Swollen and Desperate

He had asked her, after they had been together for about a year, if she would consider inducing lactation, and she was she was excited to do it, to share this sexy secret with her OB-GYN boyfriend. He would get her what she needed, and provided supplements, with a doctor’s oversight. It drove him mad to see her breasts swell, and leak, and need to be relieved. It drove her insane, too.

He smiled at her and asked her if she would like to swell some more.

He gave her supplements, and fucked her, and watched her begin to swell like a sponge left in a bowl of water. He wasn’t sure what would happen with her titties, and was delighted to see her nipples darken to the color of plums, and become as elongated as the nipples on the bottles he remembered his father had used to feed livestock on the farm when he was a boy. Very quickly, nothing he could get for her fit across her chest, too sensitive for anything more than a light tshirt.

He loved how tight she was; one Matilda’s best features was how tight she was. That never changed, even as she swelled to 28 weeks with quadruplets.

Her eyes were bigger and wider than she was, he joked, as he rolled his big girl onto all fours. After, he cleaned her and cared for her, as one would for any beached whale. He got his former size 4 girlfriend standing. That was a chore.

Matilda waddled unsteadily and restlessly around his house.Every part of her felt exposed and sensitive. Since that night she met the businessman while working tending bar things have changed. She had been a quiet college student with little experience before meeting him. He loved making her crazy by slipping his fingers insider her. He confessed three months later, as she burst another zipper, he wanted to corrupt someone. He was tall and broadshouldered and could only fit three fingers inside her, he said, But certainly she would soften and stretch. Her nipples are ready to work, stiff, alert, very hard all the time, a deep brown color, steadily releasing a tiny trickle. Her breasts have gone from bee stings to the gallon jugs that wont be emptied, not yet, No matter how much he suckles and how much she cries about how uncomfortable she is.

He knows Matilda’s uncomfortable. Soon, against her protests, he’ll take her out for her Evening Waddle, her softly moaning and obviously leaking, lurching from side from to side, as four big babies have blown her up like a water ballon being held under the faucet by a naughty boy. She looks massive. Matilda is massive. Utterly stuffed. He knows a secret, through; there’s not much give around his three fingers, still. In a month, Matilda will be even more swollen; his big, broad shouldered babies even bigger, his insistence on a home natural birth even stronger.

The garden was Janine’s world now. In the morning Ben helped her into one of the few housedresses that still fit and dashed off for a patient, although she was one of his patients. Janine was left alone to lumber, slow and heavy, out of the isolated farmhouse and through the blooms. Janine’s only job was to ripen, said Ben. He was a country doctor with a well established practice, several years out of med school, when he met Janine at church the summer she returned from her freshman year at college. Janine’s parents liked Ben and here she was, less than a year later, a couple wide counties away from where she grew up..

Dr Ben believed in what he called natural medicine for women, letting them swell unencumbered. He didn’t even check for multiples, but the spectacle of the rarely seen Janine had people talking. Ben also believed all would birth at their own pace and time, so no due date. The one firm obligation was: Sunday is Church Day. Dr Ben loved Church Day.

Ben had been away, at conferences, preaching his country medicine gospel the last few weekends. He’s back now.

Very large now, feeling like the livestock needing handling, breasts leaking, unable to get comfortable, Janine rarely left Ben’s big farmhouse and land—, the farmhouse she would be helping to fill up by letting Ben fill her up, every single room. She felt very self conscious, and was becoming more so, all the time. Janine knew she carried more than one. It was very hard to walk. On Sunday, after Ben had tugged and pushed and pinned her into more modest dress than the panties she usually lumbered about in. It’s just everything else felt so terribly tight. Today, she had to suck it up.

Janine waddled into church next to Ben to the front pew, in a bright floral dress stretched tight across her mass, her nipples hard and bold and threatening to pop through the pulled tight fabric. She is lowered down to the hard bench. She mewls in discomfort as her very full, ballooned breasts bounce off her belly as she settles in, legs spread wide to accommodate how… round… she is now. Janine realizes her eyes have been closed, and she’s been panting and whimpering as she rocks herself, in a futile attempt to get comfortable.

Janine is very large now.

