#filthywriting

He Sent the Photo Right Before It Started

Part 1:

I wasn’t expecting to get a text from him. Not after the way he left that morning.

But there it was. [1 Attachment] “You forgot this, Daddy.”

The photo nearly made me drop my phone. He was laid out on our bed, in that threadbare white t-shirt, belly huge and tight like it could pop with one good thrust. One hand holding his phone. The other in his curls. Mouth open. Jeans unbuttoned. Sweat blooming beneath the curve of that swell.

I could almost hear the little pant that must’ve come right after the shot.

I didn’t even type a reply. I hit call.

“Y—you liked it, huh?” he answered, breath hitching like he already knew. “You gonna come back and finish what you started?”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll be through that door before you can reach around that belly.”

He whimpered. Fuck, that sound. “’S gettin’ hard to reach around it,” he whispered. “It’s so full, Daddy. You made it this big.”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I’m not picturing you squirming on the sheets right now, whining because you’re so goddamn full?”

I heard fabric shift. Skin. Fingers moving. “You left me leaking,” he said, voice low and dirty. “Still wet from last night. I can feel it dripping when I move.”

That was it. The blood rushed south. I was already unbuckling my belt.

“Touch yourself. Rub that belly while you do it. I want to hear you fuckin’ moan.”

“You gonna—oh, god—gonna talk me through it?”

“No. I’m gonna come watch.”

I kicked open the front door less than 10 minutes later.

He was still in the same spot, one leg bent, shirt rolled under the curve of his belly. His hand was inside his open jeans, working slow. He looked up at me and licked his lips like I was dessert.

“You like the photo?” he panted. “You want me to send another while you watch me come?”

I dropped my bag, crossed the room, and crawled onto the bed like a man starved.

“No,” I growled. “I’m gonna give you something to film next time.”

My hand went straight to the belly, pushing gently down. He gasped, cock twitching.

“You feel how tight that is? How fucking full you are?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“I’m not stopping until you scream. Flip over.”

“But—ahh, it’s so heavy—I can’t—”

“Then keep those legs open and let me fuck you like this.”

And I did.

I took him rough, one hand under his back, the other cradling the belly I’d bred to bursting. He moaned through every thrust, begging, crying, choking on his own gasps.

“Tell me you love being this full.”

“I love it—I love it so much—fuck, I wanna stay like this—never stop—”

The orgasm ripped through him, full-body, loud and raw, belly bouncing, cock spurting untouched. I followed, growling into his throat, biting down so hard he’d have a mark tomorrow.

When it was over, he smiled through his tears.

“You better send me the next photo,” I muttered, still buried inside him, hand resting on the belly.

“I will,” he whispered. “When the contractions start.”

And fuck if my cock didn’t twitch again.

Part 2:

“Daddy, I—fuck—it’s starting.”

I froze, buried to the hilt inside him, both of us drenched in sweat.

He clutched my forearm with one hand, the other sliding down to grip the underside of his belly. His thighs trembled under mine, stretched open, slick and spent.

I looked at him.

His lips were red and bitten. His eyes blown wide. The kind of look a man gives when something big is happening—and not just in his hole.

“You sure?” I rasped, breath heavy in his ear. “You feel it?”

He nodded. Whimpered. Then smiled.

And that smile wrecked me.

“Don’t stop.”

“You’re contracting.”

“I know.”

I pressed one hand to the belly—his whole body tensed like a livewire. I felt it. That first tight pull. Shallow. Rhythmic. Real.

My cock twitched inside him.

“Jesus fucking christ,” I growled.

“Please,” he whispered, hips rocking helplessly. “Keep going. Wanna come while I labor. Wanna feel you while he drops.”

I could’ve come right there.

Instead—I pushed deeper. Slow. Deliberate. One hand cradling his belly, the other gripping his throat, gentle but firm.

“You’re such a good boy,” I murmured. “Carrying so fucking heavy. Letting me keep you like this.”

He cried out. His back arched.

“Daddy—he’s pushing down—I can feel him.”

I fucked him through it.

Every contraction hit like a goddamn wave. I never pulled out. Not once. Just gripped that belly and gave him everything—filthy praise, messy kisses, the kind of stretch that made him sob between moans.

He came again when the next contraction hit. Hands over his belly. Body shuddering.

“I want you to come inside me,” he begged. “Again. While I’m opening up.”

“Fuck, baby—yeah. Yeah, I’ll fill you. One last time before we meet him.”

I buried my face against his neck and came hard. Full. Deep. Locked against that belly like I could keep him pregnant forever.

He fell asleep in my arms, belly still tight, body trembling. And that phone? Still in his hand. Camera open.