Enby Preggers

The doctor explained it calmly, as if it were just another medical fact. Heteropaternal superfecundation, she called it. Rare, but not impossible. Amita had been seeing two men—Omar, a quiet, thoughtful architect with a gentle smile, and Malik, a bold, charismatic chef who owned a small restaurant near her office. She hadn’t planned for things to get so complicated. She cared deeply for both of them, and they each brought something unique into her life. Omar was her steady anchor, the one she turned to for comfort and long conversations about life. Malik was her spark, the one who made her laugh and swept her off her feet with his passion. She hadn’t meant to juggle them both, but here she was, caught in a tangle of love and biology.

Amita sat on her couch that evening, her hands resting on her still-flat stomach, wondering how she’d break the news. She couldn’t hide it forever—twins would be impossible to conceal, and the truth about their fathers would eventually come out. She decided to tell Omar first. She invited him over for tea, her nerves buzzing as she poured steaming chai into two cups. He arrived with a bouquet of marigolds, his soft brown eyes crinkling as he smiled at her. She took a deep breath and told him everything: the pregnancy, the twins, the fact that one was his and the other wasn’t. Omar’s face froze for a moment, the flowers slipping slightly in his grip. He set them down on the table and sat back, processing.

“You’re sure?” he asked quietly, his voice steady but laced with something she couldn’t quite place—shock, maybe, or hurt.

“The doctor confirmed it with a DNA test,” Amita said, her throat tight. “I didn’t know this could even happen.”

Omar nodded slowly, his hands clasped in his lap. “And the other father… it’s Malik, isn’t it?”

She nodded, unable to meet his gaze. She braced herself for anger, for him to walk out, but instead, he reached for her hand. “This is… a lot,” he said. “But I’m not going anywhere. If one of them is mine, I’ll be there. We’ll figure it out.”

Tears welled up in Amita’s eyes, and she squeezed his hand, grateful for his calm strength. But she knew the next conversation wouldn’t be so easy. Malik was fiery, impulsive—he’d either laugh it off as some cosmic joke or storm out in a blaze of jealousy. She called him the next day, asking him to meet her at his restaurant after closing. The scent of spices lingered in the air as they sat at a corner table, the dim lights casting shadows on the walls. She told him the same story, watching his expression shift from confusion to disbelief to a loud, incredulous laugh.

“Twins? And one’s mine?” Malik leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his thick hair. “That’s insane, Amita. You’re telling me I’m sharing this with Omar?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice firm despite the knot in her stomach. “I didn’t plan this, Malik. It just happened.”

He studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes narrowing. “And what do you want from me? To play daddy while he does too?”

“I want you to decide for yourself,” she said. “I’m keeping them. Both of them. If you want to be part of this, you can. If not, I’ll understand.”

Malik rubbed his jaw, his bravado faltering. “I need time to think,” he muttered, standing up abruptly. He left her sitting there, the sound of the door slamming echoing in the empty restaurant.

Weeks turned into months, and Amita’s belly grew. She decorated a small nursery in her apartment, painting the walls a soft yellow and setting up two cribs side by side. Omar came over often, helping her assemble furniture and bringing her homemade meals. He’d sit with her on the couch, his hand resting gently on her stomach, feeling the kicks of the baby he’d fathered. Malik, meanwhile, kept his distance at first, but slowly he started showing up too. He’d bring her spicy chaat from his restaurant, claiming it was “good for the babies,” and though he and Omar rarely spoke, an uneasy truce began to form. Amita didn’t push them to get along—she knew this was uncharted territory for all of them.

By her eighth month, Amita was enormous, waddling around her apartment with a mix of exhaustion and excitement. She’d had countless doctor’s appointments, each one confirming that the twins were healthy, growing strong despite their unusual origins. She’d named them already: Aarav for Omar’s son, meaning “peaceful,” and Zayan for Malik’s, meaning “bright.” She liked the idea of their names reflecting their fathers’ personalities, a small way to honor the two men who’d shaped her life.

It was a humid evening in late March when the first contraction hit. Amita was alone, folding tiny onesies on her bed, when a sharp pain rippled through her abdomen. She gasped, clutching the edge of the mattress, waiting to see if it was a fluke. But then another came, stronger, and she knew it was time. She grabbed her phone, her fingers shaking as she called Omar first. “It’s happening,” she said, breathless. “Can you get me to the clinic?”

Omar was there in fifteen minutes, his car screeching to a stop outside her building. He helped her down the stairs, her overnight bag slung over his shoulder, and drove her to the local childbirth clinic, a modest building with whitewashed walls and a steady stream of expectant mothers coming and going. Amita gripped his hand as another contraction hit, her breathing ragged. “Call Malik,” she managed to say. “He should know.”

Omar hesitated, then nodded, pulling out his phone. Malik answered on the second ring, his voice tense. “She’s in labor,” Omar said simply. “Get to the clinic if you want to be here.” He hung up without waiting for a reply.

The clinic was bustling but efficient. A nurse led Amita to a delivery room, the fluorescent lights harsh against the pale blue walls. She settled onto the bed, sweat beading on her forehead as the contractions grew closer together. Omar stayed by her side, holding her hand and murmuring encouragements. “You’re doing great,” he said, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos of pain.

The door burst open twenty minutes later, and Malik strode in, his chef’s apron still tied around his waist, stained with turmeric and oil. “I didn’t miss it, did I?” he asked, his eyes darting between Amita and Omar.

“No,” she panted, managing a weak smile. “You’re just in time.”

The labor stretched on for hours, each minute blurring into the next. Amita gripped both their hands—one steady, one restless—as the pain intensified. The doctor, a no-nonsense woman with gray streaks in her hair, coached her through it. “Push, Amita,” she said firmly. “You’re almost there.”

