoy his pathetic straining whines as he fails to move the head at all.

When you’ve had your fun, you reluctantly return to helping him. But even with your expert hands opening him more, he’s barely wide enough. He claims to be pushing as hard as he can, but you accuse him of being lazy. He sobs that it hurts, nothing has ever hurt this bad, he just wants it out of him, he’s doing everything he can! He’s sorry, he’s so sorry…

You tell him to shut up and push.

With your hands mercilessly angling his hips apart and his whole body bulging with tendons, he slowly moves the crown forward. The boxy head of the creature creates a delicious plateau of width, a crown that spans nearly 6 inches. Your breeder boy’s pathetic pushes move it so little that even though you notice progress every ten minutes or so, it’s too minute to observe in the moment with the naked eye.

Your forearms are beginning to cramp, so you warn him that you’re about to leave him to finish this on his own. He starts to thrash in his binds, simpering for your forgiveness and mercy, begging you not to leave him crowning. You chuckle and ask why not, when his pussy is so pretty like this? He gives no answer, breath growing too short to hold words.

But clearly he took your threat to heart, because he throws his birthing hips back into your hands and lets loose a primal, lowing grunt, his pussy lips and his asshole bulging and his belly shaking beneath him as he strains every muscle in his body.

Suddenly the head surges out with such force that you think the whole calf will come out of him. But only the length of its neck makes it free before it jerks to a stop on the hulking shoulders. The boy makes a sharp, broken sound, like he was trying to scream but he didn’t have the breath for it.

You marvel at the size of the calf’s head, and the way your naughty boy’s pelvic floor strains, everything between his legs stretched dangerously away from where it’s meant to be. You trace the purpling flesh of his cunt lips, wondering that he hasn’t torn wide open.

It’s only then that you realize he seems to have passed out. Rolling your eyes, you lean over the fence he’s tied to and slap his tits around until his eyes struggle open. He whimpers incoherently at you before his eyelids and his head drop heavily. You decide to let him rest.

You retire to the farmhouse where you take a hot bath. It’s hard work helping to deliver a calf that big, after all! After a good night’s sleep, you indulge in sleeping until sunrise. You stretch out your sore muscles, treat yourself to a hearty breakfast with extra coffee, and stroll leisurely back to the breeding stables.

Somehow, yesterday, you grew so jaded to the concept of your boy’s punishment that it became commonplace. When you enter the stables this morning, however, you’re struck anew by the stunning, humiliating sight of a gangly creature hanging halfway out of the boy’s cunt. You take another leisurely video, sure to capture all of the grotesque detail of what this boy’s body is capable of, and make sure the camera knows that the great shoulders struggling just behind his clinging pussy lips have been right there for the past 12 hours.

When you end the video and check on the boy, you find him awake, eyes a puffy purple-red and floppy cow ears limp against his sweat-matted face. He suddenly twists with a desperate, ugly wince as his belly draws up and his body contracts. You watch in delighted fascination as the shoulders pull at his pussy, dragging his whole crotch so far forward that it hardly looks functional anymore. His perineum is nearly purple with straining tissue, and his rectum threatens to bloom, a bud of weakly throbbing red in the center of his puffy anus.

I’m sorry, he whispers. I’m so sorry, I’ll be good from now on, please just get it out. Please.

You tell him he’ll get the damn thing out himself. While he weeps, you grab supplies and a few farmhands.

He’s limp as a puppet and pliant as a puppy when you untie him. It takes two farmhands to lift him and a third to support the calf flopping from his messy cunt. They carry him and his half-born punishment into the hall of the stable, where you have a pair of crates set up next to a pole.

With a bit of work, you manage to pose him in a deep squat, a foot on each crate and the calf bulging absurdly beneath him. You tie his ankles to his upper thighs, then his knees to his elbows, and rig him to the pole behind him with just enough tension to keep him from falling forward on hai face. It’s an excruciatingly open pose, the calf dangling straight down beneath him. He’s instantly overtaken by trembling, his face pale, his inner thighs spasming weakly.

Should’ve done this in the first place, you chuckle, and pull up a chair.

Without the strength or leverage to push, the shoulders of the calf punish the naughty boy appropriately, forcing him wider contraction by contraction, so slowly that you can’t even confirm any progress until late afternoon. The farmhands and other hucow boys stare at him in fascination and terror, respectively. He hangs his head and moans brokenly with each contraction, his still-round belly lifting his engorged udders and squeezing his lungs each time.

When the farmhands go home, you pull your chair up to the boy and take out the final supply you collected earlier: a high-powered vibrator. His eyes flash open the moment you turn it on, the sound making his ears flick back and his pupils shrink in instinctive terror. He starts to plead, sobbing about how sorry he is, but you simply press the buzzing head to his pulled-taut clit.

