Breeding, pregnancy, and labor kink blog

Ellis might not know much about dropping babies, but he’s helped enough cows deliver their calves to realize that riding into town right now probably isn’t one of his better ideas. He should be back at the house, preparing to start his troubles. It’s not like he’s been able to do much else over the past few weeks, as big as his middle’s gotten. 

He’s been alone for so long, now, without a single word from Silas.  It’s not that surprising, being that Silas is a trapper, and his regular circuit takes him several months of hard travel to complete. But Silas had promised to check the wire office at Sheridan when he passed through, so he should have gotten Ellis’ ambiguous—but insistent—message.

NEED YOU HOME AT ONCE STOP CANNOT MANAGE ALONE STOP RED

If he’d followed his usual route, Silas should have seen the expensive telegram weeks ago. He should have replied.  But Ellis has been hiding out in his lover’s clay-chinked log cabin for ages now, ever since his growing belly started earning him strange looks; going into town isn’t a task he takes on lightly.

It’s just… Ellis needs to read those words right now more than anything, a promise of hope, even if they’re short and vague.

The contraction crests, a wave of such intense pressure that he sees spots dancing at the edges of his vision. Sawbones, ever attuned to the subtle shifts in his rider’s mood, flicks an ear back but maintains his pace. The rhythm of the horse’s steps is merciless now, each hoofbeat a hammer blow that seems to drive the baby’s head further into Ellis’ pelvis. The tension between his legs is building to an unbearable ache, a fierce, demanding presence that vies for space with the unyielding saddle.

Easy now, sweetheart. Please—you can’t come yet.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d been living as a man for over half his life now, and men don’t end up in the family way. He’d worked so hard to keep the world at arm’s length, giving up dreams of love and family to prevent anyone from knowing his deepest, most vulnerable secret, but then he had to go and meet him. Had to find out what it meant to be loved, to be touched, to really matter to somebody for the first time in his adult life.

By the time Ellis realized that the scruffy, handsome trapper had left him with more than just a few months’ worth of fond memories, spring had come and Silas had already set out to run his trapline. “If all goes right, Little Red, I’ll have you back in my arms ‘fore the first hard snow,” Silas had told Ellis just before he'd left, with a spark in his dark eyes. “And once I get home and you finish up at Chimney Butte, we’ll light out together, just the two o’ us.”

Too bad winter is still over a month away, and Ellis is on the verge of dropping a child that neither expected him to carry. He'd had to quit his job once the pregnancy made it too dangerous to keep punching cattle, moving his meager belongings up to Silas’ cabin and settling in to wait. 

And, apparently, to give birth to this blasted child all by himself.  He’s not exactly sure when the babe took, but it feels like it’s been taking up space in his belly for far too long already. 

“You’d best turn yourself ’round an’ get back here, Silas Becker,” Ellis grinds out once his body gives him a chance to breathe again. “I ain't about to raise this young’un of yours all on my lonesome.”

Ellis wants to slow the horse, to rise up in the stirrups for a moment’s relief from the pressure in his pelvis, but a deeper, more insistent voice urges him to keep going. He could be running out of time, if the trickling dampness between his thighs means what he thinks it might. He's got to make it to the wire office and home again before this baby comes; otherwise, he'll be in a heap of trouble. 

Another contraction begins its slow ascent a few minutes later. This one is sharper, more focused, a vise grip that centers deep in his core and radiates outwards until his entire world has narrowed to the crushing, rhythmic pain. Ellis moans into the open air, the sound swallowed by the vast, empty prairie. His knuckles are white where he grips the saddle horn and reins, his body bowing under the force. He can feel it, a distinct, sliding sensation low in his birth canal, a round, heavy pressure descending with terrifying inevitability. 

Oh god. Little one… dammit, hold on.

The town has to be getting close. Ellis squints through pain-watering eyes, searching the shimmering horizon for any sign of civilization. But there's nothing out here but grassland, sky, and eventually, the Little Missouri River. 

“Whoa, ‘Bones,” he grunts once they finally reach the riverbank, his voice as ragged as a stranger’s. “Easy now.” The grulla gelding slows with impatience when Ellis hauls back on the reins, then stops, snorting and tossing his dark mane with displeasure. 

Dismounting is a clumsy, humiliating ordeal, but Ellis is not about to risk injuring his horse riding over the slippery rocks—not even in this state. He swings his leg over the horse’s back, his stomach a monstrous obstacle, and slides down, his boots hitting the hard-packed earth with a jarring thud that reverberates through his swollen body.

The relief from the saddle’s intrusion is immediate and profound, but ultimately short-lived. The moment he’s upright, the full, unsupported weight of his pregnant belly drags him down, a visceral, pulling heaviness that makes his knees buckle. Ellis stumbles, barely managing to catch himself on the saddle skirt, his breath coming in ragged pants.

God, he’s never felt so heavy. 

The child inside him surges downward with the shift in position, a palpable, alarming drop that makes Ellis cry out in alarm. He locks his legs together, a futile attempt at dignity and control, but the bulk between his thighs demands space that he can't afford to give it.

He's practically a prisoner to the motion, to the pain, to the sheer, overwhelming mass of the unexpected child he carries, isn’t he?

Neither he nor Sawbones is a stranger to a simple crossing like this one, but Ellis hasn't forded anything deeper than a shallow creek in ages. “Easy now, boy,” Ellis mutters, waddling gingerly over the slick, mossy stones that lie just beneath the water’s surface as he guides the horse forward. The cold current rises to slap at his knees, sending an uncomfortable shiver up Ellis’ spine, and Sawbones manages to catch a loose rock with his back hoof and stumble, but otherwise the pair makes it to the other side without incident. 

By the time they reach the far bank, Ellis is soaked and shivering, but he can see the distant spire of St. Mary’s poking up over the horizon. He lets out a deep sigh of relief at the sight.