With a final, guttural cry, the first baby came—a boy, small and squalling, with a shock of dark hair. The nurse wrapped him in a blanket and handed him to Omar, who stared down at Aarav with awe. “He’s mine?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

“Yes,” the doctor confirmed, already focused on the next birth. “One more, Amita. You can do this.”

Minutes later, the second twin arrived, another boy, louder and fiercer than his brother. Zayan was placed in Malik’s arms, and for once, the brash chef was speechless, his eyes glistening as he looked at his son. Amita collapsed back against the pillows, exhausted but elated, watching the two men cradle their babies. The room was quiet except for the soft cries of the newborns, a strange harmony settling over the trio of adults who’d been thrust into this unlikely family.

The days that followed were a whirlwind. Amita recovered at the clinic, the twins sleeping in bassinets beside her bed. Omar and Malik took turns visiting, bringing food and arguing over who got to hold their son longer. It wasn’t perfect—there were tense moments, awkward silences—but they made it work for her sake, and for the boys’. When Amita finally brought Aarav and Zayan home, the apartment felt fuller, alive with the chaos of new life.

She stood in the nursery one night, watching the twins sleep, their tiny chests rising and falling in unison. Omar stepped up beside her, his shoulder brushing hers. “They’re beautiful,” he said softly.

“They are,” Malik agreed, joining them from the doorway. For a moment, the three of them stood there, a fragile but real unit bound by the two small lives they’d created.

The pain continued to grow and so did your voice. Finally, your screams turned to pants as the contraction started to die down. You shifted your weight between your knees and leaned over to start the bath. Your belly brushed the cold edge of the bathtub, sending a shiver through you. The water started to fill the tub as you shook off the robe you’ve been failing to keep closed. 

You weren’t able to get into the tub before the pain started to creep up inside you. Your belly contorting in time with your next contraction. You were forced yet again to grab at the tub and scream through a contraction. The water lapped against your hand distracting you from the fading contraction. You quickly realized the faucet was still running and the tub was getting dangerously full.   

You heaved yourself up, your legs shaking from the last of the contraction lingering.With just a bit of strain you managed to stop the water from flowing. The warm water was nice on your skin. You know the tub should be drained a bit before you get in but you were too exhausted to care. Water splashed on the floor from your massive body raising the waterline and causing it to spill. 

You had just enough time to fully sit before the next contraction was starting. This time you started to feel the need to push. You leaned back and tried to just breathe. Your body had a different idea. It wasn’t long before you felt yourself push. Your body took over and wanted this baby out. 

The baby filled your birth canal slowly and painfully. With each contraction you pushed with all your might. Only to move the baby barely an inch with each push. The water had long turned cold by the time the head was pressing against your lips. The next handful of contractions felt like the worst ones yet. It wasn’t the pain raging through your back and hips, it was the burning between your thighs. The head was stretching you far beyond what you would think possible. 

Then with a scream, the head popped free. You reached down to check for a cord. When there wasn’t one, you began to push again. The shoulders pressed against your hole only for a moment before they too popped free. It was barely a push after that to get the rest of the baby out. 

You lifted the new life from the water as it started to cry. You finally were able to relax. You held your new baby and started to drain the tub. Soon after it emptied you climbed out and wrapped yourself and the newborn in towels. 

You waddled off down the hall. The pain in between your legs made your waddle even worse than when you were carrying both babies inside you. A contraction started halfway to the bedroom, signalling your next baby would be born soon. You managed to take deep breaths and walk through the pain. 

It worked long enough to place your newborn in the bassinet. Then you collapsed to the floor. You arched your back and let out a deep moan as the pain took over. This baby felt bigger and you were already so tired from pushing out the first one. You didn't know how you were going to do it again. 

The labor was more painful than your last, the baby weighed heavily on your abused pelvis and pressed against your tender insides. You couldn't help but writhe and scream when your body told you to push. The baby was bigger but something else felt wrong. The massive baby finally reached your abused opening. With a shaky hand you reached around your deflated stomach and felt for the head. 

Instead, your blood ran cold as you felt the bottom of your baby. You almost let out a sob but was cut off by another painful contraction. You pushed hard. Then again. Then again. The baby barely moved each time. When you collapsed back after a contraction you decided it was time to move. Very shakily and gingerly you were able to pull yourself up into a squat. It was just the trick. The next contraction had you pushing hard. This time the baby stretched your lips open. You focused on keeping yourself from falling over as a distraction from the pain. The noises you made were purely animalistic at this point, grunts, moans, and screams all mixed together in an attempt to get the baby out. 

The legs slipped free with the last push. Then the baby's body. The arms and head were still securely inside. You reached between your legs and tried to pull the arms free. Only to switch to plant them on the floor to help balance yourself as you push again. You didn't stop even when the contractions did. It was harder but the baby couldn't stay inside you much longer. 

Then he began the arduous process of getting out of his truck. It was undignified scooting until he got half of his ass off the seat, then he had to wedge a hand under his belly and hold it up while he turned, so that it didn’t drop off the seat and pull his back. Finally, gripping the door frame with his other hand, he stepped down, and released a winded oof as his body protested keeping itself upright while so overburdened. His back bowed, and even his chest bounced a little with the impact, the bit of breast tissue left over after his top surgery now swollen with milk.

Though sitting for so long left him sore and cramping, getting on his feet made him acutely feel every change of his impending fatherhood. He swore he could sense his hips settling even further apart in real time, the bottom-most twin an imminent weight deep in his pelvis, her tiny head generating a disproportionate amount of pressure on all his tender parts.

He spent a minute or so stretching, but there wasn’t much to be done when a body was this pregnant, so he pulled his tool kit from the back of his truck and began his waddle up to the house. Though, at this point, it was more of a trudge, the cuteness of his rocking posture diminished by how hard it was to get his work boots off the ground. By the time he reached the door, he was breathing heavy from just those few steps, a hand wedged to his aching back. He nudged the doorbell with the corner of his tool box.

