We're sitting on the sofa, your hands resting on my overdue belly. I look down, feeling the tightness of my skin stretched to its limit. I never thought I could feel so overwhelmingly full. The weight sitting on my hips feels unbearable, pulling at my sides and making me so uncomfortable.
You massage my belly all the time now, saying you want to relieve me. But I know you just can't get enough of the way it looks, how it feels under your fingers. I wouldn't tell you, but I can barely stand it these days. Every touch feels like I may pop any second. It's almost suffocating, the fullness pressing down, a constant reminder of the life inside me but also of how close I am to finally give birth.
I bask in the way your breath hitches, your pupils dilate as you watch yourself rubbing all over my poor belly. Your lips are parted, your cheeks burning hot and I know you'll take care of me so well after, because you can't hide the fact that it makes you absolutely feral having me like this.
Each gentle push sends a sharp pang through my lower back, I can feel the strain in my muscles. I wince, close my eyes, trying to find comfort, but every kick seemes sharper, as if the baby is pushing against the walls of my belly, desperate to escape.
Hmm, please be careful. I'm so sensitive, baby.
With each stroke of your hands, I feel growing discomfort. The skin on my belly taut and shiny, almost painful to touch. As you press harder, hoping to ease some of the tightness, it only intensifies, making me whimper.
Ah, please, please be careful, I'm so full.
I long for nothing but relief these days, no position can ease the constant pressure inside me. I rest my hands on my belly, joining yours, feeling the life within me and the hurt I carry before I move one of your hands down between my legs.
