Enull Arts

The night sky had collapsed into a bruised purple and charcoal grey, unleashing a deluge that turned the city streets into rushing, muddy rivers. Outside the windows of the small apartment, the wind howled with a predatory intensity, rattling the glass panes in their frames. Then, with a sudden, definitive snap of an electrical transformer somewhere down the block, the world went black. The humming of the refrigerator ceased, the glow of the streetlamps vanished, and the apartment was plunged into a thick, oppressive darkness.

Arthur didn’t panic. He was not a man prone to hysterics. He moved with a slow, measured deliberation, navigating the familiar layout of his home to light a series of candles. He placed them on the coffee table, the dining surface, and the windowsills, until the rooms were bathed in a flickering, amber glow that cast long, dancing shadows against the walls. The warmth of the candlelight played across his features—his scruffy, dirty blond hair was slightly damp from the humidity, and his thin-framed glasses had slid slightly down the bridge of his nose.

He was now 39 weeks pregnant.

To Arthur, the pregnancy had been a matter of biological fact, a condition to be managed with the same neutral efficiency he applied to his taxes or his grocery lists. He didn’t dwell on the strangeness of it, nor did he romanticize it. He simply existed in the state of it. But as the storm raged outside, the neutral acceptance was being tested by the visceral reality of labor.

The contractions were no longer distant warnings; they were rhythmic, crushing waves that demanded his full attention. Arthur began to pace the length of the living room, his footsteps soft on the hardwood. His gait was heavy, labored by the immense weight he carried. Every few steps, he would stop, his breath hitching, as another contraction peaked. 

During these intervals, his hands were never still. He reached down to cradle his heavy pregnant belly, his palms spanning the wide, taut curve of his abdomen. He began to rub in slow, circular motions, feeling the skin stretched to its absolute limit. The warmth of his hands seemed to provide a meager comfort against the internal pressure. He focused on the sensation of the baby shifting inside, a slow roll that distorted the shape of his pregnant belly. He rubbed the sides firmly, trying to soothe the tightening muscles that felt as though they were being wrung out like a wet cloth.

The discomfort was profound, a deep, grinding ache in his pelvis that made every movement a chore, yet his expression remained remarkably calm. He was simply enduring. He paced again, the flickering candlelight illuminating the sheer scale of his big pregnant belly, which strained against the fabric of his thin shirt. He paused, leaning his shoulder against the wall, and began to rub the lower curve of his belly, his fingers kneading the skin in an attempt to ease the descent of the child. He could feel the baby dropping lower with every passing hour, a heavy, insistent pressure that felt as though it were pushing against his very spine.

The storm outside intensified, a crack of thunder shaking the floorboards beneath his feet. Arthur didn't flinch. He was too focused. He brought both hands to the underside of his big pregnant belly, lifting the weight slightly to relieve the pressure on his bladder, his thumbs tracing small, soothing circles over the taut skin. He breathed through his nose, slow and steady, his glasses fogging slightly with the heat of his exertion.

Then, the nature of the pain shifted. The rhythmic tightening evolved into something more urgent, something instinctive. It was no longer a wave to be ridden, but a command to be obeyed. Arthur stopped pacing abruptly. His eyes widened behind his glasses as a powerful, involuntary surge rippled through his core.

"Ooo...fuck...the baby's coming..."

He gasped, the sound small against the backdrop of the crashing rain. He felt the baby move deeper into the birth canal, the pressure becoming an overwhelming force that demanded release. He gripped the arm of the couch, his knuckles turning white, his body shaking with the effort of resisting the first true urge to push.

"Ohhh...I have to push"

Arthur bore down, his muscles contracting with a sudden, violent intensity. He stayed standing, bracing his weight against the sturdy arm of the couch, his legs trembling. He pushed hard, his face flushing, his breath coming in short, jagged pants. However, as the contraction faded, he realized the position was ineffective.

"...you're so fucking low..."

The realization brought a flicker of urgency to his neutral demeanor. He began to descend, his movements slow and careful. He slid down the side of the couch, his back scraping against the fabric until he hit the floor with a soft thud. He sat with his legs sprawled, his back braced against the base of the couch for support. The candlelight flickered violently as a draft swept through the room, but Arthur was oblivious to the cold.