A big guy answered the door, probably in his late 20s or early 30s, clean-cut, and didn’t seem to notice anything out of the ordinary until they shook hands and his eyes fell to Dave’s huge belly below. He stared for a moment—everyone always did—before clearing his throat.

“Uh- yeah, uh, come on in— Mister?” His eyes flicked between Dave’s belly and his upper lip, where a thick, well-groomed mustache grew. “Uh, Mister…?”

“Dave,” he supplied, a little tired, but mostly used to this by now.

That was always the most awkward moment since he began to show: strangers grappling with the sight of a clearly pregnant man. After two decades of being stealth, it was a little difficult to know that anyone who looked at him would see his belly and know that he had a womb. And then—the men, especially—would have the next logical thought, and realize there must be a pussy between his legs. He could only guess how frequently even the most unassuming man would think of his cunt. Some of them, he was pretty sure that was all they thought about when they looked at him.

This one was nice, at least, and even tried to offer him a cushion to kneel on for his work. Dave graciously declined, showing off the padded mat he had added to his toolkit about six months ago. The client still looked uneasy, and tried to help him kneel down, then got him a glass of water he didn’t ask for, and finally asked outright if Dave was sure he was up to this.

Dave waved him off, saying aloud that he felt great, internally begging the client to leave before he had another contraction.

Finally the guy left him to it, saying that he needed to run an errand but he’d be back before Dave was done.

No sooner had the client left than Dave’s belly drew horribly tight. He gasped and clutched both it and the nearby counter, and made a strangled, bemused noise as he found his bump just as hard as the marble under his other hand. The pain grew and the pressure tightened until a whine began to build in his chest, ready to break through his teeth at any moment— then suddenly his muscles let up, leaving him gasping and a little dizzy, a chill washing through his limbs.

“Right, okay,” he mumbled, rubbing his bump. He needed to hurry this up. He took a deep breath and exhaled very deliberately, then began to kneel. The process was arduous, his knees threatening to give between the mass of his belly and the breadth of his hips.

Every inch he got closer to the ground, the deeper the weight in his pelvis settled, until it felt like the baby would fall right out of him. Or shoot out, if he sneezed. He knew from experience that it was much more likely that he might have a little accident, but he didn’t want to tempt fate with these contractions ramping up. So, he exhaled shakily and tried to keep his legs together. He just needed to do his job.

His job, as it turned out, was not nearly as simple as he expected. What he thought would be a single part change turned out to be an entire set of pipes that would need to be replaced, but the wood of the surrounding cabinets was so old that it would surely not survive that kind of work. The whole thing needed to be redone. That was a job for another person at another time, but he couldn’t very well leave things in this state when a leak like this was costing his client dozens of dollars a day on the water bill. In this economy?! He had to do something. Maybe he could—

“Hoh—“ He buckled forward, both hands clinging to the lip of the counter above as a contraction gripped him. A low, thin hum grew in his chest as he bore the vice, his fingers cramping. It left him panting when it passed. He dropped a hand to his belly, to the side that had gone wonky and pointy as his descending children protested being squeezed.

“Slow down, kids,” he whispered, chest heaving. “Give Papa a little more time.”

Once he caught his breath, he pulled a mask and spackling out of his bag. With his face protected from fumes and potential rot, he leaned forward—grunting as his belly pressed against the mat, as his twins’ weight stung his spine—and got to patching up the worst of the leakage.

Speaking of leakage… leaning forward like this, his chest felt incredibly tight and heavy. He wouldn’t be surprised if he took off his overalls after this and found sweet colostrum staining the inside of his undershirt. Good. He would be ready to feed his babies.

He got a good bit of spackling done before the next contraction. This one was the hardest yet. The air evacuated his lungs, forcing out a gravelly sound as his throat drew tight. On his hands and knees like this, the tension was the worst in his back, strung through his tailbone all the way to his anus.

When it had mostly passed, he unclenched his hands, and found his left trembling, with the shape of the spackling tool indented in his palm. He set it thoughtlessly aside and put both hands flat to the floor of the cabinet, needing leverage to follow his body’s instinct to rock back and forth on all fours. His lower back especially still felt horribly tight, and the pressure in his belly had only grown. But the rocking relieved some of the tension in his lumbar region and hips, though every shift backward made him feel like the baby might pop right out of him.

Releasing a trembling sigh, he picked his tool up and got back to work. The sooner he could finish, the sooner he’d be out of here.

He didn’t know how long he worked. In the back of his mind was a voice screaming that he should be timing these contractions, that he needed to leave for the hospital now, given how far they were from civilization. But at the forefront of his mind was the task. He just had to finish this. Then he would get in his truck and drive to the hospital and it would all be fine. There was time. There had to be. Sweat dripped from his forehead and his belly strained like it carried solid lead and his hips felt like they might not survive standing up, but there would be time.

Finally, he finished the work. It wasn’t his best, but it was pretty good considering how many times he had been interrupted by his other labor.

Dreading the ordeal of getting back on his feet, he crawled around gathering his things, belly dragging on the floor. He whimpered out a curse as another contraction took him, wringing out a deep, throaty moan.

“Ohhhh, ho, hoh- no, oh no,” he panted, leaning back into it until his rock-hard belly rested on his thighs. The angle helped his hips but made him feel so tight from his perineum to his lower back, granting him a sickening insight into exactly where his child’s head was angled. It hurt so *bad*, he didn’t even know if he could sit down like this, let alone drive.

By the time he realized he had broken the cardinal rule of laboring—keep your breathing calm—he was already panting. His head swam and he was starting to feel sick and the waves of panic left his limbs tingling. He didn’t have time. He needed an ambulance.

He reached into his pocket for his phone… wait. Where was it? Oh god. He patted over his many pockets, but already he could envision his cell still docked above his radio, where he’d left it, back in the truck.

