Friends with Gestational Benefits [FPREG]
WARNING: NSFW, there will be graphic childbirth and several discussions about sex and body parts. It's traditional FPREG.
Sarah, a sharp and engaging narrator, tells the story of how she became a surrogate for her best friends, while actively delivering their baby.
This is a traditional FPREG story with no magic, science, or impossible biology. It’s definitely NSFW, but also surprisingly wholesome and loving. I really enjoyed diving deep into the dialogue, the emotion, and the intensity.
I hope you enjoy!
-PreggoPushes
“Hi, my name is Sarah. I’m twenty-six, single, and honestly? I’m pretty cute. I’ve got the bouncy, curly-blonde thing going on, a top-tier ass, a great smile, and breasts that recently underwent an upgrade. I’ve always figured my perennially single status was due to my high expectations for men, or my “attitude problem,” if you ask my mother, rather than my actual looks. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Lately, though, it might be something else entirely.
Those growing breasts? A heavy C-cup now. They’re also leaky, milky, and ready-to-feed-a-human mom boobs, or as I’m now calling them, “moobs.” Because yeah, I’m nine months pregnant. “Full term,” according to my OBGYN. I’ve got the beachball belly, swollen ankles, and completely unhinged hormones to prove it.
My water broke last night, so right now, I’m mid-contraction in a hospital room, bantering with two men who are neither my husband nor my boyfriend. One of them, however, did provide the sperm for the baby currently trying to bulldoze his way out of my once-cute, once-tight, once-pretty little vajayjay. And even though I shaved my kitty two nights ago, knowing I’d be spreading my legs for strangers soon, I’m not exactly primo dating material at the moment.
I shift, trying to ease the deep, grinding cramp seizing my uterus, and lean over the back of a blue vinyl hospital chair. I’m laboring upright, resisting the urge to lie down and rest. My doula said gravity would help things progress, and at this point I’ll try anything to get this hell over with. Though honestly, my biggest grievance right now isn't my cervix trying to rip itself open, it’s this tragic hospital gown.
It’s a depressing pastel green with tiny umbrellas, and it does absolutely nothing for my complexion. I’m about to do the most powerful, feminine thing imaginable, and I look like a sad, pastel blimp. So much for my dream of the perfect, Insta-worthy delivery photos.
Another contraction comes, squeezing my midsection like a boa constrictor. I crush the paper cup in my left hand, ice chips scattering across the floor, while my right hand clamps down on Mark’s fingers like a vise.
Mark, my best friend, doesn’t even flinch. He just flexes his forearm and lets me try to break his fingers. Solid, steady, unshakable. Which is good, because his husband is spiraling.
“Breathe, Sarah! Like this: Hee-hee-hoo! Hee-hee-hoo!” Lucas flutters at my side. He’s in a designer sweater, tight jeans, and full panic mode. He’s swaying back and forth and fanning his face like he’s the one trying to push a watermelon out of an exit that, keeping with the food analogies, struggles to take a grocery store cucumber.
Don’t judge. Sometimes a girl has to be creative.
“Lucas,” I wheeze, glaring at him. “My uterus is evicting a nine-pound squatter, YOUR SQUATTER, and if you ‘hee-hee-hoo’ at me one more time, I am going to rip this itchy fetal monitor belt off my preggo belly and use it to throttle you.”
The monitor’s beeping finally slows, and the contraction eases, giving me a much-needed break. I straighten a little, blowing out a long breath, trying to look pretty in this terrible gown while swaying my hips like my doula taught me. The little dance is supposed to help me “open up,” which, trust me, feels exactly as horrible as it sounds.
Mark steps in, handing me a fresh cup of ice and shooting Lucas an exasperated but affectionate look. “He watched an unedited labor video last night,” Mark says, his voice calm and deep. “He’s having a full-blown crisis about female anatomy.”
“Excuse me, I have a right to be traumatized!” Lucas snaps, hand to his chest. “Look, I’m a professional bottom, and Mark is… well hung. So I thought I understood stretching. I thought I respected stretching. But whatever that was? That was something else entirely.”
Mark smirks, reaching up to rub the back of Lucas’s neck. “You do take me like a champ, baby. I just hope bringing our baby home doesn’t change things in our bedroom.”
A hot blush creeps up my neck, briefly distracting me from the ache in my pelvis. “Okay, gross. Stop. Boundaries. Also, jealousy. You’re probably having a hundred times more sex than me.”
Lucas grins, already loading his comeback.
“Oh, absolutely,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not a slut, Sarah.”
I give him a slow, deliberate nod. Honestly, I love the guy. Inappropriate banter is our love language.
"Takes one to know one, hun," I shoot back, unfazed.
Mark lightly punches his husband’s shoulder. "Be nice," he commands. "She’s our hero today. And every day."
“Fine,” Lucas sighs. “Sorry, Princess Sarah.”
"But I'm just saying," he expounds, eyes wide, "a whole human is going to come out of you…down there? It's going to be like a stargate opening to another dimension!"
I roll my eyes, but I’m grinning. “Wow. Thank you, Lucas. Truly. Thank you for comparing Mark stretching out your ass with his penis to me pushing an actual baby out of my vagina for you two.”
I gesture towards my big, round belly. “Can your stomach grow a human, Lucas? Can your man-ass deliver one? No? Then maybe you should bow down to the fairer sex, because, yeah…my damned vagina is a freakin’ stargate."
Lucas looks highly amused by my sass, his panic softening into something genuine. “If I could have Mark’s baby, I would in a heartbeat.”