The urge to push crept up on him again, more insistent than before. He panted, his chest heaving, his thin-framed glasses slipping further down his nose. He gripped the carpet with one hand and pressed his other hand firmly against the top of his pregnant belly, pushing downward. He bore down with everything he had, his eyes squeezed shut, his body arching against the couch.

As the contraction peaked and then slowly receded, Arthur felt a new sensation—a stinging, stretching feeling between his thighs. He reached down, his fingers trembling slightly, and felt the distinct, hard curve of the baby's head.

"Hsss...oh god...you're right there"

The neutrality was beginning to fray, replaced by a desperate, primal need to complete the process. Arthur shifted his position, sliding further down until he was almost lying flat, though his shoulders remained propped against the couch. He reached down and began to rub the underside of his belly firmly. He used the heels of his hands, applying a steady, downward pressure, trying to coax the baby further down, trying to guide the head through the narrow opening.

"Oooo...c'mon baby....come out"

He pleaded with the baby within, his voice a low, strained rasp. He began to rub his low belly in wide, sweeping motions, from the ribs down to the pelvis, trying to soothe the screaming nerves of his stretched skin. The skin was hot to the touch, glistening with a fine sheen of sweat in the amber light of the candles. He rubbed the sides of his pregnant belly, feeling the hard shape of the baby’s head shifting beneath the surface.

Another contraction hit, more powerful than any that had come before. Arthur let out a strangled sound, his hand planting firmly on the ground beside him to brace his body. His other hand gripped the underside of his belly, pulling upward slightly to create more room as he bore down. He pushed with a guttural intensity, his muscles straining, his breath hitching in his throat. He could feel it. The crowning. The head was emerging, the pressure reaching a crescendo that felt almost unbearable.

"Oh baby...oh god...Oooo...please come out"

He cried out quietly, the sound muffled by the roar of the storm outside. He didn't stop rubbing; even as he pushed, his hand continued to massage the lower curve of his huge pregnant belly, a desperate attempt to provide some form of comfort to both himself and the baby. He rubbed the taut skin, short strokes, his fingers digging in, trying to ease the transition.

He paused for a moment, panting heavily, his lungs burning. He looked down at the massive arc of his pregnant belly, the sight of it now a symbol of the final hurdle. He reached out and rubbed the very center of his belly, his palm flat against the skin, feeling the baby's head move a fraction of an inch further.

The next wave of labor arrived like a tidal wave. Arthur braced himself, his hand gripping the floor so hard his fingertips dug into the carpet. He pushed again, a long, sustained effort that drained every ounce of his strength. He felt the head slide further, the diameter of the baby's skull stretching him to his absolute limit.

"Oh god, that's it...Oh god, you're so close, come on baby" He begged, his voice breaking. He was completely out of breath, his chest heaving in synchronization with the flickering candlelight.

My alpha pins me down in the sun-dappled leaves with his front paws, snarling, his fangs snapping dangerously close to my ear. His body trembles and I know he’s in pain, but all he shows outwardly is anger. He lowers his knees to the ground on either side of my hips, and he hovers his naked pelvis over me. His eyes bore into mine.

“Fuck you,” he hisses, teeth clenched.

“Do you need to push?” I ask. I know his tell-tale signs of resistance. He holds off as long as he can but some things are inevitable.

He snaps so close to my eye that I feel his hot breath. Birthing fluid drips out of his pussy onto my bare cock, and I begin hardening.

“You won’t do this to me again,” he growls.

“I won’t,” I agree, and reach down to cradle his oversized belly in my paws. He tries to pull away, but he’s too deep in his labor pains—if he shifts and loses his concentration, his body will start pushing for him.

“You need to push out my pups,” I say.

“They are my pups!” he roars, and bites down on my shoulder.

I yelp. It hurts, but he’s barely piercing my skin. He’s in far more pain than me—and I inflicted it on him. He deserves to inflict a little on me.

His hairy belly goes taut beneath my paws. He whines around a mouthful of my shoulder. I reach up and clasp one paw against the back of his neck, pulling him close to me.

“Push,” I whisper. “Your litter needs to be whelped.”

He pulls in a wheezing breath, then another, then a third, and then he closes his eyes, teeth clamped in me, and pushes.

Greyscale practice.✨