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I keep looking at photos of people around my age who are pregnant. Why isn't it me 😭😭. A few people I went to school with have had kids already. Why isn't it me why isn't it me. There was a girl at my school who got pregnant with her (at the times) bfs baby and I remember being genuinely jealous and seething even though we were still only young because I wanted to be pregnant so bad 😭😭 why isn't it my turn yet
Honeybunch, I've felt this way since I was in high school. I'd like to say it gets easier to deal with, but the older I've gotten...the more of my old classmates I see start families...the harder it gets.
Every other week this year, I've been tortured by thoughts of "Why aren't I you?", "Why isn't it my turn, yet?", and worst of all: "WILL it ever be my turn?"
Just know that although I'm not into the "ownership" kink, I think your frustration, sadness, and jealousy are all valid.
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Scenario where you have a strict gym schedule but find it slowly getting pushed aside by your body’s enormous growth.
First, you become aware of how the bar on bench press chafes against your chest in an irritating, sensitive way that it never had before. Your nipples harden with the first brush and the sensation grows as they’re swiped over and over with each rep. Lying beneath the racked barbell, you find that even after you’ve caught your breath you are frozen in place by arousal in your gut. You try to finish your last set but your form goes slack when the barbell roughly presses against your nipples again, your body clenches and nearly orgasms in the middle of the gym.
Someone sees you struggling and rushes over to grab the weight and re-rack it. Trembling, you make the decision to cut bench press from your routine.
Second to go is your ab routine. During sit ups, your growing belly sits like a rock on your hips and settles heavily on your organs. Many months of growth have it arching skywards and pushing your exercise shirt up a little more with each rep. Desperately trying another sit up, you can only rise halfway, wildly out of breath. You quickly return to flat on your back and then curl to your side, gasping for air. Your bare, heavy belly rests on the floor and you feel instant relief with the increased room to breathe.
Hand on the apex of your stomach, you know that this is the last time you should try to fit your horizontal ab workout into your routine.
Next, you become unable to use the stair master. You bring one heavy leg up after the next, hauling your body and growing babies up each flight of stairs. The last ultrasound confirmed twins, and you feel every pound of them pressing down on your hips. You try shifting your center of mass further back, one hand grabbing a safety bar and the other on your lower back. Each step rocks your hips side to side and your chest, ass, and belly jiggle and roll with the impact. Your breath leaves you quickly, and even on the lowest setting you simply can’t keep up with the machine.
You decide that this is another exercise to cross off your schedule.
The last part of your routine to remain is walking on the treadmill. You’ve just turned the corner from full term to overdue and all the skipped gym days are piling up. Your hips have widened and bulked up with fat to support the enormous growing mass of your pregnant gut. You’ve grown so much bigger in your chest, it’s hard to recognize yourself. You’re constantly expanding further as milk fills in behind your puffy, darkened nipples.
Still, you stubbornly cling to the last vestiges of your fitness. Each step on the treadmill makes you aware of the fat clinging to your entire body. You require both hands under your heaving belly to prevent your back from aching under the heavy strain. Waddling at a 30 minute mile pace has brought you to the same level of fatigue as your race pace from 9 months ago. The largest shirt you own, a triple XL, has plastered itself to you, skin tight over your popped belly button and growing chest. It’s ridden up slightly so that your stretch-marked underbelly shows.
Through an exercise and pregnancy induced haze, you imagine how you seem to onlookers. You’ve gained a layer of pudge that collects around your face and body. Your cheeks have fattened up and you chins squish down when you lower your head. Your body has filled in your underarms, hips, ass, and thighs with excess calories. Your belly dominate your frame - it has turned you from quick and athletic to lumbering and fecund. Every section of you has seemed to thicken and prepare for bearing children.
More troubling than anything else is how your chest has gone from muscular and masculine to huge, soft, and sloshing with liquid. Currently, your heavy footed gait jostles your chest, sending it bouncing up and down to rest briefly atop the shelf of your belly. The weight of each breast presses down with every jolt, and your nipples remain erect against your t-shirt. The rhythmic pumping of your chest sets off a hot tingling sensation. It’s quickly obvious that this signals your full chest is leaking, slowly soaking your front with milk.
You slam a hand down to stop the machine, bending over the controls to hide your condition, catch your breath, and rest your aching body.
You must look like a cow, thoroughly bred and letting down with milk. An overfull womb rounding out your sides with babies, designating you as fertile from all angles. Huge teats hanging low and full to bursting with creamy milk. Body expanded with fat, padded for conceiving and growing children. A brood of young on the way and destined to breed again. Expected for these changes to become permanent and then become even more exaggerated with fat, milk, and calves.
These thoughts add to the growing wetness between your legs, and you can hardly hold yourself back from rubbing your thighs together in growing arousal. God, how embarrassing, that you enjoy your resemblance to breeding stock.
Your eyes focus on a growing puddle of sweat and milk dripping off of your body. Humiliated, you collect your things and leave, conceding that your time at the gym is decidedly over as you slowly waddle out to return home and resign yourself to bed rest.
I want a tight, firm belly that rests on my thighs when I sit down. I want to lean back on my elbows, unable to see anything past my massive belly. Moaning from the pain of my sore hips and overwhelming pleasure from how pregnant I am. Reaching down to stroke my dripping pussy only to find that its a struggle to reach around my giant bump. I want to rub my enormous belly, climaxing to the thought of how incredibly pregnant I am and how I have so much more growing still left to do.
As much as I love shoving my dildo in balls deep right away, slowly putting it in and feeling every inch of my pussy open up as it settles inside is so delicious 🤤
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As Reece progressed further into delivering his first child, the doctor took the step of removing the heart monitor from the belly. Reece briefly sighed relief as he felt his belly slowly expand. However, it was only brief relief as he immediately felt the baby drop lower, followed by a strong contraction.
i live my life daydreaming of being pregnant and doted on by my lover who’s so excited to be a daddy, absolutely obsessed with my belly in all various phases of pre, during, and post pregnancy. as well as very protective of my sweet lil bump.
and that ladies and gentlemen is my kink boiled down 😵💫
god there’s something about the idea that getting pregnant is my job that drives me crazy. i like anything where for any reason i have to get pregnant, especially if i then just keep getting knocked up. i love the idea of being in a harem, or being like a ritual breeding bitch or a surrogate or some sort of repressed wife desperate for children. literally anything where my job is just getting fucked and pushing out babies.
I love how gender affirming I find fucking my pussy and being full to be. Genuinely gives me gender euphoria to have my dildo inside me. I feel so complete when my pussy is filled. I love being a dumb little pussy boy
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I’m in suuuuch a subby carrier mood. I just want to be full of your babies, so pregnant I can hardly walk. There’s something so primal and possessive about everyone seeing how good of a job you did knocking me up. This belly? Because of you. This slow, aching waddle? You did this to me. These huge milky breasts? Your fault. You pounded into me again and again just to show that I’m yours. And once I give birth god I hope you’ll do it again.
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