I wrote this partially inspired by an anonymous mutual, which has a beautiful imagination and surely will be a source of inspiration in the future, and who has a thing for protruding, rubbery navels. Navels as sensitive as a clitoris, navels that, when suckled, touched, rubbed, can bring you to the pinnacle of pleasure... I had this story in mind for a while, I just had to add navels. Still makes me think! I should write more about sensitive outie navels.
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You're pregnant. Again. Still. Always. Your body doesn't know how to stop. It's a quirk, a glitch, a gift from whatever twisted god designed you. Most women ovulate once a month, and then, when they catch, it stops. The body knows. It says, we're done here. Let's build a human. But yours? Yours keeps dropping eggs like it's a game. Like it's a dare.
What if you kept ovulating?
So you do. You did. And the first trimester was a haze of nausea and a sex drive that made you feral. Your lover came home from work and you were already naked, already wet, already pulling him into the bedroom by his belt loops before he could even say hello. He thought you were crazy. He told you that. But he said it with a grin, with his hands on your hips, with his mouth on your throat.
And then the belly started.
It didn't just grow - it expanded. Like a balloon being filled with water. You watched yourself in the mirror as your navel, that innocent little button, slowly pushed outward. It became a hill, a mound, a taut little dome of stretched skin. You'd poke it in wonder. The first time he kissed it, you nearly came on the spot.
Now it's an erogenous zone. The nerve endings are so sensitized from nine months of constant stretch, constant pressure, constant life inside you. You can orgasm from the belly button alone. He knows this. He uses it against you. He'll press his thumb into it, circle it slowly, and you'll moan and spread your legs and beg.
You're expecting nine babies. Nine. At different stages. You have a calendar now - a ridiculous, impossible calendar - tracking which one is due next month. You give birth once a month. One baby, every thirty days, like clockwork. Like a factory. The logistics are absurd. The nursery looks like a hospital ward. The lactation consultant quit after the third visit. She said she couldn't handle the amount of milk you produce - the constant, creamy rivers that flow from your breasts, that never stop because there's always a newborn, always a mouth, always a hungry little creature who needs you.
Your breasts are heavy all the time. Full. You can feel the milk ducts waking up the moment a baby cries somewhere in the house. You leak through your bras, through your shirts, through everything. Your lover says you smell like warm bread and honey. He says it drives him insane.
And the sex. God, the sex.
You're horny all the time. It's a physiological imperative. Your body knows what it's for. It wants to be filled. It wants to stay full. Even when you're eight months along with the current batch, you're straddling him, riding him, using that ridiculous belly as leverage. He wraps his arms around it, holds you close, and kisses the top of that stretched dome of skin where your navel used to be. He whispers that you're beautiful. That you're a goddess. That you're insane.
And you are. You know you are.
Because you can't stop. You don't want to stop. After the ninth baby is born, after that final contraction, after you hold that last little creature against your chest and feel the rush of oxytocin flood your system - you look at him. You are empty for the first time in almost two years. Your belly is soft, deflated, a roadmap of silver stretch marks. Your navel is now a loose, slack little pocket of skin.
You miss it. You miss the weight. You miss the pressure. You miss the way he'd press his palm flat against you and feel the kicks. You miss the way he'd whisper your name.
So you tell him. One more. Just one more.
He looks at you like you've lost your mind. He says, "We have nine babies. We have a newborn every month. We have to figure out adoption, maybe, or-"
But you know he's not saying no. He never says no. Because when you say it, when you tell him you want to be bred again, you see the flicker in his eyes. The animal part of him that matches yours. The part that knows exactly what this is.
And the next morning, you're ovulating again.
Your body remembers. It knows. Your belly button, that sensitive little erogenous zone, tingles with anticipation. You spread your legs for him and he climbs on top and you whisper, Put another one in me.
And you love it. Every moment. Every stretch. Every kick. Every time you look down and see a new hill rising on your abdomen, a new life pressing against the skin. Your hips are wide now - wider than you ever imagined. Your pelvis has permanently shifted. You can feel the extra width when you walk, when you sit, when he grabs your burgeoning, curvier behind.
Your milk comes in again, it doesn't ever stop. Your breasts keep up, growing slowly but steadily. The babies cluster-feed. You spend your nights in a rocking chair, a newborn at one breast and a five-month-old at the other, and it's exhausting, chaotic, impossible - and you're the happiest you've ever been.
You're perpetually pregnant with nonuplets. Over and over. A cycle that doesn't end. A body that refuses to stop.
Your lover tells you you're crazy. Eighteen and counting. He tells you this while he's feeding you ice cream, while he's rubbing your aching feet, while he's kissing that sensitive, stretched-out belly button and watching you come undone. He tells you you're crazy, and he loves it.
And that's the thing, isn't it? The fantasy isn't just the babies - it's the worship. The way he looks at you like you're the most powerful thing on earth. The way he gives you what you need, even when it terrifies him. The way you surrender to this bestial drive, and he surrenders right along with you.
Logistics? Sure. The house is chaos. Adoption is probably the right call for some of them. But that's tomorrow's problem. Tonight, you're pregnant. You're heavy. You're full. And you're about to be fuller.
He climbs on top, and you feel that familiar press, that familiar stretch, and your milk lets down, and a baby coos in the next room, and you're so full - so impossibly, transcendently, animalistically full - that you think you might just die from the pleasure of it.
And you wouldn't have it any other way.