“I know you would, Lucas,” I say, my voice softer now. “And since you can’t, I’m happy to do it for both of you.”
And then it hits.
A fresh wave of pressure clamps down on my belly, stealing the air from my lungs. I freeze, bracing hard against the chair, fingers digging into the vinyl.
“naaaaah… ah… fuck…”
The sound slips out before I can stop it. My body folds forward, hips rocking instinctively as the contraction tightens.
I try to breathe through it, fail, then force it out in shaky bursts.
“hh… hh… haah… hh… haah… oh—geez…”
My eyes squeeze shut. A low groan builds in my chest.
“naaaahhh…”
It finally starts to ease. I sag forward, breathless, damp hair sticking to my face.
“Thanks, Lucas,” I pant, letting out a weak, delirious laugh as I glance at Mark.
“Mmmm… hhoooooo… yeah, this is exactly the conversation every girl wants while her cervix is trying to dilate to the size of a cantaloupe. hh… hh… ahh.”
Looking at Mark now, it’s hard to reconcile the macho, slightly terrified expectant father with the goofy kid who used to play in the street outside my bedroom window.
He moved in next door when we were seven and I harbored a massive secret crush on him for years. He grew up tall and handsome, and I spent all of seventh grade charting our astrological compatibility in sparkly gel pen like it was a legal contract.
He was the very first boy I ever kissed. We were thirteen, behind his dad’s shed. It was awkward, toothy and so clumsy. That turned into two years of experimenting together, so when Lucas calls me a slut, yeah… I don’t exactly argue. I started early.
My dream romance came to a crashing end when we were fifteen. We were down in his basement watching a movie. I was hoping for a french-kiss. I had spent an hour picking the right lip gloss, thinking it would be the ticket to getting some tongue action.
Then a locker room scene came on. The lead actor’s bare ass hit the screen, and I glanced over.
The look on Mark’s face told me everything.
A month later, he came out to me and from that moment we were closer than ever. We picked colleges close to each other, moved to Charlotte after graduation, and built our lives side by side. He became a wildly overpaid finance bro, I joined an architecture firm. We’ve survived a lot together.
Which is how I ended up here. In a hospital room. In labor. Delivering his baby.
The bang of the door shatters my daydream, and a nurse with entirely too much energy strides in.
“Hey y’all, Sue just went off shift, so I’m your new L and D nurse. I’m Tina.” Her eyes flick between the monitors and my chart. “Looks like those contractions are picking up.”
“No kidding,” I mutter, my grip tightening on the chair as another wave starts to build.
It hits fast.
“nnnah… ah—ahh… shit.”
My fingers clamp down hard, knuckles whitening as the pressure surges through my abdomen.
“Oh yeah, that’s a big one,” Tina says, way too cheerfully.
“Okay, okay, you’ve got this,” Lucas says, stepping in closer, his voice softer now, steadier. “Just breathe.”
Mark is instantly at my side. “I’m right here, Sarah. You’re doin’ so good.”
I don't even have the breath to throw a sarcastic comment at either of them. There’s a perfect comeback somewhere in my brain, but I can’t reach it. The contraction is already overwhelming me.
I grit my teeth, fingers tightening around the chair as the pressure builds, low and heavy. It feels like everything inside me is shifting, forcing its way downward whether I’m ready or not.
“Mm… nnnah. Okay… hahhhhhh… okay…” I try, the words breaking apart as I exhale.
My knees wobble, and I have to lock them to stay upright. The sensation isn’t just pain anymore. It’s pressure. Huge, overwhelming, impossible to ignore.
I want to say something. Anything. A joke, a threat, something at Lucas. But all that comes out is a strained breath as my body takes over.
“Ahh… hh.”
My head tips forward, forehead nearly resting on the chair as I ride it out, completely focused now. No commentary. No sarcasm. Just getting through it.
Through the pain haze, I catch a glimpse of Mark’s face. His eyes are wide, glassy, completely locked on me as he watches me work to bring his child into the world."
The look on his face pulls me back to the night he first met Lucas.
I was Mark’s winggirl at the club. I knew immediately that Lucas was the one for Mark. He had the patience for Mark’s stubborn streak and just enough sass to keep him on his toes. Obviously, I took that as my cue to make his life a living hell for a few weeks. If he was going to get my best friend, he had to prove himself worthy and earn it.
It backfired, at least at first. Lucas was jealous, convinced I was some bitter straight girl trying to keep Mark all to herself. Which, okay, fair. I wasn’t exactly helping. The truth was simpler: We clashed because we’re basically the same person. Loud. Protective. A little vain. Total control freaks. Of course we were going to fight over the man we both loved.
It took a truly catastrophic boyfriend on my end to fix things.
Mark was out of town when it all blew up, and Lucas swooped in to help me escape the disaster. We ended up spending that entire night drinking way too much wine at his apartment. He gave me his bed and slept on the couch, and we've been a united front ever since.
When Mark and Lucas got married three years ago, I proudly stood at the altar in a sharply tailored navy pantsuit as the official "Best Woman." I delivered a flawless toast, too. Slightly drunk, completely perfect.
And now I’m delivering their baby.
The nurse steps back from the monitor and snaps on a fresh pair of gloves. “Alright, Sarah, I need to do a cervical check so we can see how you’re progressing.”
I nod, but a sudden wave of heat rolls over me, my skin prickling. Everything in me feels tight. Trapped. Overstimulated.
“I just…” I reach back, fumbling with the ties at my neck. “I need to be free.”
