read my pinned.

I pouch his stomach with my cum, load after thick load knotted deep into his fertile puppycunt with nowhere to go but alll the way inside, obedient little cervix flooded and contracting eagerly as I stroke his cock.

feels good, hmm? you’ll get used to it.

gonna feel just like this when I breed you for real someday. don’t worry, baby. it won’t take unless you want it.

I inspect him each time we fuck, running hands over his body to see how he’s grown for me, breathing deep into his cunt for the scent— I wanna notice before he does, while he’s barely verbal on my cock. and we make a new rule, that puppies can only cum when the knot’s inside. he’s eager and cock-hungry and easy to train.

my puppy, my little litterslut swelling fat and full already. I can’t stop touching him.

it’s easy to make him cry once the pregnancy hormones really start hitting. gently squeezing and rubbing his soft teats, talking sweetly with the cock that knocked him up still buried in his cunt— I’m just checking you, puppy. you gotta let me touch you all over.

puppy doesn’t like his belly rubbed anymore, but puppy is just a puppy. he doesn’t decide.

womb’s stretchin for me. so big already… there’s no way that’s just one. puppy’s having a whole litter, hmm?

I’m imagining hooking up, having a one night stand with a nice, handsome man… and over the next few weeks I realize something is very wrong. My stomach slowly begins swelling, visible after just a week.

Soon enough, it’s clear what has happened, and I’m taken in by medical professionals who are trying to find a cure for people afflicted with this condition. I slowly succumb to the dawning horror that my body was now primed to produce babies. Forever. The doctors run tests and monitor me 24/7, but slowly they lose interest in trying to “fix” me at all, choosing instead to study my body’s transformation.

First, my womb begins to distend with the first few dozen successful fertilizations. Slowly, my body starts to adjust to the changes in my hormonal system: my breasts slowly grow, at first doubling, then tripling in size, becoming massive watermelons full of milk. My hips slowly widen, swelling with a soft layer of fat in preparation for nurturing my growing brood.

Day after day, I’m forced to watch my body grow heavier and heavier, as the doctors take measurements on my stomach, my breasts, my hips…

At first I’m able to walk around my living quarters, at least, struggling with the weight of my immense brood, and trying not to catch glimpses of my body in the mirror. My once pleasantly chubby body is now a caricature of fertility, my massive stomach hanging down to my knees, my breasts still plumping up with no signs of stopping.

A few months in, I try to make it out of my cot, but my womb is officially too large to allow me to walk on my own strength. Now all I do, every day, is watch my belly extend further and further. Lying on my back, my legs splayed out helplessly under my massive form, I am officially more womb than I am anything else. The weight of my belly is like a warm waterbed, cementing me to the mattress.

After 9 months, the first round of babies are ready to be birthed. Throughout this “first pregnancy”, that single load of semen had been working methodically, and even after I give birth to the first batch, dozens and dozens more were still growing inside.

Never again would I know the feeling of an empty womb. Never again would I be able to walk, or even crawl: wherever the doctors put me, that was where I was going to be. Like a fancy piece of lab equipment.

Because of the size of my belly, in order to deliver the babies safely the doctors have me repositioned, having me lay stomach-down. My toes don’t even come close to touching the floor, as my womb is so large that I am suspended off the ground. The doctors hook my beach-ball-sized breasts up to a milking machine. Now I produced on both ends: a steady supply of milk and babies.

My life slowly melts into a haze of constant milking and birthing. I churn out a new set of babies once every few weeks, but it’s never enough to counter the steady stream of fertilizations. Everything blurs together, except one thing. Sometimes, just for the sick thrill of it, I turn my head as far back as I can, to catch a glimpse of myself in the room’s solitary mirror. Every time I look, I take in my helplessly hanging legs, my grotesquely swollen belly, and my ballooned, milky tits, and I can tell I’m just a little bit larger than I was the last time I checked.