Eager to move forward, he grabs the saddle’s pommel and cantle, anxious to haul himself back up. Unfortunately, there’s no fence here to help him mount. His arms are little more than trembling noodles, his center of gravity a treacherous joke, and his middle a distended, unwieldy mass. 

The horse sidesteps, uneasy. 

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, and tries again with the same result.

He’s no fool; there’s no way in hell he’s going to make it back up on his horse like this. Unwanted tears well up in Ellis’ grey-green eyes before he angrily dashes them away. 

Looks like he’s got no choice but to walk, now.

Clinging desperately to Sawbones’ reins, Ellis resumes his awkward waddle, adopting a wide, humiliating gait that sends fresh jolts of pain through him with every step. He can’t be more than a mile or so out of town now. He’ll make it, one way or another.

The town of Medora gradually materializes like a smudge on the horizon, a distant promise of salvation that seems to mock Ellis’ agonizingly slow progress. Every step forward is a chore, and each contraction now brings with it a new, even more terrifying urge. 

His body, instinctively following a primal script he never wanted to learn, has begun demanding that Ellis bear down. 

He fights the instinct every time it hits, halting in his tracks to clench every muscle he can still command, tears of frustration and fear mixing with the sweat on his tanned, freckled cheeks. 

Don’t push. Don’t you dare push.

Ellis staggers forward, one arm cradling the massive belly he's been trying to hide under the voluminous bulk of a trail-worn poncho, and prays that the child in his womb will remain where it is for a few more hours. If he can just make it to the wire office and then head right home, that’ll be enough. It has to be. He’s not fond of the idea of popping out a babe on the range, but there’s no way in hell he’ll do it in town.

The dusty main street is a gauntlet filled with half-remembered faces and curious glances. Ellis keeps his head down, the wide brim of his hat shielding his flushed face, every fiber of his being focusing on putting one boot shakily in front of the other. This isn't a place where he's spent a lot of time, outside of a handful of supply runs back when his belly wasn't so confoundedly large. He's got no family here, no friends, no one he trusts enough to share his secrets. To them, he probably looks like just another wounded cowpoke coming in off the trail, or a drunkard dragging his ass back to the nearest saloon. 

The post office with its telegraph station is at the end of the street, tucked beside the general store. He’s almost there.

Then a contraction seizes Ellis mid-step, freezing him in place. His body ignores his commands, the muscles pushing with a powerful, involuntary flex that makes him groan and crush his thighs together. The rough fabric of his trousers strains against the incredible pressure, like a dam trying to hold back a massive flood. He can practically feel the distinct shape of the head, right there, held captive by denim and his own terror. As the pain ebbs, the tension recedes slightly, the moment of crisis passing and leaving him shaking and breathless.

“You alright there, son?” a voice calls from a nearby porch. Ellis doesn’t look up or even speak, just gives a curt, jerky wave of dismissal and forces his legs to ferry him forward again. He’s too winded to speak, and he doesn’t want anyone to realize just how defenseless he is right now.

But he doesn’t get far. The next contraction hits only moments later, dropping Ellis to his knees in the dust (too close, Jesus Christ, they’re too close together now) while a low, guttural sound tears from his throat. The reins drop from his spasming fingers. God, he doesn’t know if he can even get back off the ground. How the hell is he supposed to hide that he’s in labor?

A shadow falls over him, and Ellis shrinks back from it in dread. “Mercy sakes. You ain’t drunk, you’re… well, never mind, let’s get you inside ‘fore you bring half the street runnin’ to gawk.”

“No,” Ellis grits out, too mortified to even look up at the speaker.  “Gotta—gotta get to the wire office. I’m fine.”

There’s a snort and the sound of spittle hitting the sun-baked road. “No, you ain’t. C’mon.”

An iron grip closes around his upper arm, hauling him up with surprising strength. An older man, his face a roadmap of wrinkles and his waist wrapped in a mostly-clean apron, guides Ellis and his horse firmly around the side of a nearby building—the boarding house. Ellis is too far gone to resist, his world a haze of pain and the terrifying, rhythmic need to push.

The man half-drags him down the alleyway and through a doorway at the rear of the building, into what looks like a small storage room. The air smells of stale beer and dried herbs, and there’s a narrow bed tucked at the back of the room, where he none-too-gently deposits Ellis. “I’ll fetch the doc,” his rescuer says, his eyes lingering for a fraction too long on the impossible curve of Ellis’ stomach and the way the cowboy’s hand instinctively cradles it beneath his poncho. There’s a dawning, uneasy sort of understanding in that look, and it fills Ellis’ insides with dread.

“No,” Ellis gasps, the word a desperate plea as he clutches at the coarse wool blanket that covers the straw mattress. “No doc. Just… leave me be for a spell. That’s all I need, I swear.  Then I’ll git.”

He knows now that he’s not going to make it to the wire office. He’s not even going to make it back out of town before his body forces him to give in to its insistent demands. He’s stuck here, at the mercy of whatever kindness and confidence he can muster from this stranger. Both he and his little one.

The man studies him for a moment, his gaze tracing the line of Ellis’ jaw, the tousled hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, the raw fear in his grey-green eyes. His jaw works for a moment like he’s chewing on his words, then he slowly nods, a complex blend of understanding and pity in his expression. “Alright, son. I’ll hitch yer horse right outside and give you yer privacy. You… you just holler if you change yer mind.” 

He backs out of the room, pausing at the doorframe to fix Ellis with one last look. “You was makin’ for the post office, wasn’t ya? What’s yer name, boy?”

“Yeah… I… I was,” Ellis whispers, not seeing much of a point in lying. The man already knows too much about him. “Name’s Ellis.  Ellis Calder.”

The man nods again before closing the door behind himself with a soft, final click.

Finally alone, Ellis slumps back against the tick mattress, the old wooden frame creaking beneath his weight as he stares at his huge, heaving stomach. For a single, blessed moment, all he focuses on is his own ragged breathing and the frantic hammering of his heart.

But the baby’s not about to give him peace for long. Another contraction rises from the depths, a tidal wave of pure force that obliterates Ellis’ thoughts.

