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How is that only one baby?! She’s H.U.G.E.

The weight of my babies pulls her toward the mattress, her body surrendering to side-lying as the only relief from the burden of being so thoroughly bred. That monumental curve of belly spills forward, pooling with gravity against the sheets, while the spotted cups of the bra I selected frame what remains visible of her chest. Morning light filters through the window, illuminating skin stretched to its limit, the glow of pregnancy rendering her luminous—if not for the vulgar practicality of what she carries.

The hucow at rest. I have positioned her here, the black and white pattern catching daylight as a deliberate mark against her flesh, the symbol of her function worn where it cannot be missed. She breathes carefully, each inhale competing for space against the mass of womb and fluid and growing limbs, her hand resting unconsciously at the crest of that swell as if to confirm—yes, still there, still growing, still mine.

This is the view I return to throughout the day: the curve of her hip disappearing behind the globe of pregnancy, the spotted fabric straining, the blue walls of our room containing nothing but the evidence of my use of her. She does not rise without permission now, does not attempt the stairs or the kitchen or any space beyond this mattress. She has become, in these final months, exactly what the bra announces—a creature kept for filling, for swelling, for resting in the light until I have need of her again.

She stands in the white mesh I chose for her, the netting doing nothing to conceal what she has become—merely filtering the light around that monumental swell of belly, seven months achieved in mere days, her forty-sixth year about to turn. The fabric stretches over curve after curve, a grid pattern containing what can no longer be contained: breasts heavy with purpose, waist vanished entirely, the globe of womb spilling forward massive with my seed, my babies growing heavy within her mature flesh.

At forty-six, her body has surrendered completely to function. The mesh announces what age cannot diminish—fertility, utility, the willingness to be filled past comfort, past modesty, past any purpose but the one I assigned. She holds that belly with both hands, fingers spread across the taut skin, not from vanity but from necessity, the weight of what she carries demanding acknowledgment, support, display.

“You look soooooo pent up darling… Here, let your huge pregnant wife help 😍”

My motherly instincts had been off the charts now that I was getting closer to delivery… not that you were complaining being on the receiving end of it 😏

“You’re insatiable, you couldn’t even wait until we got to the bedroom to start getting yourself off with my rack? 😜”

*PLAP PLAP PLAP PLAP*

“You’re lucky they’re getting even more sensitive as they get bigger… fuck that feels good 😍🥵”

Kitty had always been the skinny girl a little embarrassed by her lack of curves. Even though her boyfriend was always supportive of the way she looked and would never say otherwise, she always felt that he shared her belief that she didn’t look or feel particularly womanly. Now, 6 months after them having a bit too much to drink and forgetting to wear a condom, feeling womanly is definitely something Kitty is used to, and she the curves to prove it. As a reward for procreating and carrying a child her body has softened and rounded in ways she’d never thought were possible. How could she not feel like a woman when her breasts had doubled in size and filled with delicious milk, or when she now sported a glorious belly that protected the life she was creating?