“No, no, no, no,” he panted. How could he make a mistake like that?! “Dave, you dummy, you- you…” he couldn’t even think of another word for how foolish he was, all he could think of was the pressure, the weight, the inevitable forcing his body wide open.

“Calm down,” he mumbled, swiping the sweat from his brow. There was nothing else to do, now; he just had to get the phone.

Well— first, he had to get up.

Trying to even his breathing, he reached for the counter again and got his arms situated against the marble edge. Then he counted one, two, three, and heaved himself up. Or, he tried to. He barely even unbent his legs before his struggling lower back and split-open abs failed, his anvil of a belly pulling him back into a squat. The sensation of the baby plummeting punched a wheeze out of him and made his stomach lurch, and for a moment he thought the head must have actually popped out before he realized he would definitely know if that had happened.

He muttered, “Keep your head on, Dave,” and shifted his boots further apart before trying again. With a colossal groan, trembling limbs, and a full ten seconds of effort, he finally made it back to his feet. He leaned against the counter while he caught his breath, clutching his heaving belly with one hand.

But he didn’t stay upright for long. The next contraction came already, and he barely had time to eke out a noise of dismay before the pain bent him against the counter, the breath forced out of him as the tension pulled his chest towards his belly. His elbows caught him on the marble, but that jarring pain was a mere tickle compared to the sensation of every muscle in his lower body working to tear a hole inside of him. The sheer energy required for the contraction generated heat all through his crushed guts and pinched stomach, and he gagged, whimpering as he swallowed against the urge to vomit on his client’s beautiful counter.

Finally, it ended. His whole body trembled, his sweat speckling the marble. He only lifted his weary head because that kept the bile from rushing up his throat.

Much like being on his knees, bending over the counter like this felt oddly natural, keeping his pelvic bones splayed wide. He wanted desperately to stay there, but the fear of doing the rest of this alone gave him the strength to push upright on shivering arms. So, a hand to his spasming back and one rubbing his belly, he waddle-trudged to the door.

Though he’d feared the trek to his vehicle, it was actually a bit of a relief. Apparently all of that about walking being good for labor was true; it stretched his muscles and made his loosened hips feel even more open. The sensation of his baby oscillating with each step wasn’t necessarily good, but it was its own kind of relief, a bit of variety in the never-relenting pressure.

Finally, he made it to his truck. He leaned heavily on the trusty old girl as he rounded the hood towards the driver’s side. He opened the door and stared at the step up into the high cab before deciding he wasn’t up to climbing. Instead he turned to his side, moving his belly out of the way, and reached over the seat for his phone.

Of course, that was when the next one hit.

The tension and the pain converged on him again, nearly as bad as last time. But there was another feeling, one that took him by surprise too much to resist: the need to push.

His hands fell to his thighs. Knees bending, lungs swelling, head ducking, he instinctively narrowed every muscle down towards his abdomen. The pressure he’d thought couldn’t get any worse somehow did, made him feel like he was about to burst and implode all at once as it inched lower, reigniting the tension near his tailbone and shooting down to his asshole. A deep sound buzzed in his chest, his voice seeping out unchecked as the effort took him over. Deliriously, he thought about how proud he’d been when HRT first lowered his voice, and how he never would have imagined hearing his new baritone strain as he pushed a child into the world.

The contraction eased up, and he stopped pushing, light-headed, limbs tingling, gasping for breath. “Haaa… fu- huh… ohhh…”

Wow, yeah, that definitely was a head in his vagina. The obstruction made him feel a bit delirious, made him want to fall against the truck and twist and wail and squirm and push until it was out. But he couldn’t afford that kind of tantrum, and he knew enough not to push without a contraction, let alone standing over a gravel driveway in the middle of nowhere.

“Alright, Dave, stand up,” he mumbled.

He unbent his legs, but couldn’t bring himself to straighten out his back and lose the relief of his tilted pelvis. That made it a bit of a reach up into the tall cab for the phone. He almost knocked it out of its dock with his unsteady hand, but he managed to curl his fingers around it. It took him a few tries to successfully pull up the keypad and dial. As it rang, he dropped his arms to the seat and rested his forehead on them, hips instinctively swaying, belly heaving gently as he struggled to keep his breathing in check.

A calm voice came over the speaker. “911, what is your emergency?”

He gasped in relief, head snapping up. “Hey! Hey, hello, yes, I’m in labor. Baby’s coming faster than I thought. I need an ambulance.”

“Your wife is in labor?”

His heart sank towards his stomach, a long plunging sensation for such a cramped amount of space. “No, no, I am. I’m having twins.”

“Sir, are you aware it can be a class four felony to make a fraudulent 911 call?”

This far into his life as a transgender man, Dave wouldn’t have thought this sort of thing could get to him anymore. But with a child forcing him apart, it made him gasp a helpless sob.

“No, no, don’t hang up, please, my name is Dave, I’m transgender, as in I- I used to be a woman, but, I-I’m a man now, I just still have a- you know, a uterus, and I- I’m pregnant with my first - with twins, 36 weeks and- four days I think? I thought I had time, I thought - but the first baby is coming, I think I need to start pushing, and—“

“Whoa, whoa, okay, hey, it’s alright. You’re alright, I’m not hanging up. I apologize, sir. I’m here to help you. Can you give me your address?”

“Uh… shoot, I’m- I’m on a job, I have to…” he pulled the phone away from his ear and fumbled through apps before he got the map back up. He read the address off.

“Okay. I’m sending an ambulance to your location. Now, you said you feel like you need to push?”

“Yeah,” he rasped. “I don’t think it’ll take much. She- the baby’s through my cervix, definitely, she feels low- really, really low.”

“How long have you felt like you needed to push?”

“Uh- well, not long, just one contraction so far. But it was- it was really intense. And I’ve been having, um, bad contractions for a while.”

“Okay. How far apart?”