Ellis doubles over on the narrow bed, a hoarse groan ripping from his beleaguered throat. His body arches, bowing backward as the muscles seize and crush his swollen middle into a rock-hard dome. He can feel the baby’s head grinding downward, a relentless, bony pressure that demands space he doesn’t have to give. The rough denim of his trousers has become a prison, Silas’ pricey gift now stretched taut and wet against his skin, holding everything in.

He has to get them off.

Peeling the damp, oversized poncho over his head, Ellis tosses it aside. Then he’s shoving his braces over his shoulders, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, and each one he frees feels like a tiny victory. 

His hands drop to the buttons of his denim trousers next. The button fly is strained taut, the fabric digging a deep, angry line into the swollen flesh of his lower belly. It’s like his stomach has become a creature in its own right, colossal and overbearing, rising and falling in his lap, doggedly taking up every inch of space it possibly can. Each metal button is a battle fought with trembling, sweat-slicked fingers. He works blindly, his gaze fixed on the far wall as he plucks at them, trying not to think about what will come next. 

Finally, the last button gives way. He shoves at the rough material, but the wet fabric sticks to his skin like it’s been glued there.  “C’mon,” he whimpers, tugging and twisting like he can peel it away through sheer force of will.  

Another contraction hits, its deep, internal cinching freezing the air in his lungs and bending his spine. He feels something solid shift between his thighs, pushing against the soaked cotton of his drawers and the unyielding tension of his trousers. Ellis releases a sob, clutching at the oversized dome of his belly, and silently curses Silas for putting him in this situation.

It passes, and Ellis returns to scrabbling at his clothing. Finally, he manages to shove the fabric down his hips, over his thighs, despite the way the damp denim clings to his body. He kicks them off, along with his drawers, leaving them both in a tangled heap on the floorboards.

The moment the constricting denim is past his hips, the full, shocking weight of his belly drops. Ellis sprawls on the edge of the narrow bed, his legs splayed wide to accommodate the massive, quivering dome of his pregnant stomach. It dominates the space, a pale, taut mountain veined with blue and stretched so thin he can see the shape of a tiny foot pressing insistently against the skin just below his ribs. The sheer, obscene size of it steals his breath. He’d been lean before, all whipcord muscle and sharp angles. Now, he is nothing but this.

Ellis is certain, with a sudden clarity that borders on delirium, that the baby could simply fall out now that the constricting trousers are gone. The pressure is just that immense, that urgent.

His body bears down without his permission, a deep, involuntary heave that forces a choked cry from his lips. He feels the head, a solid, crowning mass, force him open further than he’s ever opened before. For a terrifying second, he’s certain the child is going to tear him in half. It’s like the pressure is a living thing, a second heart beating between his legs, demanding some sort of release. But as the contraction fades, the moment passes. The immense pressure recedes yet again, the head sliding back up inside just enough to leave him gasping, sore and desperate. 

“No, c’mon on, sweetheart… don’t be shy now,” Ellis whines, squirming restlessly over the blanket as a sense of helplessness rises. “Either in or out, you can’t just sit there.”

Another contraction. His body seizes, writhing off the thin mattress, while a rasping groan fills the air around him. Instinct takes over, and he bears down, his entire being focused on the overwhelming need to push.

The muscles of his abdomen tighten into a rigid board, crushing inward, forcing the child down. He can feel it, a distinct, terrifying slide deep inside, the heavy, round weight of the baby’s head descending again. He pushes until his vision tunnels, until the veins in his neck feel like they’re on the verge of bursting.

And then… nothing. The contraction ebbs, and with it, all its progress. 

Ellis feels the head slide back up into his birth canal, a retreat that is somehow more devastating than the pain itself. A mournful cry falls from his lips. “No, please.”

He tries again with the next wave, then again, and yet again, his teeth grinding, his hands gripping his own thighs hard enough to bruise. He pushes with everything he has, a raw, animalistic effort that leaves him panting and dizzy. Each time, there’s that agonizing slide forward, a stretching, burning pressure that promises an end to his agony, but his strength gives out before the baby slides free. He’s hit with fatigue, the push falters, and once more, the child retreats.

A howl of pure frustration wrenches itself free. He’s so damned tired. His arm muscles feel like water, his legs shaking uncontrollably. Ellis is trapped in a cycle of hope and defeat, each round leaving him weaker, more terrified. He needs leverage. He needs Silas.

“Damn you, Silas,” he snarls, heedless of the tears falling down his cheeks while he curls a calloused palm over the enormous bulge of his belly. “Damn you for leavin’ me in this mess, you lousy, mangy cur!”

The next contraction arrives, and Ellis rides it, pushing into the pain, into the burning stretch. Sliding a hand beneath the curve of his abdomen, he can feel where the head bulges from his opening, stretching the pliant lips of his sex wider than he thought possible, a ring of burning tissue encircling the crown. He’s so close. He can feel the baby’s hair, a surprising softness amidst the agonizing strain. But once again, as the contraction ebbs, the progress is stolen from him. The head slips back, and the fire cools to a throbbing, unbearable ache.

Despair washes over him. He’s failing. His body is drained, struggling to finish what it started. Ellis has seen heifers spend too long in labor, watched their vigor fade until they’ve got nothing left to give, and he knows how dangerous that is. He knows he can’t afford to stop now.

His thoughts whirling, Ellis doesn’t realize his touch is slipping until a finger accidentally grazes his clit, and he gasps.

He suddenly remembers the way Silas would touch him, the way those rough, clever fingers could unravel the tightest knot of tension in Ellis’ back, his neck… and lower. A wild, insane thought sparks in his exhaustion-fogged mind. It’s a memory of pleasure so intense it blurred the edges of pain, a release so complete it left him boneless and spent.

Maybe… Maybe if he just…

His hand seems to move on its own. His belly is so big that Ellis has to contort his arm to make the contact he wants, his shoulder hollering in protest. It’s a miracle he can even reach. His fingers fumble sightlessly through the coarse thatch of hair between his legs, finding the swollen, hypersensitive nub of his clit. 

