ooooh, yes.

in the midst of a contraction, she leans against her partner, arms wrapped around their shoulders as she sways her hips, exhaling softly against their neck as she breathes her way through it. her moans are gentle and delicate, clearly born more from pleasure than pain, and she can feel the way their body tenses and shifts in response, their breath hitching in their throat. as the pain comes to an end, she takes hold of their hand and slides it down the curve of her belly, licking along the shell of their ear as she breathes out "you enjoy this, dont you? seeing me all filled up? working so hard to birth your baby?" she guides their hand down even further, letting them cup her cunt as they groan in response. "you make me so wet, baby," she murmurs, humming with satisfaction as they slide their fingers over her folds, gathering up the slick thats collected there. "you filled me so well. mm, I can't wait to push this baby out."

"cant wait to watch you," they groan, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "get on the bed for me, sweetheart. if we're going to do this, we're going to do it right. I want to see what a good girl you really are."

she manages to straddle them just right when she finally feels the urge to push—she bears her weight on their thighs, spreading her legs to settle one foot on either side of their chest and leaning back to lift her hips, giving them a clear view of her slick cunt, glistening with cum and arousal and drops of amniotic fluid.

"god, you're so fucking sexy," they groan, eyes lighting up with desire as they watch her inhale deeply and force her chin to her chest, bearing down hard as a tight band of pressure grips her womb. "just look at you, baby. such a good girl. that pretty little cunt is opening so wide."

"it's so big," she gasps, dizzy with the exertion of pushing and the experience of feeling the baby's head grinding against her inner walls. it slides against her sweet spots as it moves through the birth canal, causing her to whimper sweetly as she brings one hand down to spread the lips of her cunt open. there's a bulge forming there, but nothing more to be seen. but the feeling of it—the weight, the heft, the pressure. "feels like having you inside of me. mmm, it's stretching me so much." her hand continues to support her bulging sex as she takes a breath and pushes again, and her partner watches hungrily as she slides the pads of her fingers over her spreading folds. "fuckkk. feels so good."

"looks so good. all I want to do is get my mouth on that pretty pussy. use my tongue to get you all spread open. you look so fucking sexy pushing for me, baby."

"k-knew you would like it," she pants, flashing a sly smile. if she had known the effect it would have on both of them, if she'd known this primal act could be so sexually charged and so erotic, perhaps they would have been in this situation much sooner. "ooooh, here comes the head. mm, I can feel it." she squeezes her eyes shut as she strains, face flushed and sweaty as fluid drips from her hole and spills onto her partners chest. they groan in delight, arousal coursing through their body as they watch her once tightly furled slit begin to open. the bulge of the head has her outer labia pressed against her thighs, and all they want to do is lean in and eat her out. as soon as the baby is born, they think.

"t-tell me it's coming," she gasps. "you must be able to... hooo, fuck. mmph, c-cant you see it?"

"not yet, baby," they say gently. "but you're so close."

"I think y-you might be the one that's close."

they laugh as they lean up to kiss her, eagerly swallowing down her soft little whines and whimpers as she pushes into her hand. fluid continues to leak from her gaping hole, all a mix of sex and birth, and with a particularly strong push, the head slips free from the tight band of her cervix, dropping down into her cunt.

"oh, good girl. you're doing so well, baby. I know it hurts, I know. I want you to make as much sound as you need, I want you to scream it out if you can, but you've got it to take it slow, remember? easy and slow. you hold that baby right there—let it stretch you, let it open that pussy up."

she grits her teeth, toes curling with effort as she struggles to move the massive head down. her folds have opened into a yawning sort of 'O' shape, giving small glimpses of the head sliding down and then back up. when her current contraction ends, she exhales shakily, vocalializing as loudly as she can as she supports her sex. "scream it out, hm? do you want me to tell you how much it burns? how I can feel it forcing me open?" her mask slips for a second as she starts to bear down, tears stinging her eyes as she begins to feel the ring of fire. "its... hnnng, no exaggeration." the head sits at a half crown, her lips stretched tightly over the width of it. "god, it burns! it stings so ba-aaaaad!"