I yank the gown over my head in one clumsy motion and toss it aside. Cool air hits my skin, and I suck in a breath, relief washing through me.
I’m left in a tight sports bra that barely contains my heavy, milk-full breasts, my big belly jutting out, round and proud, and somewhere down there where I can’t see, I’m still wearing a pair of panties that came from the maternity section.
“Additionally,” I add, still catching my breath, “that umbrella print is a crime against fashion. Good riddance.”
Lucas immediately turns his head toward the wall, aggressively averting his eyes from my lack of modesty.
“Lucas, seriously?” I gesture vaguely at my chest. “They’re just boobs. And they’re contained. Relax. Plus, you're gay. Remember? It’s not like they do anything for you."
Mark chuckles, stepping up to play the peacemaker. “He’s just being a gentleman, Sar—”
Mark’s sentence dies in his throat as I hook my thumbs into the sides of my panties and slide them down my legs.
Mark clears his throat, his gaze shooting straight up to the ceiling like it might have answers.
The nurse gestures to the bed, and I lumber towards it, still catching my breath.
“Oh, come on,” I mutter, kicking the panties aside as I climb onto the bed. I try to be coordinated as I hoist my lush thighs into the stirrups. "You two are literally about to watch me push a whole human out of my pussy. We’re going way past modesty here, boys.”
Neither of them looks down. Instead, they lock onto the only safe place; my face, with intense, unblinking focus.
The nurse steps between my legs, brisk and professional, and applies a generous dollop of lubricant to her glove.
“Okay, quick check,” she says.
She enters me gently. It starts polite. First date polite.
And then she suddenly pushes deeper.
Hey…easy. I’m still a princess down here.
She’s deeper than I expect, her fingers pressing high against my cervix. The pressure makes my hips reflexively lift off the bed.
“HO. haaaaaa… heeeessss.” I hiss, gripping the rails as the intrusive pressure spikes.
"Sorry, honey," Tina says, wincing. "I know I've got the hands of a farmer. Just breathe for me, I'm almost done."
I suck in a breath through my teeth, trying to stay still.
I’ve only been fisted once in my life. I was twenty-two, wasted, of course, and in my very brief lesbian phase. Feeling the nurse’s entire hand up inside me is a stark reminder of exactly why that phase ended quickly after my "girlfriend" thought it would be sexy to surprise me by putting her whole hand inside my dainty little pussy.
Meanwhile, Mark and Lucas are still staring directly into my eyes like their lives depend on it.
"Honestly, guys," I pant, forcing a breathless laugh. "The intense eye contact with my two best friends is actually more awkward than getting fisted by a woman I only met ten minutes ago."
The nurse withdraws her hand and peels off the glove. “Well… um… you’re doing great,” she says, clearly trying to stay professional despite… all of this. “You’re at a solid seven centimeters.”
I exhale, long and shaky, my body finally easing as the pressure fades.
Seven. That’s real. That means this is happening. Soon.
And somehow, lying there waiting for the next contraction, my brain decides now is a great time to replay how I got here.”
Their wedding was amazing, sure, but it had nothing on the Sunday brunch we shared a year ago.
Mark sat there pushing his eggs benedict around his plate, a glossy, absurdly expensive surrogacy brochure sitting between our coffee mugs like a live grenade. Lucas was beside him, rubbing the bridge of his nose, already stressed.
“They said it could take two years just to find a match," Mark mumbled, looking utterly defeated, the macho facade completely stripped away. "And that’s before we even start the medical process."
I took a slow sip of my mimosa, peering at the two of them over the rim of my glass.
I narrowed my eyes, waiting to see if they would casually pivot and ask me if I would do them the ultimate favor.
But as the silence stretched, it became obvious that my uterus hadn't even crossed their minds. I was still just Sarah. Fun. Perpetually single. Prone to the occasional questionable decision. But not breeding material, apparently.
My gaze drifted back down to the glossy pamphlet on the table. The cover featured a gorgeous, serene-looking pregnant woman glowing in a sunlit field. I stared at her perfectly round belly, and an old, familiar ache bloomed in my chest.
I had wanted to be a mom ever since I was a little girl carrying baby dolls around Mark's driveway. Suddenly, a flutter rippled through my pelvis and my empty uterus practically jumped, begging to fulfill its biological purpose.
I set my mimosa down with a decisive clink.
"You guys are idiots," I announced.
They both blinked at me, startled.
"Look at me," I commanded, gesturing broadly to my own body. "I have a perfectly good, unoccupied uterus right here, with absolutely zero pending offers from anyone else wanting to use it.
Plus, look at me, I’m built for this. Look at these child-bearing hips! Look at these tits! I’m practically a fertility goddess. You can put your bun in my oven, boys. I’m serious."
The utter shock on their faces was comical. It took me an entire month of campaigning to finally convince them I was dead serious.
We went over everything. Risks, logistics, worst-case scenarios. We talked about what pregnancy would do to my body, my job, my already questionable dating life.
And, okay, yes, as I currently resemble an overinflated beach ball, some of those concerns were very valid.
Mark, bless his protective heart, must have asked me if I was sure at least four hundred times over the course of that month, right up until I was on the clinic table, legs in the cold stirrups, about to make it official.
The nurse steps back, snapping a crisp paper drape over my raised knees and letting it fall into place to cover me.
"Alright, boys," I wheeze out, waving a sweaty hand vaguely toward my lower half. "The birth canal is officially under wraps. You can drop the eye contact now."