His broken screams echo in the stable. Other hucows lean out of their stalls and watch grimly as the stupid, disobedient boy struggles to even thrash properly in his bonds, the calf flopping disgustingly between his legs. He sobs desperate ‘no’s, and you jam the vibrator harder against him, until finally he chokes and seizes with an unwanted orgasm.

The shoulders begin to bob furiously behind his cunt lips, so you keep the wand where it is. His ruined cries wash over you as you trigger orgasm upon orgasm, every time watching his cumming pussy ease the shoulders a little further.

Just when you think his little cow cunt will never let go of the shoulders, he lets loose a high, whistling whine of pure fear, and his lips are forced the last tiny bit apart as the shoulders burst through him. This time, gravity works in his favor—lucky little bastard—and the rest of the calf tumbles out.

He caves inward with a feeble sob, the core of his body sinking as it the calf had been what was keeping him together. As you tend to the calf, you enjoy the sight of his full udders jiggling and dripping with his pathetic gasps.

You drop the calf into the weighing sling, and put your hands on your hips. You tell the boy he should be proud—he just birthed a 55lb moose, 20 whole pounds larger than average, probably a world record. He shudders with delirious, sniveling laughter.

Then he freezes and goes silent as you tell him you bet his next birth will be even bigger. His lip starts to wobble, and his nose runs as he tells you about how good he’s going to be, how there won’t be a need for a punishment, and all sorts of other things you don’t listen to.

His breath hisses sharply though his teeth and his belly tenses even harder as he does just that, abs struggling to maintain any grip after being stretched so thin by two huge pregnancies.

But, finally, the most beautiful moment comes. The unrelenting pressurized ache between his legs tightens into a burn, and the crotch of his jeans rounds subtly as the head drops through his cervix and fills his pussy completely. He squirms and grits his teeth, panting.

“Fuuuck, baby, it burns, it already burns.” Trembling beneath the weight of his rock-hard belly, he manages to scoot back and spread his legs even wider. “My pussy’s so full! It barely fits! Aaaauuuuugh-!” His head falls back, body lurching and belly rocking as he puts his whole spine into a push. He keeps stretching, a growing swell where his thighs meet, a sting worsening every second as the poor lips of his cunt grind between the descending head and the shrinkwrap jeans.

Then the progress stops. He keeps pushing, even between contractions, indulging in loud, effort-filled moans, but the oppressive weight of the head remains closed behind his stretched labia.

“I can’t get it out!” His head rolls back, chest heaving in overwhelm. “It won’t come out no matter how hard I push!”

Finally, he’s getting closer to the place he’s imagined being, the place he’s been dreaming of returning to for 11 months. Laboring fiercely, he struggles to lift himself up, and must sit with his legs splayed and his contracting pussy forward before he manages to stand. With the slow, rocking gait of a man with a head splitting his hips, he staggers towards the camera and turns it.

For a moment, the shot is vague and unfocused, just a brown smudge with the agonized sounds of labor in the background. Then his groaning fades, and the image rattles around before actualizing into a dresser. He practically falls into the frame, his hands slapping the surface of the dresser as his belly hangs with incredible weight beneath him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mumbles, and begins to circle his hips in wide, deliberate motions. “Mmhg… your baby’s so big… can you see? Can you see it coming out?”

Later, he’ll be pleased to find that he managed to catch his body in complete profile, including the lump jutting from the back of his jeans.

Now, he lifts a trembling hand from the dresser top and stretches to cup the tender curve of his bulging perineum. His jaw falls open as he traces two delicate fingers down the seam of his jeans, pressing it ever-so-slightly between his pussy lips.

This causes the tiniest bit of tension on his stretched t-clit, and he yelps like a puppy, feebly bucking his hips. “Augh!” He hangs his head, and the light catches tears welling between his lashes. “Ohhhh my god,” he groans, “it’s too… it’s too…!”

Suddenly his eyes fly open, and a helpless squeak ekes from his throat, only for him to spread his lips in a silent wail as he cums. The tense and pulse of his orgasm triggers something in him, and he slams his hand down and starts pushing frantically, bucking his full pussy backwards like he can just wrench it out.

“It’s too much!” he screams. “I need- I need—!”

With trembling hands, he tries to unbutton the jeans. Tight as they are, he struggles, whimpering desperately every time he must stop to push.

“Ohh, pleasepleaseple—“ The moment he drags his jeans down his thighs, the glistening, dark red dome between his legs swells even further, and finally splits open. He shrieks, cumming again at the first hint of the head peeking out, and the orgasm makes the little slip of dark hair bob, easing further out and sinking back in with each urgent clench of his shiny, cumming pussy.