He’s out of breath, his heart hammering against his ribs, but he doesn’t stop. Ellis rubs frantic, clumsy circles around his clit, chasing the ghost of a feeling, a memory of pleasure in a sea of pain. But it’s not working. He’s too tired, too scared, the sensations all wrong. Tears of frustration leak from the corners of his eyes. He presses harder, his touch almost punishing, willing his body to remember, to respond.

Ellis can feel the next contraction starting to build, a deep, rolling quake that springs from his womb. Something about this one feels different—like it’s somehow deeper, more final. It’s a big one. Panic seizes him. He grinds the heel of his hand against himself in a frantic, last-ditch effort, imagining that it’s Silas touching him so intimately, as he has so many times before. Please. Please.

The contraction peaks with a surge of pure, unadulterated force that demands he push. At the exact same moment, a spark ignites under Ellis’ frantic touch. A jolt of raw, shocking pleasure arcs through him, a brilliant counterpoint to the blinding pain. 

And it’s just enough. His body seizes, back bowing clear off the bed, a raw, unfiltered cry filling the room as his hips buck to meet his own hand.

The orgasm rips through Ellis, a convulsive wave of release that unlocks every anxiety-clenched muscle. It gives that last, brutal push exactly what it needs. The burning stretch becomes a scorching, yielding burn as the baby’s head finally, finally, slips past the taut lips that surround his opening and out into the world.

The relief is so immense it’s practically a pain in itself. Ellis collapses back onto the bed, gasping, blubbering, his chest heaving with every shuddering breath. He can feel the child’s head, wet and solid, resting heavily between his thighs. He did it. The head is out. 

The rest of Ellis’ labor goes by in a sticky, messy, aching blur, until something lurches within him and he yelps, barely managing to catch the baby as the rest of it finally, finally slithers free. 

For a long moment, Ellis doesn’t move, trembling from the remnants of exhaustion, pain, and adrenaline. He can’t see anything over his still-swollen belly, though it feels strangely hollow and sore, but he does hear something: a tiny, mewling wail, fragile yet strong. 

He’s hit with a flare of alarm followed by the soothing balm of relief, just before his heart clenches with a strange, overwhelming surge of something both fierce and tender all at once. Ellis curls carefully forward, hauling the small, wet body and its slippery cord from between his legs to rest against his chest.

“Gosh,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, almost inaudible, as he drinks in the extraordinary sight. “You… god, I ain’t seen too many young’uns this close, but you… you’re somethin’.”

Tears run freely now, streaking down through the dirt on his freckled cheeks. His arms ache, his muscles scream in protest, and every nerve in his body feels like it’s been scraped raw—but he did it. They’re both okay. A shaky, crooked grin creeps across his face as Ellis sniffs and strokes the drying wisps starting to curl atop the baby’s head. 

Her hair is black, just like Silas’.  

A soft knock breaks the hush some time later. Ellis startles, cradling the tiny, squirming child protectively against his chest, now wrapped in the worn fabric of his shirt. The door creaks open, and the man from before steps inside, his arms laden with fresh linen scraps, a bucket of water, and a small envelope.

“Thought you might need these,” he mutters, setting the bucket down with a gentle clunk and draping the cloths nearby. His eyes flick to the child, then back to Ellis, but he doesn’t say anything more, withdrawing to return Ellis to the privacy he’d requested.

Ellis takes an unsteady breath and cuddles the baby closer. With trembling hands, he unfolds the telegram. The words blur through his exhaustion, but the message dated from just a month prior is clear: 

GOT YOUR WIRE STOP   LEAVING IMMEDIATELY STOP   SILAS

Relief crashes over Ellis in a hot, shaky wave. Silas got his message. He’s on his way home.

He buries his face against the baby’s damp hair, laughing and crying all at once. Everything he’d endured today—the pain, the fear, the hours of labor—is still fresh in his memory, but now it’s tempered by hope. The man he adores is coming back for him, and soon, Silas will be able to see just how much their love has blossomed in his absence.

It won’t be just the two of them anymore, Ellis realizes with a touch of weary wonder. Silas had given Ellis more patience, understanding, and love than anyone ever had, and now… now he’d given him a family, too.

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I watch you from behind my computer monitor for a moment, savoring the intoxicating knowledge that I'm responsible for this. That I've molded you into something extraordinary, a marvelous creation born of my own genius. With pride swelling in my chest, I instruct the receptionist to bring you directly to the examination room.

The change of routine is meant to put you off-kilter, and based on your reaction, it seems to be working.

"I tried calling to get an earlier appointment, but they told me nothing was available," you lament as soon as you clear the doorway. The sound of your labored breathing is audible, and sweat glistens on your brow as you awkwardly waddle forward.

"Whoa there, take it easy," I say, catching your elbow to help support you while you take the last few steps. "There's no need to rush."

You huff, your cheeks flushing with more than just effort. "That's easy for you to say. This is… a lot. I never expected to get this big. It's almost like there's more than one growing in there." Your voice is frail, like the pressure inside you is pinching some of the air from your lungs.

"You're handling all of it rather well, though," I say, keeping my voice gentle as I pay absolutely no heed to your (correct) suspicion. "And the trial is almost over, so soon you'll be able to forget all about it. Now, come over here and take a seat, catch your breath, and let me wrap up a few things so we can get you discharged."

You stare dubiously at the examination table, then down at your overripe belly, before giving me a reluctant nod.

Once you settle in, you go limp, shoulders drooping, hands draping over the massive orb of your stomach as if in surrender. This close, I can see that your skin is glossy with sweat, and a shimmer of bioluminescent blue kisses your collarbones and creeps up to your jaw. I wonder, briefly, if you find the sight as lovely as I do.

Pulling up a stool, I start taking my usual notes. "You made it through the last month without incident, I hope?"