Ben smiles at everyone and tells them all is well: nature is taking her course, and county medicine could always be trusted. It was important to have his wife “be free to swell, and grow, and contemplate her gifts .” He looked down at his overripe wife, his unmercifully stuffed wife. He hands out business cards to new church members with nervous, slim wives. “She could have stayed home. But Sunday is church day, and that comes first, right, darling?”

You were so romantic that night, it was Valentine’s Day. We went to a little four table restaurant. Now I can’t fit in the restaurant. We tried; we walked, slowly, the few blocks from your apartment, you guiding me because you really knocked me up and I was starting to really blow up. A sign of things to come.I didn’t consider—summer.

I gave up my apartment because I was warned I couldn’t handle a third floor walk up. You have an elevator, you said. Well, the power went out thanks to July demand, and so did the AC. The the three babies you fucked into me protest the heat. the change from AC to hell. I have no choice but to walk slow, pink with with heat and effort, too uncomfortable to sit or stand, tits vasts and aching, forced into a tedious, swollen waddle. And I’m only beginning the third trimester.

You’d left on business 48 hours ago—not everything can be done by Zoom, FFS, and frankly, you needed a break from Carrie, who’d you think was the first person to have a kid ever. Well, three kids, and it seems she was expanding every minute. And her breasts were WILD. . They were the things of a teenage of a teenage boy’s dreams—very round, with sensitive, long nipples. She was already needing to be pumped as she entered her seventh month. It happens, says the doc. Carrie had trouble getting around so you arranged for family to pop in while you were gone; you would greet her and help her get out of bed on the third morning, when you got home. You hurried home from the airport, surprised at how much you miss that globe-like belly, and Carrie’s incredible, heavy, uncontainable tits, the size of watermelons, prize-winning country-fair strawberries for nipples. They drip all the time. She pumps constantly.

You enter the house and hear whimpering. You find Carrie in bed. She had knocked her breast pump and phone off her nightstand the evening before. Help, she says again, her voice small under the weight of your children and her tits, which you realize are terribly swollen beyond what you’ve done to her already. The massive nipples atop the watermelons are dry, and stretched utterly flat from the three inch gushers they were 24 hours ago. Poor Carrie, pumped absolutely full by you in every way. You run your fingers over her flat balloon nipples as she whimpers and winces.

Poor Kara missed it again. Under the new US healthcare rules, labor could be put off for cost considerations, should states allow. Kara’s state did. Kara was not aware of that, not long ago. Nor was she aware of terms like hyper-ovulation and hyper-lactation. Kara is very aware of these things now.

She cried as her husband Matt gave her the shot that would delay labor—again. Very soon, he said. Hospitals closed for all but extreme emergencies for Juneteenth, and would not admit her because it was a federal holiday. That was over 3 weeks ago. Her doctor said she was healthy, but he was golfing. Besides, insurance wouldn’t pay for a non emergency natural quintuplet delivery on a holiday anymore. Being as big as the full strawberry moon and as round and heavy and thick as tractor trailer tire was not an emergency. Being stuffed with Matt’s litter was not an emergency. Tits could be managed, they said, but Kara couldn’t reach her nipples any more and was needing Matt to milk her.

No one expected the Multiples Austerity Assist Shot to be so effective. Kara’s ordeal was only supposed to last another few days. She was already a stunning sight, a trim professional woman turned into an incredibly swollen, desperate, stuffed, filled up, very wide load of wife by a little genetic flower waited to be watered by Matt. Kara had been unable to do anything but swell and waddle a bit for 9 months; her breasts began blowing up far too early, too. Hyper everything, said the doctor. Her tits swelled and leaked as she waddled slowly around the first level of the house, no longer able to make upstairs after month 7. Surely you’ll deliver by 30 weeks, said doctors. That landmark came and went, and because Kara was healthy, she grew. She wished it was fall, not the Fourth, because her titties—no, that metaphor doesn’t work: all of her is a pumpkin now; each her tits, big, heavy and round, with her nipples long and brown stems, her belly like the prize winners at the fair that can’t be moved unless by truck, and everyone comes to gawk.