“I haven’t been timing them. Uh… maybe four or five minutes apart before, but now? Less than three. Maybe even two.”

“Okay. Is there anyone there who can assist you?”

He looked forlornly at the tree-lined road winding empty towards the horizon. “Nobody for miles.”

“Okay, that’s okay. Can you reach your vagina, sir?”

He looked down, and groaned a soft, wavering sound at the sheer mass filling his overalls. “I dunno. My belly is so big…”

“Alright. Can you try for me?”

“Oh, jeez. Okay. Uh…” He set the phone down, then stretched an arm out and dug his nails around the leather piping on the opposite side of the car’s seat, anchoring himself. Then he shifted his feet back to deepen his bend, puffing his cheeks with a loud exhalation as he slid his other hand down his immense side.

It strained his shoulder and left him wheezing, but he finally managed the seemingly impossible task of getting his hand between his legs. With some wriggling and the help of a foot lifted onto the truck’s stair, he was able to reach the warm center of his crotch, where his vaginal opening hid beneath layers of canvas and cotton.

“Okay— ah- sh- shoot- okay, I can reach.” He hissed through his teeth. “Barely.”

“Alright, when you insert your fingers, do you feel your baby’s head?”

“Uh… I can’t do that. I’m in overalls.”

“…Can you get them off?”

“Oh.” He withdrew the hand from between his legs. “Let me see if I can…” He reached for the clasp of his overall strap. Teeth clenched, he struggled with the little thing and cursed himself for not choosing something easier to get in and out of. He’d barely been able to get the damn things off and back on when he took his bathroom break before the drive, and now, with his underbelly distended all the way to his pelvis by his descending child, the fabric was pulled far too sharply to get any leverage for lifting the clasps.

It wasn’t until he heard a concerned, “Don’t strain yourself,” over the phone that he realized he was making a thin, forceful noise in his throat, and his forehead was actually quite hot with the built-up effort. He let go of the strap with a huff and found himself panting.

“Shit,” he said, then, “sorry. Shoot.”

“What happened?”

“I think I’m stuck in my overalls. My- my belly’s changed shape since I put them on, and it’s made them too tight. I can’t undo the clasps now. Heck,” he added, with one last vehement pull of the denim strap. “Okay, okay, I’ve got shears with me, so- maybe I can cut myself out of them?”

“That sounds like a good plan, as long as you’re careful.”

“Right.” He looked to his trunk, where he kept his tool kit.

Where it currently was not, because he took it inside for the job.

“Oh, no,” he mumbled.

“What?”

“They’re inside. My tools are.”

“That’s okay. It might seem difficult, but it’s recommended to walk during labor.”

Dave grimaced, but he knew from experience that the operator was right. The operator… “Hey- sorry, I didn’t ask your name.”

“Oh! Uh, Henry.”

“Nice to meet you, Henry. I’m Dave.”

“Dave, right. Hi, Dave.”

“Hi. I’m gonna stick you in my pocket while I head inside, okay?

“Okay. Just watch your step, you don’t want to fall right now.”

“Okay, Hen.”

He looked up towards the house, considering the length of the journey, while he reached for his phone. Eyes elsewhere, he didn’t realize he missed his pocket until he heard the case knock against the stair of the truck and hit the gravel below.

All instinct and pregnancy-brained impulse, he squatted down to pick it up. By the time he realized what he was doing, it was too late to change tracks; the enormous weight of his belly was already dragging him down. A helpless groan punched out of him as his legs hit their deepest squat and the weight inside him lurched down, straining his crotch, so low he was sure it must be just behind his pussy lips.

“Oh, jeez,” he panted, “oh god, oh jeez, oh jeez—“

“Dave? Dave, are you there?” The gravel made the speakerphone sound tinny and distant, like Henry was actually a small man hiding in the pebbles. “Can you hear me?”

“Y-yeah,” Dave rasped.

“What happened?”

“Just- dropped my phone like a dummy. Happens. I’ve gotta—“

Tension plunged through his pelvis. He yelped, dwindling to a thin rasp as he tipped forward. He managed to catch himself with one hand against the car, while the other clutched at his belly, lumpy now as his locked-tight muscles shrunk around the emerging baby, and the one still waiting in his womb.

Then the claws in his back and the pressure in his hips and the noose around his belly all tightened at once, defied by the massive disruption in his core. A single thought remained in his head:

“Needtopush.”

Over the blood roaring in his ears, he barely heard Henry saying, “No, not yet, not yet, you need to get the overalls off first. Hear me? Don’t push, you can’t push yet!”

When he had found out he would be delivering twins at the ripe age of forty, Dave had immediately worried he wouldn’t have the stamina to make it through labor, the possible hours of pushing.

He never would have guessed how difficult it would be not to push.

His throat caught on a loud, humming kind of moan, desperate to listen to his body, but he channeled the urge to push elsewhere and shoved his hand against the metal siding of the car until it dented with a thump. Despite his valiant effort not to move things along, he acutely felt his womb squeezing the baby lower, slowly, agonizingly stretching him until he was sure his whole birth canal was full.

Finally the contraction passed. Dave dropped forward onto his knees and scattered gravel as he reached thoughtlessly for the phone.

“Dave? Dave, you there?”

“I didn’t push,” he panted. “But- the baby feels so low. Oh. Ohhh, I’m so full. Ohhhhh god. I think she’s gonna come on the next one whether I push or not.” He made a forlorn little sound in the back of this throat. “She’s coming, her head’s gotta be coming soon, it’s so big, I can feel it—“

“Dave, hey, don’t panic, alright? I need you to try to feel through your overalls. Does your pubic region feel domed outward?”

Clumsily, he managed to get his hand down there. The area was sensitive, and the pain persisted, but the touch of his fingers barely agitated it. It all felt swollen, but then, it had for a few months now. “I don’t think so?”

“Okay, that means you're not delivering the head yet. Can you breathe with me?”