He wails, agonized, even as two of his fingers fly to jam against his tightening clit.

When it finally passes, he sags for a moment, the heavy shape of his belly tightening and relaxing as he gasps for air. “Ooooh, it’s right there,” he mumbles. “Fuuuuuck. Fuck it’s so good. It’s so— mnnnn…” He winces even as a pleased shiver unfurls across his limbs.

Shakily, he shoves the jeans further down his legs, revealing that he still has one last piece of clothing: a skintight pair of transparent vinyl briefs. Every inch of his birthing hole is visible, reflected light clinging to the dips and curves of his body.

Glancing at the camera, he manages a sweaty, self-satisfied smirk. “You like this? I wanted you to see just how big your baby stretches me.”

Saying so, he turns, still bent at the waist, so that the camera gets his plastic-coated cunt in perfect detail. Then, groaning, he pushes, and the material tightens as the slit between his raw lips begins to round towards his asshole. For a moment, it’s the resistance of his own slowly-opening body that prevents the head from coming out, but as he pushes and pushes, the vinyl stretches less and less, until finally—

“Ah- ah-! It won’t move!”

Wrapped as delicately as a present, his crowning cunt trembles and his asshole throbs on the end of a desperate push. “Ohh GOD!” he wails, hanging his head. “My clit! Fuck, my clit, my clit—“

The sweet little thing barely makes a bump against the plastic, the purple head eye-catching amid all the stretched-pale flesh. Between the skull of the crowning child and the uncaring chafe of the vinyl, his t-clit is pressed thin as a flower between pages, and he starts to heave sobs of overstimulation. His toes curl, and he shakes his head, drool beginning to gather over his lip with wet mumblings.

“I can’t! Get it out! Get it out, get it OUT!!”

Instinctively, he drops into a deep squat, and screams as the tremendous weight of his pregnant mass tries to thrust the head from his pussy. Still, the vinyl cradles it, and it remains at a perfect crown between his quivering lips. He shrieks and bounces restlessly on his heels, hands fluttering down feverishly between his legs to feel the bowling-ball weight now hanging beneath him.

His begging to get it out loops into incomprehensible babble as he pushes and pushes. “It’s too big, your baby’s too big for my pussy!” he moans. “My clit’s gonna tear! I can’t anymore!”

Yet he does, never removing the briefs, because he has a plan: he’s not going to take them off. Not until he gives birth.

When his thighs begin to shake, he slumps forward and ends up on his side, clutching his belly in one hand and the back of his knee in the other, prying himself wide. He lays on his side, heaving like livestock, and groans helplessly as he pushes without end. Birthing fluid gathers in the vinyl briefs and drips down his legs, the drops released with each push accumulating over the seemingly unending effort.

Eventually, when he can’t force the head out that way, he clambers onto his hands and knees and crawls, his entire body shaking, back to the bed. He reaches into a box sitting on the floor and produces a powerful massage wand. Then, sinking down on one elbow, he presents his crowning cunt to the camera and pushes the powerfully vibrating wand between his upper thighs, wedging it to the splayed-wide nub that used to be his t-clit.

At first he screams, but his voice gives quickly, and he lays there with his cheek pressed to the floor and his ass up, contracting and cumming in helpless perpetuity. Occasionally, soft whimpers of, “Need it out, lemme push it out, lemme birth it…” are caught by the microphone.

Three and a half hours after he first crowns, he finally finds the strength to make that final push. With an ugly, heaving grunt, the vinyl fills with the huge head of his baby. He takes his time peeling off the briefs, and lifts himself upright, shuffling his knees under himself and facing the camera again. Kneeling there, he holds the wand directly on his aching purple clit, and births the massive shoulders with a single push and the whimper of a ruined orgasm.

This is the first video file his stud receives, labeled 13lbs.mov.

But there is also a second.

This one began recording at 2 AM, in the moody light of a bedside table lamp. In it, sweat renders the breeder’s heaving body in a thin glitter, and his belly still looks huge in the half-dark, especially as it draws tight with a contraction.

“The- the afterbirth was taking forever,” he says in a scratchy voice, absent of the sultry pageantry of the first video. “Now- ooooh, hah, fuck.” He pants, instinctively lifting a foot onto the bed to open his hips. “Hah, hah, I need to push, I gotta push agai—!” His face scrunches up, and slowly reddens as he struggles with all his might.

After, it takes him several gasping moments to speak again. His chest jumps with shallow breaths, words thin.