Mark and Lucas both exhale in unison, their shoulders visibly dropping as they finally allow their gaze to wander around the room.
Tina, the cheery nurse, offers a sympathetic, tight-lipped smile. "We’re moving into the transition phase now," she warns gently, smoothing the edge of the drape. "It can be very difficult, Sarah. The contractions are going to change."
"I know," I say confidently, waving off her concern. "I've done my research. I expect it to be intense. I’ll be okay."
And then, as if my uterus heard me and decided to humble me on the spot, the first true transition contraction hits.
It doesn't build like the others. It slams into me like a damned freight train. My confident, witty surrogate act completely evaporates. I want to crawl out of my own skin. Run. Escape. But I’m trapped in this heavy, sweating preggo body, writhing on the bed. A relentless ache explodes in my lower back. I let out a sharp gasp as it feels like my pelvic muscles are tearing and the bones are prying apart to make room for their kid.
After more contractions than I can count, Dr. Evans, a tall, calm man with greying hair, strolls into the room. He nods pleasantly at Mark and Lucas and pulls the terrified men aside.
"Hi, dads. Let’s talk about some logistics," he murmurs, though the room is quiet enough that I can hear every word. "Mark, you’ll be cutting the cord, right?”
Mark nods proudly.
“Also, I usually ask,” Dr. Evans continues, his eyes flicking between the two of them. "Do either of you have a tendency to faint?"
Mark immediately snaps his head toward Lucas.
"I’ll be fine," Lucas hisses defensively.
"Well… if you start to feel lightheaded at any point, sit down immediately," Dr. Evans cautions. "Labor is hard enough to manage without unconscious men on the floor."
"And I just want to prepare you both, Sarah is going to get loud and primal. Delivering a baby is the hardest thing the human body can do. There will probably be screaming and swearing. It might sound scary, but don't worry. That's just the reality of a natural delivery."
I shoot a withering, deeply unamused glare at the back of the doctor's head, but I don’t have the breath to argue.
Dr. Evans steps up to my bedside, his hands warm as he presses firmly against the outside of my rock-hard, tight stretched belly, mapping the baby's position by touch.
"You're doing really well, Sarah," Dr. Evans says, his voice soothing. "We're in the thick of it now. I just want to confirm one last time before it's too late. No epidural, correct?"
"No epidural," I gasp, tossing my head back against the damp pillow.
I’ve been planning my first delivery since I was a girl. I saw a mom on Deliver Me push out a massive baby with zero medication, and I’ve been determined to do this like her. Like a real woman.
"Alright, you’re very brave," Dr. Evans murmurs, his hands still tracing the firm outline of the baby through my taut skin. "You're also very fit and quite well-built for labor and delivery. Just keep up the positive attitude and you’ll have this baby out soon,” he says before turning to leave.
I snap my eyes toward Mark and Lucas, shooting them a strained, triumphant look through the haze of pain. "Did you hear that?" I pant, a smirk fighting its way onto my sweaty face. "The OBGYN says I'm a fertility goddess. See? Remember, I told ya I was."
Then I cry out again as I’m slammed with another incredible surge. A raw, guttural sound tears out of me. “AArrggggaaaaa… Uuunnnnnnhhhhh.”
My belly seizes, tightening into an impossibly hard ball. I barely get a break between waves. They stack on top of each other, fast, heavy, and merciless.
Mark is at my right side, his large, warm hand holding mine. Lucas steps up on my left, his perfectly manicured fingers gripping mine so hard I think he might break my knuckles. I squeeze back with everything I have. Having them anchor me is exactly what I need right now. I close my eyes tight, drawing the pain out of my body and straight into their grips, deriving every single ounce of my strength from the two men who I’m about to make into fathers.
It’s not the first time we’ve been in this formation.
Nine months ago, I was reclined on a clinic table, legs spread, a crisp paper drape covering my lap while Mark and Lucas gripped my hands on either side.
A week before, we’d gotten absolutely plastered. We treated it like my last night of freedom, knowing it would be my final drop of alcohol for the next year. The boys swore a drunken oath to quit drinking in solidarity with me.
It was a beautiful gesture and it lasted maybe ten days. After that, I started finding empty bottles tucked under junk mail in their recycling bin. Lying there in the clinic, though, I wasn’t thinking about any of that.
I was embarrassingly turned on. Because as clinical and sterile as the room was, my biology knew exactly what was happening.
I was getting knocked up. My sluttiness apparently knew no bounds, because my body was, shall I say…responsive. Fine. I was wet and loose. I believe I gave that ultrasound technician the easiest embryo insertion of her entire career.
When she finally withdrew the catheter and snapped off her gloves, she shot me an amused, knowing little smirk over the top of my knees.
“Well, Sarah,” she murmured, her eyes bright, “your body was certainly… ready to receive.”
I couldn’t help but blush at the woman who had just knocked me up and called me loose.
Two weeks later, the three of us were crammed onto the edge of my bathtub for the moment of truth.
Lucas, in true form, had gone to three different pharmacies and bought literally every single brand of pregnancy test on the market. He made me pee on every last one of them.
We lined them up on the bathroom counter like a bizarre science experiment, clutching each other's hands as, one by one, they all showed positive.
The physical reality hit fast. I got off pretty easy with the morning sickness, but my body wasted zero time transforming. My lower tummy pooched out into a soft bump, and my breasts got heavy and tender.
But all the bloating, the hormones, and the lack of wine faded into the background at our first ultrasound. Lying on that exam table, looking at the tiny, flickering little bean on the screen, I felt an overwhelming, fierce surge of pride
I was doing it. I was actually growing their baby.