It’s only a little longer, Matt tells her. There’s a gleam in his eye as he pinches her nipple. We want you birthing in the hospital, and besides: you look so good when you’re so ripe. He asks her if she wants to try to stand up. She does. After about ten minutes Matt hoists Kara, her legs spread wide, heavy belly forcing her into a slight squat, that same belly sending Kara’s mind bending, steadily leaking breasts bouncing up into her line of vision.

Part One Here

Your three oldest children and husband look on jealously as your triplets nurse. The triplets are four months old, and you have no problem producing for them; the titties you had just a few years ago are gone. You have udders now, always full, always aching, always dripping from terribly sensitive nipples that are always long, erect, and hard as nails. The jealous year old twins with with their inadequate sippy cups are constantly crying for you, making you swell and drip more; the 2 year old pretending to be uninterested, the husband obsessed with milking you dry, then watching you becoming uncomfortably engorged and whimper for help. You’re his only hobby.

Of course, he made sure you were fucked shortly after the triplets arrived., as soon as you were medically cleared. You’re expecting quads in 20 weeks. Your husband likes to make sure you carry one more each time.

One, Two, Three, Four. Can he have a little more? You said he could. You didn’t understand, because two and three and four are different things.

You are downright pitiful now in the summer heat, terribly stuffed, very overheated all the time, despite wearing nothing but a very light men’s XXXL’s bathrobe that did’t quite close, because you get so tired feeding babies, and growing, and leaking. He likes to show you off, so you waddle next to him through the neighborhood, when he can get you dressed decently. He buys you dresses in bright colors and loud patterns. He loves it when it buttons pop at dinner, and he does indeed likes to take you out, and makes a big deal when you can’t fit behind the table. All you want is to be home, and undressed and swelling, if you must swell; everything is so tight, and it’s hard to see around your beach ball titties. You waddle, slowly, on widened aching hips, tits dripping steadily: you don’t notice a button pop as you’re holding on your husband’s arm and trying to stay upright. He promises you an ice cream if you can waddle another half block. Maybe he’ll suck on your clit, he whispers, as you approach a group of friends who look shocked to see you, and don’t tell you your hot pink dress is being held together across your J cups by one very brave soldier of a button. Your husband notices, and smiles at the very loud PING as gives way. Oh, honey, he says, We should go, helping you, bouncing and jiggling, long, sensitive nipples erect and rock-hard and dripp, You waddle away, a long slow waddle.. You are very large now, indeed.

You agreed to fulfill his fantasy: he never said when the Irish Twinning would stop.

It was true; at her conservative college, she was going to major in religious studies, as she spent her time on campus as an advocate for purity before marriage and submission and after. She was known for speaking on panels in support of the proposed Flower Project, too, saying being part of and gathering a bouquet was beautiful, and a wife should be constantly blossoming and on display to inspire others. That’s where Preston found her, dressed demurely but expensively, wearing a high-necked, body-skimming dress. The panels, where she spoke of wives obeying husbands, and “planting” as many flowers as possible. She felt important. She was halfway through her sophomore year, showing off her ideas and her classic looks at a panel; he was a political star in their Party and was preparing to run for office when they were introduced. She married Preston in a lavish ceremony at his parent’s estate. She was too caught up with wedding planning to be concerned as Preston slipped away with his campaign managers to plot. He wanted her ready for the convention, where they would really push the Flower Project. And she loved and trusted him, taking the vitamins he said he would energize her through grueling nuptial planning.

Her time as a beautiful bride was brief. Preston deflowered her, losing his professorial, bow-tied aura and turning into something wild. She submitted, and soon enough began to swell. She turned pink when a button burst at a political event when she bent over; Preston kindly draped his jacket over her shoulders. He told her she was looking tired; it was just two months since the wedding; perhaps she should visit the doctor? He would bring her. He got the results, as she sat in the waiting room.

She was told some things, by a gleeful Preston. She was expecting, and she was giving him more than one. Her job was was to display herself as a happy wife. She was presenting a beautiful bouquet to her husband. At first, she was happy, until walking became increasingly hard, and finding anything that fit became difficult, and she could no longer drive herself anywhere, because she no longer fit behind the wheel. Preston took her to the maternity shop, and she burst into tears seeing her wide hips, round, quivering belly, and incredible breasts, gone from bee stings to heavy triple Ds, in the three way mirror. She thought she looked grotesque, compared to the virgin bride she had been just…Heavens, was it only five months ago? She stood, very swollen. as a salesgirl and Preston consulted on a dress she would need. She’s growing very fast, leave room, he said. I mean feet. He bought big, flowing things for her that weren’t big enough.