Right, he was panting again. He rubbed his belly in slow, easy loops, and tried to breathe with the rhythm Henry was demonstrating on the other line. When he felt a bit more stable, he mumbled, “Sorry, normally I don’t lose my head like this, I just thought I had more time, and—“

“You’re doing great, Dave. Just try to get to those shears as quick as you can, but don’t hurt yourself, okay?”

Dave wanted to mutter something a little mean-spirited about how that was easy for Henry to say, since he didn’t have the first of two babies filling his vagina, but instead he just grunted as he gripped the seat edge above him and started to drag himself upright.

Then: a strange snapping sensation inside him, a sudden release of pressure, and the baby slipped lower with a distinct feeling of becoming lodged, no longer an amorphous mass but now a very clear physical shape, complete with angles and edges wedged between his bones. He groaned, only to gasp at the sudden gush of moisture between his thighs. For a moment he thought he’d wet himself, but as the inseam of his overalls grew warm with more and more liquid, he knew what had happened.

“Hooooh. Okay. Okay, looks like my water broke.”

“Oh! Okay, that’s alright, Dave. Nothing’s changed. Just get those scissors, okay?”

“Oka—ayyyye, ohh hoh hoh. Wow.”

Apparently the amniotic sac had been doing a lot of work keeping baby where she was; as he stood completely, he found her so low that he couldn’t believe she wasn’t falling into his overalls. Which, based on how his pussy was burning, really seemed on the table.

He bent to one side with a groan and managed to get his hand between his legs again. The fluid had left everything clinging, and this time he felt it all more distinctively: the hill of his pubic fat stretched by what was happening inside of him, his engorged t-dick, the puffy folds that had been swelling by the day as he neared the end of his pregnancy. But when he spread his fingers and traced the area, cupped it in his hand…

“Okay, shoot, okay, the baby- uh- dropped a little when my water broke, and now I can feel the head. Not- not coming out yet, but- but I’m all- starting to bulge, like you said—“

“Okay, we’re gonna hurry up and get those shears, then, right?”

“Right. Right, yeah.”

It was, in fact, much easier said than done. Dave was hardly even walking anymore, his legs absurdly bowed around the growing burn, each step a heavy rocking motion as he fought the momentum of his belly. It wanted to propel him forward, pull him down.

Unfortunately, moving like so much molasses, he had nothing to do but reflect on his situation, and the indescribable pressure behind his cunt, and how it felt like his hips were being displaced by his trusty Black Widow pearl-reactive 12-pounder with the Predator V1 Asymmetric core. Then he thought about getting back into bowling for a moment before an innocuous step made his pelvic bones feel like they were grinding together, and he decided it was probably a bad time to think about his hobbies, since he was about to have two babies on his hands.

“Almost there,” he wheezed, as much to Henry as to himself.

“Good job, Dave, you’re doing great.”

No sooner had he put his hand on the door knob than he began to feel the tightening in his back and belly again. “Hoh, oh no, one’s coming, a big one— ohhhhh…”

He lifted his elbows and fell against them on the door, folding his forearms to have something to rest his head against, and to dig his nails into his own elbows. The pressure in his belly only grew, spreading down, locking muscles he didn’t even know he had, steel forcing the unyielding mass in his pelvis even lower.

“Ohhh I wanna push, I need to puuuush!” he groaned, but he didn’t. He made strange, almost melodic noises as he rode out the urge, eyes welling, throat dry. The baby kept sinking lower. The steady burn in his cunt sharpened, and the sting spread to his perineum. He whined, his legs instinctively trying to close to get away, but unable to shut with the baby where she was.

Finally it passed, and as the white noise died in his ears, he heard Henry babbling something at him.

“I didn’t push,” he whimpered.

“Good, that’s—“

“Doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, the head is coming. Ohh, it burns. It really burns, she’s coming, I’m having her now!” He groaned as he struggled to get a hand between his legs again. Then he gasped. “Oh, jeez. Oh, I’m so full, everything’s all pushed out, it’s bulging. It burns, it fucking burns, she’s coming now.”

“Alright, Dave, you need to get to those shears, then. Get those shears and you can have your baby, okay?”

With his next step, he suddenly remembered a diagram he saw of a mother pushing, how the baby stretched her open from her depths to her lips, her birth canal so wide it looked like her womb reached right to her cunt. He felt that now, his whole person transforming into nothing but a passage for his baby.

Every instinct told him to stop right where he was and drop into a squat, to work with his body’s painstaking rearrangement, help it fulfill its purpose, and push. But the baby could get hurt if he delivered her into these overalls and they stayed stuck. He took a trembling breath and finally opened the door.

The house looked dangerous and dirty in a way it hadn’t before, now that he knew he was about to give birth here. There were several renovation projects going on at once, the living room wallpaper being replaced and some superficial columns half-broken down, an unmounted mirror resting at a possibly hazardous angle against the wall. Random pieces of debris and loose screws littered the floor.

Dave whimpered gently as he trudged towards the kitchen.

“Dave?”

“It’s a mess in here. Ugh, I wanted to have my babies at the hospital.” His next breath shuddered, eyes blurring with tears. “God, I should have just gone when the contractions started, I’m already a bad father…”

“Dave, best thing you can do for your babies right now is focus on finding those shears. Remember, the ambulance is on its way, okay?”

“Right,” he gasped, and wiped a hand roughly over his eyes. “Right, yeah, I’m almost there. Here’s the— oh, oh, no, no, no—“

He just managed to get his hands on the kitchen counter before the next contraction wrested control of his body. His knees swayed apart and his back arched as his pelvis lowered. He heard himself making a loud, long, “Haaaaaaa,” sound that was somehow helping him bear the pain, but nothing could keep his body from beginning to bear down. He shook his head and panted, trying so, so hard not to push. But still the baby moved lower, and the burn somehow got worse, and his voice went raw as he cried out.

