I need to be pregnant. Massively pregnant. I want to be filled, stuffed so full of your babies that my body becomes nothing but a shrine to your seed.
I crave the stretch. That unbearable tightness of skin drawn taut across a womb doing the impossible—carrying four, five, maybe even more of your children. I want to feel them kick and squirm, tangled up inside me, claiming every inch of space. I want to waddle with the weight of your legacy, so round and so full that I can barely walk. Barely breathe. Barely think.
Imagine it: me struggling to bend, to rise from bed without your hand on my swollen back. My breasts swollen and leaking, my thighs rubbed raw from the effort of carrying all of them for you. Needing help to get dressed, to turn over at night, to make it through the day—because your babies are using up everything I have.
I want you to make me need it. To press me down, whisper how many babies I’ll be carrying this time, how I don’t get a say, how this is what I was made for. Your perfect, messy, dumb little hucow. Your heavy, full-bellied whore, trembling with need as I beg you to put more in me.
Please. I don’t care how. Breed me. Stuff me. Drug me. Pour your cum into me until I can’t take any more—and then do it again anyway. Make me yours in the most undeniable way. Let the whole world see it written in my body. Let them know that I belong to you.
Don’t wait. Don’t ask. Just take. Make me a monument to your momentary pleasure.
I’ll thank you with every breath I can still manage to draw.