She grew, not feeling like a blossoming flower. She knew he was watching her, being overly kind as she tried get out of the pew ar church on Sunday. She had fit going in, she did, and felt deep shame as a deacon helped haul her out, rocking her body. She said she didn’t know she would be like this. Seems she grew a few inches every day. I At home, still pink from shame, Preston told her, as he prepared for a speaking role in the state convention, he had a new role for her. She would join him to show how happy she was, part of Preston’s bouquet. She began to tear up, slowly settling into the last kitchen chair that would hold her. I’ll be too big, she said, you wont even tell me how many I’m having or exactly when I’m due!

Preston, smiling, called up a social media video on his phone and held it up to play her. It was her, on a panel, talking about how she couldn’t wait to submit to and blossom for her husband, and be an example to other women. Here now, the chair creaked under her and her weight. Don’t be a hypocrite, honey, he said.

***

(Four Weeks Later)

Look how wide she is! Said Preston, beaming, speaking into a mic, over the applause of the arena, which sputters as she makes her entrance.

She realizes just how large she is now, waddling out into the spotlight, just as fast as she can, which isn’t very fast at all. She remembers to smile and wave, even as she hears the gasps from the arena. That dress ordered with so much extra room is pulled so tight across her, she’s afraid she might pop, and she cant fix it, because her fingertips only go halfway round her growing body, and she can’t touch her nipples at all. But Preston can, and she feels her nipples harden as Preston smirks at her. She can’t help it.

Preston beams at her as she struggles to move towards him: surely everyone can see her nipples leaking.

Preston is delighted. If she can do this, for me, for her country, why can’t you? He asks. They make the rounds, after, her toddling alongside Preston as men in suits praise his virility. Women seem both both jealous of attention she’s getting, and afraid to blossom.

He’d had enough. He didn’t get paid enough to get pointed at by this third wife as she came in for her birth control, as she refused to end her call with her friend du jour, complaining about her allowance that was more than twice his hourly salary. She snapped at him, too, demanding her change as silver bracelets tapped on her wrists. So he went to work, cracking open the clamshell and replacing the pills with fertility supplements. For one month. Then two. Then three. Then the script stopped being filled, and the show began.

The bracelets didn’t tap anymore; they were stuck on her fat forearm.. He noticed that as she lumbered in, supported by her silver-haired husband, and offered his congratulations. We’re expecting triplets!, said the beaming husband, as he handed over a fistful of prenatal scripts. She is only four months in, and looking shocked, dismayed, round as a plum. A phone rings, and she reaches over her swollen waist for a pocket. “Not now, honey,” says her husband. Her tells her to listen to me. She does.

I’m a special kind of therapist, who accepts only a few referrals from the clinics I partner with; the type of clinics that don’t accept insurance. Lots of times the husbands in these rich families knock up their wives, using fertility specialists. The wife is left carrying twins or more, and him? If she’s a trophy, he’s napping or golfing; if he’s younger, he’s doesn’t get it, what he has.

I saw Mrs. Wellington today. She’s six months in with triplets. She told me she didn’t feel pretty anymore, so I flipped her onto her her hands and knees and showed her otherwise, Her husband is 70; she met him when he spoke at her college last year. She’s swelling rapidly, and he tells her to come visit three times a week, because he’s busy.

Terribly gravid, at last, with twins, after trying for so long, Mr and. Mrs XX (you you know from the tabloids) came by. She was in tears, terribly frustrated. She told me how sensitive she is, everywhere, every square inch of her quivering all the time when he made her Almost too big to move. He won’t fuck her because he might hurt her. So I do, while he watches.

My newest client is a political wife. I don’t think she realized she was expected to waddle alongside The Candidate on the campaign trail and smile while he talks states’ rights/husbands’ rights. Poor Mrs’ Q’s tits have gone from B cups to G cups already, and she feels like a freak. I’m here to treat her anxiety. I’m here to get her strength up. Reward her every waddle and leaking jiggle. She gets a treat when she gets up and accepts marching orders, and that’s important; She’ll be eight and half months with quads when her husband accepts the nomination at the Convention, but that’s four long, round, months away. Get her on the reward system now. The Senator’s wife submits to her husband and is booked three times a week.