Your hands tighten, fingertips sinking into the flesh above your navel. "I couldn't leave my apartment," you self-consciously mutter. "Not looking like this." You meet my eyes for the first time today, searching my face for any flicker of revulsion that might mirror your own.

I refuse to show you any, instead tilting my head and keeping my gaze kind. "It's normal to encounter some struggles during a trial like this. But you've done a fantastic job handling them so far. The data we've been able to collect has been... well, utterly remarkable."

You grimace. "You're glad this happened to me?"

My eyes drop to your distended abdomen, then back to your face with unmistakable fascination. "Not to diminish your discomfort, but yes, at least scientifically speaking? Your body is reacting in a way we've never documented before."

You shrug and look away, hands absently stroking your faintly swaying belly. "You really have fucking no idea. Just… just wait and see."

There's practically no shame left in you as you let me help you out of your clothes to continue the examination. The sight of your unrestrained belly is breathtaking, crowned as it is by a swollen, shimmering naval. Above, your tits have almost doubled in size, resting atop the upper curve of your abdomen and sagging to the side in their fullness. Each one is capped with an engorged areola that glows with its own internal light, your nipples leaking a blue-white fluid.

Beyond your altered torso, I can see that your face has also picked up hints of the iridescent turquoise cast brought on by the slimes, the tone of your skin deepening to a rich cyan around your eyes and cheekbones when you blush. Even your sclera has picked up a hint of the hue, just enough to leave your gaze this side of eerie.

You catch me staring and huff a nervous laugh. "It's disgusting, right? I've spent weeks trying to ignore how bad it's gotten."

I reach out, slowly, and lay my hand over the dome of your stomach. For that's where the true miracle has occurred—for there, your skin has gone completely translucent.

Your belly looks almost like a gargantuan edible water pod hanging from your torso, striated by a delicate pink-and-blue web of capillaries and glistening with lustrous moisture. Inside, the slimes now pulse together as a single organism, tendrils braiding through your uterine tissue to anchor the whole structure like roots in potting soil. There's no easy way to tell where the slimes end and you begin, not anymore. The roiling mass teems with life, gelatinous bodies pressing outward to leave every contour visible through your taut skin. An aquamarine glow ripples through your torso in an irregular rhythm, haunting and lovely, and I feel my own pulse pick up to match.

I could never have guessed that your transformation would progress to such an extreme.

I press gently against the apex of your belly. The contents squirm at my touch, one lobe gliding away from the pressure while another bulges out to meet it. The human abdomen isn't meant to be so malleable, yet yours shifts and yields like a bladder full of soft jelly.

"It's not disgusting at all," I murmur, lost in the wonder of it. A shiver of awe runs through my body. I've never felt so ferociously, helplessly aroused—not by you, exactly, but by the spectacle of you. Nothing about you is revolting, for you're perfect, the culmination of everything I've ever wanted to create.

You huff at the veiled praise, avoiding my gaze even as you arch your back slightly, like you're instinctively offering your body to more of my touch. "Is this… still reversible? After you take the slime out, will I go back to normal?"

I drag my hand up the side of your belly, tracing the pulsing veins that climb your torso. "Yes. The only permanent changes should be cosmetic." I let my thumb circle your tight, hyaline navel, watching the way you shudder at the contact. "There's a chance there may be some minor scarring, given the extreme rate of growth you've experienced. But should that happen, you'll be financially compensated."

You close your eyes. "And how long will I keep leaking? From my tits, and… down there?"

"Ideally, the secretions should peter out after we've completed the extraction. I wouldn't worry too much." I hide a smile as I help you get comfortable for today's ultrasound. "Now, normally I'd start out by taking some measurements, but I don't think I have a measuring tape that's long enough for your current size. So we'll move right along to imaging, alright?"

You nod and look away, your whole face red and your lips tight. Another shiver runs through you, but this one doesn't read as fear. At the same time, a telltale warmth creeps up your chest, mingling with the ethereal glow that halos your dribbling nipples.

You really have grown to enjoy my touch over the past few months, haven't you?

The scanner sweeps light across your swollen abdomen, the monitor revealing its contents just outside your field of view. And that turns out to have been a good decision, since what shows up on the screen would probably have made you run screaming: since the last time I'd seen you, the slimes have been multiplying at a shocking rate. Your translucent womb now hosts a writhing ecosystem of Aurelia Slimes, in sizes ranging from marbles to softballs, all pulsing in hypnotic unison beneath your overstretched skin.

I trace the top of your belly and nudge at the largest slime I can see with the pad of my thumb. There's a pronounced thump, followed by a spasm that ripples across the surface of your abdomen. You gasp, both hands shooting to your stomach, as though you're trying to keep its contents from exploding outward.

"What the…" You gasp, wide-eyed. "It's never moved like that before."

The intensity of the movement startles even me, but I refuse to let it show on my face. "The slime is probably just eager for extraction. If you're ready, we can get started on that."

You take in my words, then resignedly let your head fall back against the table’s padded surface. "Okay. I guess I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

I grab a paper gown and help drape it over you under the pretense of modesty. The thin material does nothing to conceal your distended form, though, tearing along the seams as I tug it into place. The pale teal glow emanating from within your womb pierces right through it, casting shadows across the walls of the room.

You seem to zone out while I switch off the scanner and make a few notes on my tablet. It's not until I drop a huge, gleaming syringe on a nearby tray that you tense up again, somehow grasping that it wasn't a part of the original plan.

"Wait, what's that for?" you whisper, going stiff with visible unease.

I pause, more than happy to give you the time you need to fill the silence with your own anxieties. "I wasn't going to say anything, but… Look, there's been a complication." I let my features droop, just enough to add more credibility to my words. "The lab discovered that the fluid your body's producing has potent moisturizing properties, the likes of which we've never seen before."

You frown, not quite following.

"The slime altered your body chemistry. Every fluid you're secreting—your sweat, your milk, that slick between your legs—contains compounds our best scientists couldn't synthesize in a million years. My bosses think that it has the potential to transform the entire beauty industry."

