Way Too Breedable~

I know I'm not supposed to take the Lord's name in vain, but oh my GOD!

I can't help but whimper the words against my palm as I desperately try to smother my cries, my open legs shaking as I can't help but give in and push against your hand. I don't want to, I try desperately to stop, pray for the strength to stop, but I can't. My belly tightens hard as I start to bulge more against your hand, the head pressing down into a full crown even as tears run down my cheeks. I can't stop. I can't stop!

Thats what I'm talking bout!

Looking full term with triplets at 5 months, awkwardly waddling around in public, people looking over in awe or asking to feel my enormous, dense, gravid belly. Being the center of attention & having people admire me in awe of my immense size. Looking nearly impossibly huge, looking like I'm 6 entire months overdue (or 15 months) while I still got 4 months to go.

i love you fat queer people

i love you queer people of color

i love you queer people of different cultures

i love you disabled queer people

i love you differently able queer people

i love you queer systems

i love you neurodivergent queer people

i love you queer people of different religions

i love you intersex people

i love you unlabeled queer people

i love you mentally ill queer people

i love you all queer people

It's subtle at first, just barely brushing against your backside as if to test your reaction. You know you should feel outraged that someone would dare touch a stranger on the train, let alone a pregnant one, but their fingers are gentle, and you're honestly starved for contact. So you don't say anything. You keep your gaze fixed firmly ahead, silently waiting to see what they will do next.  

The stranger wastes no time in growing bolder, the hand sliding over the curve of your ass and rubbing it almost appreciatively. They shift from one cheek to the other, cautiously testing the shape of it before giving your bottom a careful squeeze.  

It's enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Who are they? You know you should be protesting, should be drawing away, should be calling them out for the impropriety, but it feels so good. As shameful as it is to admit it, you don't want them to stop.  

So you keep standing there, your arms wrapped protectively around your swollen abdomen, and continue letting them fondle you.

It takes everything you've got not to cry out when that hand dips between your legs, cupping you where you so desperately want to be touched. No one's touched you like this since the night you got knocked up, and your body craves pleasure like your lungs crave air. You can feel the flush creeping up your neck and face when their fingers start to move, following the line of your growing arousal before beginning to stroke you right through your trousers.  

You lose track of the crowd, of the stops, of the lurching motions of the train. All you can think about is the way those fingers are pleasuring you right here in the open while you have no idea who they belong to.  

You want to lean back into them and breathlessly beg them to keep going. You want to unbuckle your trousers and let them slide their hands beneath the fabric to touch you directly. You want to invite them back to your place to finish the job, to bend you over your bed and pound your greedy hole until you can't see straight to make up for all these sexless months. 

You want--

The train jerks to a stop at what can only be the main station. The hand between your legs tries to draw away as the crowd begins to disperse, but you instinctively squeeze your legs together to trap it in place. "My stop's next," you frantically whisper, hoping against hope that they can hear you over the din. "Follow me home? Please?"

There's no verbal response, but those glorious fingers begin moving again, and that's good enough for now. 

oh well I'm glad to hear you like it~

I'll gladly write more about those in the near future, but for now, have this:

you look like you're six or seven months pregnant, even though you've only had these eggs in you for about three days. whatever impregnated you, whatever creature it was that jumped on you and poured an aphrodisiac down your throat to stuff you, it left you to fend for yourself and deal with whatever baby was inside you.

that lake was cursed but you didn't know that. you went skinny dipping at night, you didn't see the thing approaching you until it was too late. the fingers, if they could be called that, gripped your hips so tight you still had bruises. vaguely frog hand shaped bruises.

now you were hobbling around your house, rubbing your belly, feeling things inside shifting and growing. you were sweeping your house when you felt a twinge in your stomach and suddenly felt something 'pop', slick gel pooling in your underwear. yeah that had you racing to your bathroom so fast, filling the tub halfway with warm water and stripping, getting in.

translucent, green-tinted goo was coating your thighs. you felt another twinge and the urge to push as more slime poured from your cervix. you pushed as hard as you could, breath being taken away as multiple,.gelatinous eggs slipped out of you one after the other until you paused to breath, more eggs trying to force their way out of your birth canal.

they were all connected by some gel, they looked like tadpole eggs, and you weren't even a little deflated yet. you had many more resting in your womb, begging to come out. you could literally feel the eggs slipping lower and lower, seeing the bump more crowd your lower stomach.

you pushed again, groaning and pulling your thighs back. more eggs pushed out of your cervix. two pressed out at the same time, side by side, it stung and had you throwing your head back as you grunted and pushed harder. more eggs flooded out of you. every time you took a break to breathe, you couldn't wait long as the gel connecting your eggs together was simultaneously pulling them from your cervix and pushing them back in.

you pushed and pushed until the water was full of the eggs, until finally you strained and cried and whimpered out the last one, feeling it slip out. you breathed heavily, head resting on the wall.

It's subtle at first, just barely brushing against your backside as if to test your reaction. You know you should feel outraged that someone would dare touch a stranger on the train, let alone a pregnant one, but their fingers are gentle, and you're honestly starved for contact. So you don't say anything. You keep your gaze fixed firmly ahead, silently waiting to see what they will do next.  

The stranger wastes no time in growing bolder, the hand sliding over the curve of your ass and rubbing it almost appreciatively. They shift from one cheek to the other, cautiously testing the shape of it before giving your bottom a careful squeeze.  

It's enough to steal the breath from your lungs. Who are they? You know you should be protesting, should be drawing away, should be calling them out for the impropriety, but it feels so good. As shameful as it is to admit it, you don't want them to stop.  

So you keep standing there, your arms wrapped protectively around your swollen abdomen, and continue letting them fondle you.

It takes everything you've got not to cry out when that hand dips between your legs, cupping you where you so desperately want to be touched. No one's touched you like this since the night you got knocked up, and your body craves pleasure like your lungs crave air. You can feel the flush creeping up your neck and face when their fingers start to move, following the line of your growing arousal before beginning to stroke you right through your trousers.  

You lose track of the crowd, of the stops, of the lurching motions of the train. All you can think about is the way those fingers are pleasuring you right here in the open while you have no idea who they belong to.  

You want to lean back into them and breathlessly beg them to keep going. You want to unbuckle your trousers and let them slide their hands beneath the fabric to touch you directly. You want to invite them back to your place to finish the job, to bend you over your bed and pound your greedy hole until you can't see straight to make up for all these sexless months. 

You want--

The train jerks to a stop at what can only be the main station. The hand between your legs tries to draw away as the crowd begins to disperse, but you instinctively squeeze your legs together to trap it in place. "My stop's next," you frantically whisper, hoping against hope that they can hear you over the din. "Follow me home? Please?"

There's no verbal response, but those glorious fingers begin moving again, and that's good enough for now. 

Cherry - I love you.

Watermelon - I think you’re cute.

Blueberry - You’re amazing.

Kiwi - You’re pretty

Raspberry - You’re hot.

Plum - I would fuck you.

Paopu Fruit - I would date you.

Grapes - I could stay on your blog for hours.

Starfruit - You are my tumblr crush.

Orange - I want to get to know you.

Tangerine - We have a lot in common.

Lemon - I wish you would notice me.