Looking for my Baby Factory

People think that bimbos are stupid. That's not necessarily true; some bimbos are women who have decided to allocate all of their precious brainpower to a few core activities: looking hot and getting fucked by hot guys (and the occasional hot girl). When most people think of a "bimbo", they imagine the woman in the middle photo, with the huge, fake tits, the impossibly toned stomach, the ludicrous tan and perfect makeup. But the bimbos themselves, they know that this body is just the middle step in their journey. They're well aware of what happens to hot girls when they have as much sex, and take as much cum, as they do. And they're excited about it, because it means they finally get to advance to part 3, being a Bred Bimbo.

Day by day, week by week, that tight little body starts to disappear. Most notably it's those abs that go away, replaced by a perfectly round bump that just looks increasingly sexy on her as it just gets bigger and bigger. But it's not just that, because Mother Nature starts chipping in everywhere, taking a body that was already seemingly at its peak thanks to surgery and dieting and pushing it to even an even higher level. Those thick thighs get even thicker and that hourglass shape gets even more accentuated as pregnancy grows that ass more than years in the gym ever could.

And then there are the titties: a good bimbo knows the value of getting implants that look way too big on her slender body, but when she's bred these already oversized knockers become the cartoonish size she's always craved but which no surgeon ever dared to give her. Thanks to all that saline they still sit high and perky and perfectly round and yet they have become so heavy and wobbly, constantly slapping against the bump now resting underneath. Men are drawn to them like magnets, desperate to squeeze, grope, and suck out the milk that is just starting to come in, which is perfect for the Bred Bimbo given that all these hormones are making her more desperate for cock than even she thought was possible.

If you call yourself a bimbo, or it's your dream to become one some day, then this is your destiny. Your full potential, and your greatest satisfaction, will come when you're at last in your 9-months pregnant body.

Within a week you were waltzing out of the bathroom in only your towel, eagerly watching this man try to control himself as you bent over to collect some “forgotten” clothes, a sly grin on your face as he sheepishly reprimanded you. “Sorry, daddy…” you said in jest.

The final straw was when you left lacy panties just outside the bathroom door. He knocked, as red as the panties were, and tried to hand them to you. When your towel dropped, his breath hitched. Neither of you moved, even as he openly stared at your pretty, fertile body. Before you could beckon him in he grabbed you by the shoulder and pushed you inside until your bare back hit the cold tile wall with a gasp. “No more games, girl,” he growled, leaning in for a deep kiss. His salt and peppered scruff rubbed your face as your lips met and his rough hands traced your soft skin, and soon the shower echoed with the sounds of passion.

Neither of you asked about birth control. In the moment it didn’t matter. It was just the one time, it would be fine, right? Your shower was fixed the next week and you returned to your own home, only sharing glances with the neighbour when you happened to catch him.

Then, the month passed and you didn’t get your period. And the next. The third month left you with a firm swell sitting low on your belly, and you knew that you had to tell him. You knocked on his door with a tight shirt on - he knew the second he saw you. “Hi, daddy,” you smiled at him, cupping your growing middle. Seeing you with his child in your belly lit a fire in him, visible in his eyes as he ushered you in.

Like a switch had been flipped, your relationship with him blossomed and he grew ravenous and desperate for you. Words were hardly shared but the both of you knew you both wanted this, in the way your swelling womb was lovingly caressed.

Months passed, and you swelled big and swelled quickly. Twins, two big, burly boys grew heavy in you and your belly eclipsed your frame. The sight was intoxicating to him, he loved just how pregnant *he* made you, and he made it exceedingly obvious as he pampered you and showered you in attention. “Can’t let my baby girl feel too uncomfortable, can I?”

His best attempt did not beat out the massive twins, however. By your due date they were in the double digit pounds, and now you were closer to two weeks overdue. The Braxton-Hicks contractions had been wracking you for a month, the long and uncomfortable squeeze making you groan often. If you didn’t pop tonight, the doctors wanted you induced and delivery by cesarean - and neither of you wanted that.

So here you are, back in the shower with your hands against the wall once more. His large hands were pressed firmly against your hips, massaging around your lower back as a cramp waned and you swayed your hips from side to side. Since your belly had dropped the overwhelming fullness in your pelvis was driving you crazy, and the hot water was helping to ease the tension. “That’s it, good girl,” he hummed, helping you stand up straight and cupping under your belly to lift it up, “those cramps are getting more frequent, do they feel any different yet?” You panted and nodded, the last few had felt less dull, more urgent and sharp. He smiled and kissed your neck, guiding you to rock your hips while you waited for more progress.

The next contraction came within ten minutes, and with it came a very different feeling. You gasped and curled around your shrinking belly, the pressure so much higher than before. “Feels different!” you squeaked, sinking into a slight squat as something shifted inside you. “Do you need to push, love?” he asked in a quiet, low tone as he held you up. You shook your head.

“We should go to the hospital then,” he concluded, but you shook your head more firmly as the contraction peaked and dissipated, leaving you gasping for air. “No, please, I need you daddy!” you whined, “Let me stay here…”

With a sigh, he simply held you closer and lowered you into a full squat. “Ok, baby… But I need to see if you’re dilating.” With your approval, his fingers trailed down your back and pressed against your pussy. “Breathe…” he coo’d as he pushed inside, reaching up to find his fingers brushing against your sac of waters, and your cervix already stretching open close to eight centimetres. He slowly pulled out and rested his hand at your entrance. It seemed that your labour was more advanced than either of you had thought.

And with your next contraction, the pressure spiked until, suddenly, a *pop* and splash of liquid announced the unspoken truth. It was time to have his babies.

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