You stare at the syringe, only half registering what I'm saying. "So what?"

I let out a heavy sigh. "So the company sees dollar signs. I've accidentally gotten my hands on a golden goose, and they want to make sure it keeps laying eggs for us." I pause, watching your face closely for your reaction. "I've been ordered to postpone the removal of the slimes and confine you here. Perhaps indefinitely."

The words hover between us, toxic and suffocating.

Your eyes widen and lock onto mine. Your head moves side to side in small, desperate motions, like simple denial might be enough to shake you loose from this budding nightmare. "That's not—" Your voice cracks. "This isn't what I signed up for. You swore the thing you put inside me was harmless!"

With deliberate tenderness, I brush a few hairs away from your forehead, my fingertips lingering against your flushed skin. "I know, and that's because it is harmless. Even after all of my initial testing, I just couldn't have predicted that your body would react so dramatically to the slime. Participation in a medical trial like this one always comes with risks, but they're meant to be minor." I allow my voice to break at just the right moment. "But now that the higher-ups have seen the profit margins, they don't care what I promised you."

I lean closer, dropping my volume to a conspiratorial whisper. "Listen to me. I'm on your side. Seeing you trapped here like that—it's not what I wanted for you. You've got to believe me."

It's then that I offer you my coup de grâce: a gentle brush of lips against your skin. Soft. Vulnerable. Caring. A silent promise of counterfeit honesty that you frantically lap up.

For a moment, you go still, like you're absorbing that tiny scrap of affection. Then you reach for my hand with tears in your eyes, clinging to it with surprising vigor. "Okay. Okay, I believe you. Just... you've got to get this thing out of me and let me walk away. I'll never breathe a word about what happened here, not as long as you let me go, please!"

"I couldn't possibly exploit you any more than I already have." I squeeze your hand back with the calculated desperation of someone taking a terrible risk. "Besides, I have another way to fix things. But we'll have to move quickly." I glance at the syringe, then back to your desolate face. "That drug will essentially trigger labor; all I have to do is inject it into your womb. Once that's done, you'll have about two hours to slip away and find somewhere safe before the contractions start, then the slime will pass naturally."

"And what about you?"

I give your hand another gentle squeeze. It's almost endearing how willing you are to worry about me. "I'll be fine. You just focus on getting out of here."

You nod, swallowing. There may have been more you wanted to say, but your panic dries the words in your throat. "Give it to me, then. Please."

I slide on a pair of examination gloves and pick up the syringe, allowing a slight tremor to travel visibly through my hands—just enough performance of anxiety to sell the lie. Shifting between your legs, I help you hitch your knees apart, exposing the blue-flushed juncture of your sex, surrounded by coarse curls. There, the leaking you've been complaining about has started to pool under your hips, shining against the surface of the chair. Its color is brighter than ever, luminous and brilliant.

"Ready?" I ask, voice low.

You squeeze your eyes shut and nod.

With your permission, I slide two fingers inside as though to stretch you open, watching them move deeper through the clear window of your bulging abdomen. The bioluminescent gel you've been producing lubricates my movements even as it sucks at my knuckles, and I watch your thighs tremble under the effort not to close. My fingertips eventually find the rounded lip of your cervix, stroking it almost proprietorially, before withdrawing to nudge the syringe against your cunt. There's no needle to it, just a custom, softened tip that nestles prettily among your glistening folds.

"This may feel a bit uncomfortable," I warn, swirling it through the slickness there. "And I have to get it into a very precise position if this is going to work, so I need you to bear with me, okay?"

The plastic barrel, almost two inches in diameter, slips past your lips with a soft, obscene pop as I guide it in. The wet squelch as I drive the syringe deeper is almost obscene, and I have to force myself to focus on the task at hand and not just the spectacle of you, trembling and powerless under my gaze.

"There we go," I murmur, using my free hand to spread your folds wider, thumb resting with calculated intimacy atop your swollen, erect t-dick. As terrified as you might be, your body is clearly still a slave to the hormones coursing through it. "I want you to relax for me, okay?"

You let out a broken whimper before the sound trails away into silence. Clutching desperately at the armrests, your face twists with uncertainty, but your hesitation doesn't stop you from spreading your thighs even wider for me. I smile, rewarding the shy obedience you've shown by slowly fucking the barrel in and out of your slippery, eager hole. Despite your obvious reluctance, your hips rise to betray you, lifting to chase each motion—a wordless confession of what you secretly desire.

You still crave my attention.

Burrowing the instrument deeper, I encounter more resistance than I expect, your heat and velvet softness clinging to every ridge and groove of the plastic cylinder as it moves. Body-warmed goo sluices out around the syringe and down my hand and wrist with every voracious gulp of your hole. I swipe some of it to smear over your clit, using your own excretions as a lubricant to stroke it in time with my thrusts. The slick friction draws a shocked yet keen whine from your throat.

"Almost there," I murmur, transfixed by the blue-tinged silhouettes throbbing beneath the film of your abdomen. Each movement of the creatures sends waves across your skin, making your interior radiance flicker. Your breath quickens, hitches—I recognize the telling flush spreading across your chest, the involuntary arch of your spine, the distress and shame warring with rapture on your face. Through that translucent membrane, my eyes can trace every contour of your mutated womb, watch it contract and expand with each pulse of a pleasure you never asked for, pleasure that drags you ever closer to a reluctant peak.

I wonder if you've forgotten who decides what happens to this new form of yours.

Through your transparent abdomen, I guide the syringe to your cervix, the pale, opalescent ring at the end of a blue-slicked tunnel. As I circle and stroke your t-dick with my thumb, you fail to notice me angling the instrument upward, pressing its soft tip to the mouth of your cervix and wedging it firmly inside.

Before you even have a chance to flinch, I drive the plunger down with deliberate force.