And when I looked over and saw Mark openly crying, Lucas pressed into his shoulder, both of them completely undone.
I knew.
Every uncomfortable, inconvenient, exhausting part of this was going to be worth it.
As magical as that ultrasound was, I did not expect today to feel this physically brutal.
Another wave crashes over me, and the pressure in my pelvis spikes straight to an eleven. I writhe on the bed, fingers clamping down on Mark and Lucas’s hands so hard I can feel their rings biting into my skin.
“I feel like I’m actually going to die,” I groan, throwing my head back against the sweat-soaked pillow. I groan, “Uuhhhh, hooooo–hooooooo. Oh! My back. Fuck, my lower back is killing me.”
Tina steps in at the foot of the bed, snapping on a fresh pair of gloves.
“I know it’s intense, Sarah,” she says calmly. “Let me do one more quick check, okay?”
“Fine,” I grit out, letting my knees fall open as the contraction finally starts to ebb.
This time, the sensation is completely different.
As she reaches inside, everything feels lower. Tighter. Like there’s no space left at all. The baby’s head is right there, heavy, pressing down with undeniable weight.
The check is quick. She pulls her hand back, eyes crinkling into a smile behind her mask.
“You’re at nine centimeters and fully effaced,” she says. “You’re almost there. Just a little longer. Try to breathe through it. You might start feeling like pushing, but not yet, alright?”
A collective, giddy exhale moves through the room.
Mark presses a kiss to my sweaty forehead. Lucas lets out a shaky, relieved laugh.
The nurse turns to prep the tray, her tone light again. “You’re handling this beautifully, Sarah. Do you think you’ll want one of your own someday?”
I let out a breathless, exhausted laugh.
“I’d like to,” I pant. “But Mr. Right would actually have to show up first.”
It’s the painful truth. I do want my own family someday, but the dating pool is a nightmare on a good day. Adding “human incubator for my two best friends” turns it into an extreme sport.
I tried to keep dating anyway. I updated my apps. Slapped my baby bump photo front and center. Described the surrogacy into my bio to weed out the weak ones.
It did not work.
One guy literally sprinted off when he saw my bump in person. It wasn’t even very big yet. I was around three months along, rocking more of an “I just crushed a massive burrito” vibe. But he looked at my stomach like it was a ticking time bomb and bailed before our appetizers arrived.
The worst were the ones who made it past the shock but failed basic anatomy.
One absolute trash fire asked me, dead serious, if my pussy would “go back to normal” after I delivered. I dumped him on the spot.
I was making out with another guy on my couch. He rested his hand on my belly. It was sweet, intimate, perfectly timed. I literally swooned. And right then, Mark and Lucas’ baby kicked him square in the palm. He jumped like there was an alien inside me. He said he needed a glass of water.… and I heard the front door slam as he beelined out.
The tragic finale was around six months. Fourth date, great guy. We made it all the way back to my bedroom, which felt like a miracle at that point. Everything was going great. He had me undressed, I’d sucked on his cock and he’d returned the favor on my very sensitive pregnancy clit. I was very ready for the main event.
And then he froze. “Wait,” he said, pulling back. “Am I… going to hurt the baby?” I blinked at him. “No. Your penis is not going to magically bypass my cervix and poke the baby. That’s not how female bodies work, man.”
I pointed between my legs. “Come on. Go ahead and put your penis in me and let’s have some fun, stud!”
But he did not look reassured. He nervously excused himself to use the bathroom…and he too ran out.
Nurse Tina shifts into efficiency mode, transforming the foot of the bed into a sterile staging area.
She gives me final coaching, calm and direct. When it’s time, I’m supposed to grab behind my knees, curl forward around my belly, tuck my chin, and push like hell. Short bursts. Hold it. Count to ten. Do it again.
Apparently, my body will just… know what to do.
We’ll see.
Mark gets assigned to counting duty at my head, tasked with counting me through every push.
I turn my head toward him. “Hey, finance bro,” I mutter, breathless. “You sure you can count that high? All the way to ten?”
Mark doesn’t take the bait. “I’ll manage,” he says, squeezing my hand. “Just focus on pushing.”
“Alright, let’s get you set up,” Tina says.
She consults my birth plan, then stows the cold metal stirrups completely out of the way.
“Good call skipping these,” she adds with an approving nod. “You’ll get way more power with us holding your legs.”
Great. Love that for me.
With a quick motion, she pulls the paper drape away.
Today’s main event, my very pregnant, very puffy vagina is fully exposed to the entire room.
Tina takes my left leg, lifting it under the thigh. Lucas, after a brief moment of visible internal panic, steps in on my right and mirrors her, helping pull my legs back and open
In the brief lull between contractions, while I’m catching my breath, I catch Lucas out of the corner of my eye. Curiosity gets him and his gaze drops, then it immediately snaps back up, but it’s too late. He saw everything.
His cheeks flush a bright, guilty pink as he realizes I caught him looking.
“I mean…” he stammers, visibly unraveling. “I think it’s a very nice vagina, Sarah.” Then, inexplicably, he adds, “And... it's very well-groomed."
I let out a loud, genuine bark of laughter. "Well, thank you, Lucas. I had to make sure things were neat and presentable for the grand finale."
The truth is, I’ve kept things well-groomed for the past three months.
You’ll never guess why. Well, actually, you might.