“There’s another head. A second head. Fuck, holy fuck.” He laughs almost deliriously. The lamplight catches his raw pussy squeezing gently in anticipation. “I’m having another one. A twin. Fuck, you put twins in me!” He reaches down and gives an indulgent rub to his incredibly swollen clit before shoving his fingers up his cunt.

Then he jolts, and his eyes fly wide. “Oh, god, I feel it! The head! It’s right there, it’s coming so fast, what the— ohhhhh—”

His belly locks into a tight, twisted shape, and he releases only a faint wheeze, like the wind has been knocked out of him, as he pushes with it. The plastic covering the bed crinkles in his fists.

Unlike its slow, impeded stretch before, his heavily-used pussy unfurls suddenly around the budding head. He yelps in shock. Then both of his hands fly to it, and he moans as the rest of his push is absorbed into the counter-force of his palms and the head moves no further.

“Stop!” he screams. “It’s too big! I can’t, I can’t, I…”

Delicately, a tendon leaping in his neck as he pants for breath, he starts to push the crown back inside. “Fuck!” His head drops backwards, and he shakes it at the ceiling as if defying himself. “Fuck, fuck, it’s going back in! It doesn’t fit, it’s too much, fuck! My- ah! My fucking cervix, fuck, hnnnn-“

Voice breaking, he whimpers desperately even as he slowly closes his legs around his wrist, hand still covering his puffy pussy. “M’so full. Fuuuuck. Fuck, I can’t believe I get to do this again, pussy’s made for struggling on big babies, fuuuuck…”

His wrist writhes into the meeting of his thighs, hips rolling forward as he humps the heel of his hand. “Ohhh I feel so heavy. So fucking.” Then a wince, teeth clenching, as his belly contracts. “M’not ready,” he mumbles, then groans loud enough to wake the dead as he pushes uselessly. His elbow jerks as he works his hand against his clit, and suddenly his hips leap from the bed and his eyes flutter as he cums, birthing fluid spraying between his fingers.

“Shit!” His next gasp rattles, voice fraying again with his volume. “Need this, need this, need this so bad, need your huge fuckin’ twins stuck in my cunt every night—!”

He whips his hand away and opens his legs, and makes a frail bleating sound with the rhythm of his stretching pussy as the head lurches out in steady spasms. He lets it keep coming until it triggers a scream just before crowning, then shoves it up his greedy cunt again. His spine arches off the bed, a wounded, dying groan filling the room.

“Fuuuuuuuck, baby, it hurts, it hurts, it’s too much, it’s too much, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I—“

With only needy instinct guiding him, he denies himself the birth of the twin for hours, lost in a heady haze of pressure and pain and pleasure. His body fights to push it out, writhing on the sheets, and he forces it back inside, his orgasmic groans indistinguishable from his moans of absolute agony.

Near dawn, he scrambles upright, legs wavering dangerously beneath him, and shudders with the force required to shove the head back in as gravity enters the picture.

“Need to- need it out,” he pants, eyes shiny and pleading. “Can’t do it anymore, my pussy, my poor fucking pussy hurts so bad, I need to birth it, I need to birth it, please let me—!”

His knees give, and when his hands lurch to his thighs to steady himself, the baby finally crowns. He shrieks, then starts to shake his head, wailing, “Too big! It’s too big!” His already-splayed knees wobble further apart, feet shifting on the floor, and his body squats almost without his permission, bulging the head forward.

With ragged, helpless breaths and a heaving belly, he reaches clumsily for the camera. Shadows fly around the room and his hands clack noisily on the plastic, then finally he’s filming his pussy straight-on.

“L-look at that head…”

It’s so big that it looks unreal, his trembling thighs flush against the ears and his lips so stretched they’ll clearly never be the same. It’s hard to even imagine how his pelvis got so wide. He gasps a sob distantly. “So big…!”

Slowly, slowly, it begins to come out. He makes a breathless grunting sound, then squeaks in pain as the fat cheeks begin to stretch his hole even further, and cups it again with his hand. By his full-body tremble, it’s clear there’s no pushing it back in now, but he holds it all the same, desperate to deny it just a little longer.

“Fuck, fuck… ahhhh- hah… hmmmmng, too full, too big, it burns, it burns so bad, I can’t…”

But he does. A contraction begins to ease the head forward again, and he yelps as it bursts out of him. To the camera, it looks nearly the size of a grown man’s head, though the warped perspective is mostly to blame.

A thin whimper, and he clenches his jaw into another push. After everything, it still takes all he has left to grunt the shoulders free of his pussy, flicking his clit all the while.

This second video file, he names 18lbs.mov.

With the two files, he includes the message: Meet in 4 weeks? I already miss being full ❤️