The contents of the syringe rush into your modified uterus, a cold jet of saline and a special cocktail of drugs I'd developed just for you, but that's not what matters. What matters is the sensation of a deep, sudden invasion, of being filled by something that strengthens your misguided trust in me even as it seals your fate. It's yet another violation of your body, one that pours straight into the heart of your gravid, agitated womb. You gasp, eyes flying open, and fill the room with a sharp, keening wail—the outrage and betrayal of ecstasy interrupted. Your body convulses around the barrel of the syringe, all the tension I'd been stoking toward the expected, inevitable climax shattering in an instant.

You try to curl in on yourself to escape the invasive chill, but I hold you steady with a gloved hand pressed firm to your engorged belly. The slimes inside you react, too; the whole mass contracts, pressing outward against your cellophane skin in a wave so pronounced it almost looks like they might burst forth. Through it all, I hold the syringe firmly in place, avidly watching a dazzling, swirling stream of blue-green goo cut through with saline spurt out of you, splattering my glove and wrist in violent, beautiful arcs.

You sob, voice high and strange, then go limp in the wake of your ruined orgasm. 

It's then that I withdraw the syringe and clean up the mess between your legs with slow, gentle motions that border on lewd, then help you close your knees and lower your feet. "There you are," I soothe, stroking a hand along your quivering thigh, as if I hadn't just snatched much-needed comfort right out of your grasp. "That was the worst of it. In a few hours, the slime will be gone, and all this will be over."

Your face crumples in anguish, tears cutting through the luminescent sweat on your cheeks, while beneath my lab coat, I throb with an urgency that borders on pain.

There's no doubt in my mind that your surrender is now complete. I've orchestrated every moment, calibrated every response, until your body became an instrument I alone know how to play. Each time you shudder, each desperate sound you make, every hint of pleasure on your lips, all reverberate through me like a perfectly pitched note. I've remade you according to my design, possessed you, and feeling you breaking apart in my hands floods my veins like a powerful aphrodisiac no laboratory could hope to replicate.

"We need to get you out of here as quickly as possible," I say urgently, as if completely oblivious to the way I'd just wrecked you. "Can you walk?"

You nod, barely present after being so thoroughly devastated, and try twice to heave yourself upright before I'm finally compelled to assist. Your inundated belly sags low, pulling your spine into a lordotic arch, and your leaking, faintly glowing tits swing wildly with every feeble step. I tuck the flimsy gown back around your shoulders in a factitious offer of modesty, but its presence is little more than a joke at this point.

"Where should I go?" you ask, groaning as you struggle to stabilize your precarious balance.

"The closest exit is along the western corridor," I murmur. "There's a badge reader by the fire door, but I can unlock it from here. Go as fast as you can, and don't stop for anyone or anything."

Staggering to the door, you use one hand to support the colossal orb of your abdomen while using the other to brace yourself against the wall. Once you make it to the threshold, you glance back at me, eyes wide and wet. "Thank you," you whisper, doing your best to ignore the pale teal gel dripping down the inside of your thighs to puddle at your feet. "I won't forget this. Or… or you."

"Nor I you," I say with a surprisingly genuine smile. "Now get going, before one of us gets caught."

I lean against the door frame to watch your misshapen form lurch down the hallway. Your see-through abdomen catches the overhead lights with every labored step, while you drive yourself forward by what's likely a desperate mixture of hope and fear. There's something almost seraphic about the fragile optimism you cling to while chasing the illusion of escape.

If my calculations are correct, the special mixture of hormones and prostaglandins I'd administered directly into your womb should be kicking in… oh, right about now.

But rather than rush off to get a front-row seat to the coming show, I return to the examination room to tidy up. Humming under my breath, I even take a moment to add a few more notes to your case file. It wouldn't do to leave out any of the incredible data you've provided, especially not at this stage.

One minute passes, then two.

Figuring that I've given your uterus enough of a head start, I casually follow the trail of glowing fluid marking your desperate journey toward what you believe is freedom.

The western corridor is deserted except for you, just as I'd arranged. There was no one there to witness your slow but determined waddle to freedom, no one to see your indecently bared form or hear your distressed grunts when the muscles of your abdomen suddenly cramped. You'd only made it about halfway to the exit—much further than I'd expected, to be honest—before the labor I'd secretly triggered sent you doubling over.

Once you first come into sight, I watch your whole abdomen warp and distend even further than before, twisting itself into a misshapen, mesmerizing bulge that leaves your once-human silhouette utterly unrecognizable. You cry out, hands sinking into the hyper-pliant sphere of your middle. The next contraction is even worse and hits right on the heels of the first; blindsided, your knees buckle, and you collapse into a writhing, sobbing heap.

By the time I reach you, you've managed to prop yourself up against a nearby wall with your knees spread wide, slumped in a growing puddle of iridescent amniotic goo. What remains of your flimsy hospital gown clings to your skin in soggy fragments, where your sweat and other fluids have dissolved the material like tissue paper in the rain. Your hands claw at the flesh of your translucent belly, which flexes and contorts around the relentless pressure driving into your pelvis.

The sterile hallway rings with your cries as you thrash on the floor, your skin shining with an aquamarine sheen under the harsh fluorescent lighting. Where a human birth might leave you smeared in crimson and your flesh torn, your mutated body is yielding with an almost elegant elasticity for the birth of the slimes, stretching impossibly to accommodate what's coming. I doubt it's pain driving those sounds; more likely, it's the primal terror of watching your own body become more unrecognizable with every throbbing clench.

Spotting me, you manage a single, slurred "Help—" before another contraction wracks your gravid frame.

I kneel beside you, the clinical detachment of my mind warring with dizzy, illicit excitement. Sliding a hand behind your neck, I cradle your tear-drenched cheek against my shoulder with all of the false tenderness you so clearly yearn for. "Breathe," I murmur. "That's it, breathe. You're doing so well."

The dome of your belly spills over your lap like an overfilled water balloon, undulating with every whimper, every movement, every breath. Its skin is a near-perfect lens that reveals the shimmering, swirling chaos of the slimes moving within a thick layer of bioluminescent fluid. You make a stunning sight, both captivating and surreal.