I like to hear my shy wife tell me about her day. I don’t give her much to do now. She never liked to go out, being so introverted, but now it’s very important that she have something to do. I asked her to pick up a prescription for me, just down the street, and to pick up something for dinner. She agreed.

I don’t give her much to do because she’s very large now, and very self-conscious. My twins have blown her right up, incredibly, her titties just outrageously sensitive, an accidental brush making her gasp. I used to take her shopping for XS dresses; now she’s barely squeezing into XXXL T-shirt dresses from Target. Tents, really. Tight as latex gloves. . She’s seven months in and looks ready to deliver triplets. She’s getting rounder every day; an involuntary show for the neighborhood.

She looks down, cheeks pink, and answers my teasing questions. It took her longer to waddle downtown than she thought. She stopped to rest on a bus bench about a block into her walk, and struggled terribly to get up. . A man helped me get up, she said. He said he wished he was the lucky father as he leered at her. I was embarrassed, she said. She turned pinker. What happened next? I asked.

The pinkness spread to her neck.. Your script wasn’t ready, so I sat in a chair, in the waiting area, by the pharmacy, she said. She pursed her lips. Did you make make a mistake? I asked her. She looked at me then, eyes wide and wet, and told me got stuck in the awful, plastic, hard chair, and the pharmacist and the clerk got her out, and she cried out when one of them touched her breast. Everyone saw it. Everyone heard it, she’s so sensitive, she squealed like a plump piglet. She got home as fast she could. Did you waddle, honey? Waddle as fast as you could?

Hannah heard their pickups crunching on the gravel drive and squirmed under the weight of the baby her towering firefighter husband had fucked into her just over 9 months ago. A captain, newly promoted, he was called to a predawn fire over 8 hours ago. She insisted on his hauling her up so she could waddle about, fix him a thermos of coffee, and wobble to the living room to nod off, nude, in his favorite recliner, taking in his scent.

Hannah was utterly stuffed. People were stunned she was only carrying one baby. But her husband’s family were all giant, strapping men, all firefighters. Her husband had six brothers. She was was the smallest wife, slight and shy, found during a college dorm false alarm. He had found her, cold, without a coat, waiting be allowed inside, and given her his big, heavy, yellow work coat. Now she was big and heavy. That coat didn’t fit anymore, although he had fucked her in it. She left college, too swollen to waddle to class. At loud family gatherings, she hid in books. She was enormous now, a spectacle, round tits as heavy as two extra-large watermelons, and a round, heavy, swollen belly. Her husband loved to parade her, her heavy, leaking tits swaying, her belly making it hard to walk. No where to hide now, he told her.

Hannah awoke from an extra long nap in the recliner, and heard her husband and some of firehouse crew coming up the walk, returning, her husband wanting his crew to see her.

And she realized she was stuck. As she watched the key turned in the lock, Hannah felt her swollen, naked body turn very warm. She pushed with her arms, wiggled, and tried to twist. With every attempt to free her too wide hips from the recliner her engorged tits leaked like a busted hydrant, and she realized it wasn’t enough effort, not enough, she couldn’t do it. Hannah was too full, too stuffed, too big, too overdue, too fucked. A twisted thought: she needed the fire department to get her unstuck.

Wait till you see her, Hannah heard, as the door opened. Her watermelon tits spurted, her belly blocked her vision.

She’s very large now, larger than she thought she could be and bigger than he ever dreamed possible. He’d replaced her birth control pills, and slipped supplements into meals her made her, with love. He just didn’t tell her.

He can’t explain himself, so he didn’t. He held her hand as she came to him, already waddling a bit, just a few months in, saying she didn’t know how this happened. Don’t worry, he said. I’ll take care of you.

And now, About to enter her third trimester. Big as a cruise ship, and as hard to maneuver. He had fucked quintuplets into her, and she looked very fucked, too. He liked to take her on what he called a “daily waddle,” a walk though the neighborhood. She told him she felt like a circus elephant. You have a ways to go, too, he said. He smiled.