After all those dating disasters, I eventually broke. By month six, my hormones were in full overdrive. I didn't just need to get laid. I was having actual, feral cravings for semen. Which, for the record, is backed by science. It’s packed with prostaglandins that are good for the cervix…honestly, I was just being a good surrogate.
So I called my ex, Jake. Total desperation move. I was huge, exhausted, and felt like a walking duplex.
And the funny part? Guys will go along with just about anything when sex is guaranteed. I showed up looking like I had a beachball smuggled under my shirt, and Jake didn’t even blink.
The absolute best part? No birth control.
The first time he reached for a condom, I just patted my stomach and said, “Jake, honey. The inn is already booked. You can’t make me more pregnant.”
The logistics, though? Hilariously awkward. Like trying to parallel park a delivery truck.
I let him bend me over once or twice, but mostly I would build a comfy pillow fort, lie on my back and let him get to work, taking very good care of my extremely needy pussy.
Not glamorous, but honestly? It did the job. I got my orgasms and cream pies, satisfying both of my very feral hormonal demands
My scandalous daydream is violently cut off by a sudden, massive shift in my pelvis.
A fresh, blinding wave of pressure slams into me, dragging me straight to the brightly lit reality of the delivery room.
This is different. This isn’t just pain anymore. It’s pressure. Huge, overwhelming, completely primal. An undeniable, instinctive need to bear down.
My hands clamp onto the bedrails, knuckles whitening as my body tries to force me to bear down.
“I have to push!” I gasp, eyes wide. “I feel him, he’s right there…fuck…there’s so much pressure.
Urrgghhaa… urrgghhaa!! Urrgghh… Uuurrgghh!”
Tina massages my shoulder knowingly. “Okay, I know,” she says, firm but calm. “But you need to wait until Dr. Evans is back in the room. Don’t push yet. Short, quick breaths. Pant through it.”
“I’m trying to!” I snap, thrashing my head back as my body bears down anyway. “Tell him to hurry up!”
The contraction crests, then slowly starts to ebb.
I sag back against the bed, completely breathless, legs trembling in Tina and Lucas’s grip. “Hh-ohhh, hh-ohhh, hh-ohhh.”
Tina presses an ice chip to my lips. “You feeling nauseous at all, honey?”
“No,” I wheeze, shaking my head. “I’m a rock. Barely even had morning sickness.”
I lift a shaky hand and point at Mark. “He did, though.”
Even now, I can’t help it.
“I’m serious, ahhhaa-haaah—” I drag in a breath. “I had nothing. Meanwhile, this macho, gym-obsessed dude developed full-blown Couvade syndrome. A sympathy pregnancy.”
It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever witnessed. Mark completely fell apart. He was the one sprinting to the bathroom every morning to dry-heave. He was the one sending Lucas out at midnight for pickles and peanut butter. He was the one openly crying at commercials for senior dog food.
“It’s a documented medical phenomenon,” Mark mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face, trying to salvage his dignity.
I nudge him weakly with my elbow. “Honestly? Only fair you took some of the hit. It is your baby, after all.”
“Oh, I’m fascinated,” Tina says, eyes wide despite herself. “I’ve read about it, but I’ve never actually seen it firsthand.”
Mark exhales, done with this conversation. “Can we maybe focus on the part where you’re about to have a baby, please?”
Tina shifts smoothly, reaching between my legs. She gently parts my vaginal lips with practiced fingers. Normally, that kind of touch would be weird, but right now, it barely even registers.
“Oh… wow. Okay,” she says, a flicker of excitement breaking through her calm. “Baby’s right there. You’re ready, a full 10 centimeters. We’ll start pushing as soon as the doctor gets in.”
And then another contraction hits.
Hard.
The pressure surges—and with it, a sharp, blinding wave of panic.
Shit. I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. Why did I agree to this?
Tina sees it instantly.
“Hey…hey,” she says, grounding me. “You’re okay. Let’s do a practice push. Just to get the feel for it.”
They guide my legs back a little further.
I try to smile at them, tight and shaky. Being held like this, anchored on all sides by my friends, makes me feel… safe.
Another contraction builds, heavy and inevitable.
I look at Mark. He nods, steady and reassuring. I swallow hard.
Okay, I can do this. I’m doing it…
“Alright,” Tina coaches, voice firm. “Big breath in… and hold it. Chin down. That’s it, now bear down. Push into your bottom, Sarah.”
I inhale, curl forward, and push.
Mark jumps in immediately. “One… two… three…”
“Nnnnh… nnnnh—ahh—hah—”
The pressure is unreal. Not sharp pain, just this massive, immovable weight, like my entire lower body is trying to turn inside out.
“Keep going… keep going!” Tina urges.
“…four… five… six…” Mark counts, voice tight with focus.
My whole body strains.
“…seven… eight…”
I finally gasp, “haayyyyyy-hooooo,” and fall back against the bed. But the pressure doesn’t go away. It just… settles, Low. Heavy. Constant. Like a bowling ball wedged deep in my pelvis, waiting.
The door swings open. Dr. Evans strides in, tying his gown, calm as if he just walked into a normal Tuesday meeting. He glances up at me, composed, reassuring.
“Alright,” he says, settling onto the stool between my legs. “Let’s have a baby mom and dads!”
Another contraction hits.
Hard.
The pressure spikes, wiping everything else out.
I grab behind my thighs, curl forward, chin tucked tight, teeth bared as Mark starts counting again.
And then, something clicks.
Not magical. Not mystical.
Just… instinct.
My body knows what to do.