"W-what?" you wheeze, clawing at me in abject panic. "What do you—"

The next wringing spasm makes your belly contract like a soap bubble under a fist, drawing every organ and blood vessel taut. You choke, clutching at my sleeve, your grip almost crushing. With the next contraction, your cunt splits open, extruding a pulsing, glistening orb of gel caught behind a clear membrane. It lingers there for a moment, hovering between the warmth of your body and release, before the membrane ruptures with a wet, sloppy sort of plop that paints the floor with a flood of resplendent turquoise fluid.

Your gaze rises to mine, hazy and overwhelmed. I can see your eyes begging me for deliverance. I can see the questions whirling just beyond that, asking why I'm not helping you leave, why your labor started so quickly, why I even allowed any of this to happen to you in the first place.

Regrettably for you, I have no desire to answer.

Instead, I reach back down between your thighs. I glide my fingers along the shaft of your t-dick, eager to see how much more of the valuable liquid I can coax out of you, for no reason other than a desire to control. I watch your eyes roll back at my touch, the cyan of your sclera almost incandescent as your lids flutter. You whimper and buck, unwilling or unable to avoid my fingers, your cunt soon releasing another quivering torrent of goo onto the floor.

And that's when the main event finally begins.

It's nothing like watching the birth of a human child—your offspring are gelatinous, pliable, slipping easily through your stretched passages as if your body was made for this violation. Wave after wave of contractions hammer you, each one stealing your breath before you can catch it. I watch your heels drum against the polished floor tiles, thighs trembling violently, hips canting upward in involuntary surrender. Something glistens between your legs, the first of your offspring pushing through to the outside world. Frenetic movement shudders through your monstrous abdomen as the others tussle in their eagerness to follow.

My name tears from your throat and echoes down the corridor. If only you knew what the sound of your desperation does to me, the dark, possessive hunger it fills me with.

Unable to stop the inevitable progression of your drug-induced labor, your lower extremities shudder and jerk until the first creature finally slithers free. Your body spasms, spewing forth another, then another, until slimes are tumbling out of you like a string of soft, crystalline jewels.

The moment you catch sight of the growing swarm, you start babbling, voice climbing with panicked, garbled words that spiral into full-blown hysteria. "It— it's more than one! Oh my god, oh my god—there's more—why is there more— Make it stop, make it—"

More of their slippery bodies hit the tile with plops and splats, already squirming and exploring, tendrils stretching back up into your cunt and around your thighs as they anchor themselves, eager for the familiar warmth of your body. I'm content to let you panic, more amused by the sight of your hands flailing at anything within reach, the way your legs kick as though you might somehow escape the throes of your own body. Each new birth slicks the floor with a fresh, gurgling spurt of blue iridescence, and there's nothing you can do to stop it.

It takes a while, but eventually, the slimes stop coming.

The resulting sight transcends science. You lie splayed and ruined among your impossible offspring, your gaping, drooling hole pulsing with aftershocks. Your sagging, deflated belly visibly churns from the movements of the slimes still embedded in your mutated womb. Your t-dick twitches between my fingers, overstimulated and at my mercy, leaving you mewling helplessly as your body surrenders another deluge of luminous fluid—the precious substance that made this entire charade worthwhile.

When the security team eventually rounds the corner, they're stunned as much by the display we make as they are by the writhing mass of slimes at our feet. I have you cradled in my arms with your barely diminished abdomen rippling and wobbling, while I murmur soothing nonsense into your sweat-damp hair. Your exhausted sobs are wet against my collar, your nails carving crescent gouges in the skin beneath my lab coat, but you do not try to flee.

Even now, with your breath coming in ragged, hiccuping gasps, you somehow trust me to save you.

"Go ahead and stand down, guys," I say with an authoritative tone, in stark contrast to the way I'm shamelessly fondling you before them. "I've secured the asset. Tell Winchester to send in the collection crew to tidy all this up and escort 07-C to their new home."

Your cheeks are blotchy and tear-streaked as you look up at me then, and in that moment, I think you finally glimpse the truth. My smile hasn't changed, but now you’re starting to recognize what has been lurking beneath it all this time: the triumph of a researcher whose experiment has exceeded all expectations.

The color drains from your face. You try to speak with a voice that's little more than a strangled whine, but I press a hand over your mouth to hush you. "Shhh," I murmur, shaking my head. "There's no need for you to speak. You've done so well for me. Now it's my turn to take care of you."

All you can do is lie there, paralyzed with despair, as my team swarms the corridor to catalog and collect the HFP's latest acquisition. Some of them bundle your lax, jiggling body onto a gurney, while others scoop up your spawn and scrub the floor clean of the mess you made. Your eyes listlessly follow me as I dictate orders to my staff, paying you hardly any mind all the while.

I wonder if you've finally realized that this will never be over. That your body, your fluids, practically everything about you, no longer belongs to you. Curling up on the gurney, you clutch at your still-swollen, diaphanous abdomen, its contractions having softened without ceasing, your expression dazed and almost numb.

Will they ever really stop? I have no idea, but I'm eager to find out.

Reawakening my datapad, I update the designation on your file and shift your classification from 'Subject' to 'Host', a proud first for our facility.

As you're about to be wheeled through the automatic doors leading toward the facility's restricted wing, I pause at your side, then lean in, lips grazing the shell of your ear. "Thank you," I whisper in a voice honeyed with gratitude, "for your groundbreaking contributions to the PureGlow Trial and the Human Fertility Project. I look forward to spending many prolific years of research at your side, 07-C."

A sob catches in your throat. You close your eyes, face crumpling, while your translucent belly and slime-fused uterus convulse in slow, gelatinous aftershocks. 

Your anguish barely registers with me; my mind is too busy racing with potential formulas for maximizing the yield of your transformed anatomy. I can just about picture the accolades that will be coming my way following the acquisition of such a lucrative specimen.

My future is clearly illuminated now, glowing as vividly as the creatures twisting and writhing in your belly.