“Dave!?”

“Hurts! It hurts so bad! She must have crowned,” he whimpered. “Oh, it hurts, it hurts…” he trailed into repetitious mumbling, frozen exactly where he was, feeling unable to move except to rock back and forth fruitlessly seeking relief. It felt like every bit of tissue was stretched to its limit, like a single shift would rip him open.

“Dave, you need to get the shears now!”

“Hmmmnnnnn… nnno- no, I can’t, I can’t,” he groaned. “Head’s too big, I can’t…”

“You can, Dave, you have to. Where are they?”

He managed to peel his eyelids apart, the world blurry and throbbing. For a moment, he didn’t even know where he was, or remember what he could possibly be doing other than delivering this baby. Something about… shears?

He glanced back at his tool box. The shear handles should have protruded from the outer pocket where he kept them, but he didn’t see them.

Then he took a shaky breath and smelled the spackling. It came back to him—he’d used the shears to clip off a bit of hardened spackle at the spout of the bottle.

“Right. I left them under the sink.” Knees bowed awkwardly apart, he turned and began to stagger that way. With the solid form of his child dominating his hips, and the still-massive obstacle of his belly, he didn’t trust himself to bend on his own without falling.

So, finally, he answered his body’s plea and squatted. The baby still in his womb pressed up into his diaphragm as he did, forcing a wheeze, but he managed to get there. The stretch of his overalls across his throbbing gash of a cunt only increased the agonizing pressure, and he had the dizzying thought that the firm canvas had pushed the baby back inside.

“Okay,” he panted, “almost there.” He braced an arm on the counter above his head and slowly began to lean forward. A low groan trickled out of him as the tilt of his pelvis shifted the weight inside, at once a relief and an alarm as the pressure somehow increased.

“Hoooooh god,” he groaned.

“Dave?”

“She’s coming out,” he mumbled.

“Do you have the shears?”

“Yeah, they’re right here. I just gotta— Oh. Oh, I gotta— Haa- hah- ho, ho no—”

The contraction was a force that could not be bargained with, so much pressure distilled into such a small space that suddenly nothing was left within him but a blind, instinctive need to push. He reared back to grab the counter lip with his other hand, dropped his chin to his chest, and finally, finally did what his body had been screaming at him to do: he pushed.

Everything in his upper body transformed into counter-pressure against the wrecking-ball presence in his hips, even the air in his lungs, forced low towards his abdomen. He pushed, face growing hot, heartbeat pounding in his ears, a thin, gravelly noise grinding in the back of his throat.

And he felt it, now; before, he’d been so certain each time that the scalp must have reached his lips, but now, he knew the head was the only explanation for the agony licking from his cock to his asshole. The pain eclipsed anything he’d experienced so far, devastating everything between his legs as it all bulged and deformed around his arriving baby.

The shock of his ruined pussy caught up with his breathless lungs, and suddenly he could push no more, forced to rasp in ragged, desperate gasps.

“Oh, oh, oh,” he heard himself wailing, an attempt to say oh god unrealized in the desperation of childbirth.

“—ave, Dave, what’s happening!?”

“The head!” he cried. “The head’s coming out, augh, hmmmn, god, it hurts! Hurts so bad. Haaaaah.” Trying to escape the pain, he started to rock his hips, but that only tightened the canvas of his overalls against the baby’s head—and this time, he really did feel the resistance nudge it back inside. He locked still with a yelp.

“Fuck! No, no, she’s going back in, no, no!”

“That’s okay, that’s okay, You’re doing so good, Dave, you’re almost there, you just need to get out of those overalls and then you can meet your baby. Can you see the shears?”

He whined a thin, affirmative sound.

“Okay, good, you need to get them, okay?”

The two feet between Dave and the shears might as well have been ten miles with the massive belly still hanging from him, and all of the muscles in his pelvis displaced by an entire body.

He whimpered. “Mmmokay. Okay. I can do it. I just gotta…”

Dave was, in general, a slow and methodical man. But he had never done anything more slowly and methodically than beginning to spread his feet apart now, lowering his already-too-low center of gravity. As his legs spread, the blaze between his thighs brightened and grew, and his throat produced a strange, continuously-breaking wobble he didn’t know he was capable of, the kind of noise he’d expect from someone being dragged across concrete.

“Dave?”

“M’bending.” His voice went especially thin as he bent further and the second twin was pushed deep into his lungs. “Ohhhh they’re too big. They’re too big…”

“You’ll be alright, Dave, just keep going, okay? You’re doing so great. You’re almost there.”

He dropped one of his hands from the counter overhead and slapped it on the floor of the cabinet, trying to steady himself. Pressure mounted in his lower back. He began to groan, then whimper as it grew, and grew—

“Ohhhh it hurts, it hurts, it- huuuurrrggghhh…!”

There was no choice now but to push. He went totally silent, not even breath escaping him, trembling from his scalp all the way to his knees. Between his womb-stretched abs and the violently compressed muscles of his birth canal, it was like trying to pluck an elevator cable, expecting something held tense by thousands of pounds to budge.

But his body was made to do this. He pushed, and somehow he forced his child through, and his pussy lips stretched wider around the head, and finally he reached the end of his effort with a delirious, undignified yelp as the crowning child stayed wedged in his cunt.

Henry was saying something on the phone and Dave was pretty sure he wanted to say something back, but all he could think was that he felt like he was about to tear from all sides, his cock a white-hot point of tension, his distended perineum threatening to rip right open. But, despite the strain, his body held miserably solid.

Without thinking, he reached down between his legs. It was a little easier with his belly having lost some volume, squished easily by his stretching arm.

“Oh,” he rasped. “Oh my god. Oh wow. Okay.”