I bear down hard, pulling everything in and pushing it down, like I’m trying to drive the pressure through my pelvis.
“Good push Sarah!” Dr Evans says from between my knees.
“Neennnhhh… nyyynnnnh. Ahh, hah, hah.”
It’s only a fraction of an inch, but I feel it.
The head moved lower.
It’s still intense. Crushing and overwhelming, but it’s different now. Focused. Productive. I’m doing something.
“Good! Again!” Mark urges.
The memory of our very first OBGYN appointment flashes behind my eyes, the three of us huddled around a tiny monitor, holding our breath until that rapid, swooshing thump-thump-thump echoed from deep within my womb and filled the tiny room. That was the moment it became real. Not an abstract idea, not a favor for a friend, but a living, breathing little boy housed safely inside my body.
I suck in another breath, curl forward, and push.
It’s so much harder than I expected. My entire core lights up, shaking and burning like I’m deep into the last rep of a brutal workout, with no option to stop.
“Ahhh… nnnnhhh…hah, hah.”
We fall into a rhythm.
Mark counting. Lucas steadying me. Me pushing like my life depends on it.
Push.
Pressure. Stretching. That deep, splitting heaviness.
Then, something else. A flicker, low and subtle.
I blink, thrown by the feeling.
Push again. “MMMMMMaaaaa, yyyyehhhhh!"
Pressure. Burn. And underneath it…
That same flicker.
Warmer this time. Sharper.
“Okay… that’s…” I gasp, breath hitching.
Another push.
The sensation builds with it now. Not replacing the pressure, just tangled up in everything.
Weird. Really weird. But not bad.
My body reacts before my brain can catch up.
Push.
Pressure, then that pulse.
Push.
“Oh, hhhe, hhhe.” I choke out, fingers tightening around their hands.
I know what this is. I absolutely know what this is.
“No, no… no.” I pant, heat rushing up my neck.
Tina’s voice cuts in, low and steady, right by my ear.
“Hey, hey…listen to me.” she murmurs. “Don’t fight it, alright?.”
I freeze for half a second, eyes snapping toward her.
“If something’s building,” she continues calmly, “let your body use it. It’s okay. Push through it.”
Oh hell. She knows. Of course she knows.
I want to disappear, but the next contraction is already there.
“Big breath. Now push Sarah,” Tina coaches.
I do.
She rubs my inner thigh gently. It’s just enough to push me over the edge.
My back arches, a broken, helpless sound tearing out of me as everything inside me clenches, tightens, releases.
“Hehhhh… hhe, hhe. Ohhwwwww. Hehhhhh.”
“Hehhhh… hhe, hhe. Ohhwwwww. Hehhhhh.”
I freeze.
Stunned. Breathless. Face on fire.
Oh.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
I clamp my eyes shut, gripping Mark’s hand like nothing just happened. Like I didn’t just…
Yeah. No. We are never talking about that. Even I have limits. And apparently my birthgasm is one of them.
“You’re doing amazing, Sarah,” Dr. Evans says, apparently oblivious to what just happened. “Do you want the mirror so you can see your progress? Your birth plan said you wanted to watch”
Tina leans back in. “Say yes,” she tells me gently. “You’ll want to see this. It’s going to be beautiful.”
I hesitate for half a second, then nod. “Okay. Yeah.”
Dr Evans brings a mirror to the foot of the bed, angling it between my legs.
For a split second, my brain goes somewhere else.
Lucas was my fashion consultant the entire pregnancy. The second I started showing, he took it upon himself… personally offended, honestly… to make sure I didn’t look like a walking disaster. They paid for a full maternity wardrobe, and he spent hours in front of mirrors in fitting rooms, curating every single outfit.
“Posture, Sarah. Shoulders back. There, see? You’re a hot preggo, not an exhausted blob.”
His hands smoothing fabric over my bump, adjusting it until everything was perfect.
“Look at you. You’re glowing, Sarah. I’m serious, every guy in a ten-mile radius is going to be staring.”
I stare into the mirror, breath hitching. My body now looks… unreal, swollen, stretched, tight. And then I see it, a bulging, straining curve where there shouldn’t be one, my birth canal pulled thin around something solid pressing outward.
And at the center, a small part of me is opening, giving way.
"Oh my god," I pant, “hee, hee, hoooo, hoooo,” staring wide-eyed at the reflection of my crowning vagina. "It actually is a stargate."
Lucas lets out a wet, teary laugh. "Yeah Sarah, it is. You’re doing so great."
“Alright, here we go,” Tina says. “Big push coming.”
I grab behind my thighs, curl forward, and bear down.
The head presses forward, slow and relentless, stretching me wider, wider—until it feels like there’s no possible way my body can open any more.
The burn hits, sharp, hot, blinding.
“Oh…oh…” I choke, instinctively tensing.
“Don’t fight it,” Tina says quickly. "Let it stretch.”
I force myself to stay with it, breath shaking, eyes locked on the mirror.
Each push opens me wider. “Ahhhhh, heeee, heeeee, HAAAAA! Ohhhhhhhh.”
And wider. “Ahhhhh, heeee, heeeee, HAAAAA! Ohhhhhhhh.”
Until I’m fully crowned. “Ahhhhh, heeee, heeeee, HAAAAA! Ohhhhhhhh.”
There’s a literal baby, with a massive head lodged at the precipice of my vagina.
“Okay, okay—pant for me,” Dr. Evans says, steady but firm. “Short breaths. Don’t push right now.”
I switch to quick, shallow breaths, fighting the urge to bear down as the head holds right there.