The center seam of his overalls bulged out obscenely. Gently, gasping, tears welling, he cupped the fabric stretched across the distended hill of flesh that used to be his crotch, and stroked the massive wet lump protruding in the center. As it was, he was fairly sure the baby would be eased back into his canal as opposed to being harmed by the rigid canvas, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

“Okay,” he said, now a bit soggy. “Baby’s- hoooo- baby’s crowning. Head- head’s almost out. I’m gonna. Gonna cut the overalls.”

“Okay, yes, good, Dave, you’re doing amazing.”

Maybe it was the fact that he could feel his baby’s head under his fingers, or just the ecstatic relief of the end being in sight, but he suddenly noticed how much feeling was in Henry’s voice.

“Thank you,” he groaned. “Oh. Hmmm, hoh, okay. Here I go.” Reluctantly, he pulled his hand away from his baby and finally reached for the shears. They weren’t even especially far, leaving him a little embarrassed at how cloudy he’d let his head get in the pain, but it didn’t matter. He had them now.

Carefully, carefully, he eased his upper body back out of the cabinet. A high squeak tore from him as the change in angle nudged the baby forward ever so slightly, just enough to somehow strain his cunt further.

“Alright, Dave, how we doing?” Yeah, that was worry in his voice, wasn’t it? How sweet.

“M’okay,” he panted. “Here goes. Cutting now.”

It was then, taking one strap of his overalls in hand, that he realized he didn’t even need the freaking shears. The fastenings were loose now, his belly no longer the absurd blimp it had been with two amniotic sacs inside. With just one, he had plenty of slack to unhook the clasps. The overalls fell limply from his chest, though they still clung around the broadest part of his belly. His plain undershirt was transparent with sweat, showing the damp whorls of his chest hair and the dark peaks of his areolae puffing proudly atop his barely-swelling chest. True to his prediction, little spots of yellow clung to his long, enlarged nipples, his body eager to provide the baby’s first meal.

He took all this in as he caught his breath. “Okay, almost ou— Oh! Oh no- oh that’s so fast, I gotta—“ He set the scissors at his side and grabbed at the counter again, sweaty fingers slipping on the marble. At this point he really thought he was getting into a rhythm, mastering this whole pushing thing, but—

“HmmmmmmaaaAAAAAAAAGH!”

He stretched, and stretched, pussy lips humbled to ribbons of agony, a pain so potent it shot up through his guts right to his sinuses. But still he bore down, kept pushing, he could do it, for his baby, he had to—!

The head burst out. A strangled cry of relief punched from his chest, dissolving into exhausted laughter as he noticed the emerging child had tugged his overalls the rest of the way over the crest of his belly. It sloped out from under his too-small undershirt in an odd pear shape, all of the volume gone from the top, the second twin all but resting on his thighs.

Trembling, he reached down and felt the head through his freshly drenched pants.

“Dave?”

“I did it. Head’s out.” He panted. “Here, let- let me…” He shimmied his overalls down a little lower, unable to get them off his legs, but able to expose his undercarriage enough to push his briefs down. It was much easier to reach around, now, making it simple to dip his hand between his thighs and find…

“Oh, hi there,” he gasped. A sob hitched through him, his cheeks suddenly aching with the force of his smile. “Hi, sweetie, Papa’s here. I’ve got you.” He cupped her head, thinking both how incredibly small she was and how he couldn’t believe he shoved a head that big out of him. Belatedly, he remembered to feel down around her neck, a chill of relief flooding his limbs when he found no cord around the neck.

“Hooo, okay, head’s out, I think she’s all good, and- oh! Ah.” He sucked air through his teeth. “Kicking me still. Ouch. Ow.” He chuckled weakly. “Yeah, sweetie, hold on a minute, okay? Need another contraction and then you’ll have all the room you need, I promise.”

“Good, amazing job, man, that’s so incredible. You’re incredible.” Henry sounded a little breathless. “Good work.”

“Not done yet,” Dave mumbled, as the telltale windup of muscles told him the next contraction was building. “Here it comes. Heeeerrre…. Nnnnnngggh!”

With the end in sight, Dave forced strength he didn’t even know he had into bearing down, taking the strange feeling of the baby twisting inside his cunt in stride, his hand near and steady when he passed the first shoulder. His yelp of pain and the deep breath to replenish his air happened at the same time, making a very weird sound that he didn’t have time to care about in his determination. He dropped his other hand from the counter ledge and let his shoulder fall against the cabinet door as he reached between his legs, and the sliver of voice forced through with his effort rose to a roar—

And he pushed the other shoulder through. His daughter slid into his waiting hands in another gush fo fluid.

He gasped for breath, a little dizzy, and even though his body felt ruined, he didn’t really mind collapsing on his soiled overalls with his back on the hard cabinets. He drew the baby up to his chest and tugged his shirt out of the way so he could press her to his skin, nuzzled to his heartbeat and wiry chest hair, his face close enough to duck and kiss her, not particularly caring about the sort of gross cheesy white stuff smeared all over her, even though some got on his mustache.

“Hi, baby,” he gasped. “There you are. Oh wow. There you are.”

After a few insistent pats on her tiny back, she coughed and started to cry, and he nodded along, laughing. “Yeah, understandable, sweetie. I know. That was hard. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, wow,” came the voice from his phone. He’d almost forgotten there was someone listening.

He laughed. “Good lungs, right?”

“Great. Wow. Whew.” Poor guy. He probably usually didn’t have these kinds of calls, coaching a guy through childbirth.

“Thank you. Thank you so much. Don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m just glad everybody’s okay.”

Dave smiled; he couldn’t agree more.

Still, while the baby suckled at his chest, he couldn’t help but be painfully aware of her umbilical cord spilling over his still-pregnant belly, where her twin turned and kicked inside.

Then—

“Hey, uh, Hen, how far’s that ambulance?”

“Uhhh… ah. Forty minutes.”

“Okay,” he said, voice tightening. “Okay. Well. I— aaaah. Mhh. Yeah. I think her brother might- ah- he might get here before that.”