“He. He He. HEEEEEEEEEE! He. HEEEEEEEEEE!”
The stretch is intense. Constant. Like everything is pulled as far as it can possibly go.
“The head’s right there,” Tina says calmly. “You’re doing perfect.”
Mark leans forward despite himself, eyes wide.
“Oh my god,” he breathes. “Lucas! His hair is dark, just like yours.”
Lucas shifts, stunned, staring. “He’s right there… Sarah, he’s right there. You’re doing it!”
Another contraction starts to rise.
“Okay,” Dr. Evans says. Easy, controlled push.”
I nod, teeth chattering.
The wave hits.
I bear down.
A deep, primal sound tears out of me as the pressure peaks—strong, focused, everything driving downward—
“AHHHHHHHH! OHHH! HUU-UUUUUU!!”
The stretch intensifies.
The sheer volume of the baby pressing through my birth canal is staggering, a heavy, raw stretching sensation that makes my spine arch.
“HIIIYYYYYYYAA!!”
Then suddenly...
Pop.
Release.
“The head is out,” Dr. Evans says calmly.
The pressure drops just enough to feel the difference. Still full, still stretched, but no longer that same crushing force.
"He’s almost there, Sar!" Mark’s voice breaks, pure awe.
“One more for the shoulders,” Dr. Evans instructs. “Nice and steady. Let your body do the work.”
With a final, exhausting heave, I push.
“HIIIYYYYYYYAA!! HUUUUUGGGGGG!!!!”
There’s a sudden, unmistakable shift, pressure stretching me to the absolute limit.
And then... release.
A slippery, sliding sensation as his body follows, fast and fluid, and just like that...
He’s out.
The crushing pressure that filled my pelvis vanishes instantly, leaving behind a strange, hollow emptiness that I can’t quite process.
For a split second, everything goes quiet.
And then the room fills with sound.
A sharp, outraged cry cuts through the air.
"He's here! He's here!" Lucas sobs, hands hovering, completely overwhelmed.
I collapse back against the bed, breathless, shaking, my entire body buzzing with adrenaline and disbelief.
Before I can even catch up, Tina is already moving.
She lifts him smoothly and brings him straight to me, placing his warm, slippery weight onto my chest.
A wave crashes over me -- relief, pride, something deeper I don’t even have a word for. I let out a broken, breathless laugh as I look down at him.
Mark and Lucas are immediately there, crowding in, both of them crying openly now, kissing my cheeks, my forehead, babbling over each other as they stare at their son like he hung the moon.
And for a second, it feels like we’re all one thing. One moment. One little family.
“We’re going to let the cord pulse for a bit,” Tina says softly, giving us space while still guiding everything. “Then you can cut it.”
Mark nods, barely able to speak. He looks at me, really looks at me, his face wrecked with emotion.
“Thank you, Sarah,” he chokes out, voice breaking. “Thank you.”
A few minutes later, he and Lucas wrap their hands together around the scissors.
They snip the cord together.
For a second, it’s just me and the baby. Nothing else exists. My body is still shaking, still trying to catch up, but he’s here, warm, solid, real against my chest.
I did this. I made this perfect little human.
A quiet thought slips in, unexpected. This is the only time he’ll ever be mine.
I run my hand over his back, memorizing the weight of him, the heat of him.
Then I lift my eyes to Mark and Lucas and I feel it click into place. I smile, soft and steady.
“Your turn, dads.” I say as I pass the beautiful child into Mark’s arms.
It is the most perfect moment of my life.
Right up until Dr. Evans ruins it.
“Hey Sarah, I need you to bear down and push again. It’s time for the placenta."
Ugh, really?
In the end, I got absolutely everything I wanted.
Mark and Lucas are disgustingly happy. Their son, little Sawyer – the closest they could get to naming a boy after me – is almost eighteen months old now. I get to be the wildly fun Auntie Sarah who buys the loudest toys, hypes him up on sugar, and hands him right back the second he poops.
I got my labor and delivery photos. They are absolutely… not glamorous. I look like a sweaty, exhausted, screaming tomato. But they’re raw, powerful, and honestly? That’s hot to me. So yes, I proudly posted every single one on Insta.
The boys also gave me the ultimate push present: a two-week, all-expenses-paid trip to Puerto Rico. Unlimited alcohol included. They knew exactly what I needed.
My body bounced back surprisingly fast after delivery, aside from a few stubborn stretch marks. And yes, before you ask, after some pelvic floor therapy, everything downstairs is not only back in business, it’s honestly better than ever.
And, I mean… you know me. It’s been busy.
The boys wanted a sibling for Sawyer, so as Britney would say: oops, I did it again. My uterus is officially rented out for round two.
And Jake? My former ex turned booty call has stuck around for almost two years now. He’s been enjoying the, um… perks… of my newly pregnant body, but he’s also shown up in ways that actually matter. Even though it’s not his kid, he comes to every OBGYN appointment, gives me nightly foot rubs, and applies my stretch-mark cream.
Honestly… I think we might be headed somewhere real this time.
In fact, a few days ago, while I was playing with Sawyer in the living room, I overheard Mark and Lucas corner him in the kitchen after our weekly dinner. They were both in full protective-dad mode. They grilled him about his intentions and his future plans.
So naturally, I’m on high proposal alert.
Which is perfectly fine by me, because once my current squatter vacates the premises and my uterus’s lease with the boys is officially up, I’m going to carry again.
But this time?
It’ll be his. And mine.