her partner squirms as they watch her push, so overcome with a desire to have her. "youre such a good birther for me, love. I knew that you would be." they reach up and grab her knees, pulling them farther apart when the mounting stinging between her legs makes her cry and try to close them. "I knew it would be hot, but not like this. all your little sounds. the way you grunt when you push. how you moan as you feel that head come down—and it is so fucking close, sweetheart. just a few more pushes and it'll be out. 'course then you'll have to push out those big shoulders, but I know you can do it. I know you can stretch for me."

her hair falls over her shoulder as her head falls back, fingers working at her clit as she pushes. her sounds begin to escalate, turning into louder, deeper, and more primal sounding roars and screams. but frustratingly, the head stays as it was—half in, half out, and not moving at all. "get it out of me," she cries, thighs trembling from effort. she slumps forward a bit, and her partner almost cums right then and there when he feels the crowning head slide along their lower abdomen. fuck. big is definitely a kind word to describe it. its absolutely massive. her vaginal lips are bloodless, stretched so thin and tight over the skull. they can feel the warmth; feel how wet she is. feels how she continues to struggle to push it down and out of her battered cunt; feels how unrelenting the tissue is. "cant... cant get it to move."

"feels good though, hm?" they smile smugly when she frantically nods her head. "I dont want you to stop pushing for me, but keep playing with your clit. you're doing so—oh, holy shit! oh, baby! god you're doing it. that's it!" their hands slide under her ass to support her as she rocks her hips forward and screams, shoving the rest of the head out in a gush of fluid that pools between them. the head flops down against her partner's chest, and the lips of her cunt clamp down roughly around the neck as her body shakes and trembles. they knew the dazed and blissful expression on her face well—she had cum their baby into the world. she'd gotten off on getting them off. "jesus. holy fuck, baby." they lean up and kiss her again, eyes dark and filled with lust as they take in the sight in front of them. "youre incredible."

"g-good?" she asks, staring down at the head between her thighs. "I wanted... mmmhm, w-wanted you to like it. wanted it to be good for you. ooooh." she exhales, wincing as her belly begins to tighten again. "I can feel the shoulders coming down."

The confessional smelled of old wax, dust, and repentance. From the other side of the lattice, the voices were ghostly whispers, minor sins dissolving into the twilight. But the greatest sin, the heaviest one, lay within him. Father Michael sat on the small wooden bench, his priestly vestments stretched to the point of tearing over his enormous pregnant belly. Every breath was an effort, every movement an agony.

The pressure began again, a slow, powerful wave originating at the base of his spine and spreading throughout his pelvis. He pressed his forehead against the cold wood of the lattice, biting his lip to stifle the moan struggling to escape. His hands, clutching a rosary, trembled so violently that the wooden beads clicked rhythmically, betraying him.

A woman on the other side confessed a trivial envy. Father Michael narrowed his eyes, sweat dripping down his temples.

“Envy is a poison, my child,” he began his sermon, his voice a little more tense than usual. “It corrodes the soul, turns us bitter, and blinds us to the blessings the Lord has bestowed upon us. We must…”

The pressure intensified, becoming a force pushing downward. The baby was settling in, descending to the exit station. She felt a deep, strange swelling, a fullness in her perineum that was new and terrifying. She looked down, despite the darkness. Beneath her habits, she could feel it, not as an opening, but as a bulge. The baby’s head was fully down, pressing against the bottom of her birth canal, but her body had not yet yielded. Her opening, still closed, simply bulged outward under the relentless pressure—an invisible yet palpable dome of flesh preparing to be stretched beyond its limits.

“...we must open our hearts to grace,” he continued, his voice now a controlled gasp. “Accept God’s plan, even if we do not understand it. For His ways are not our ways, and His will is perfect.”

The woman whispered “Amen” and left. Father Michael was left alone in the deathly silence. The pressure eased for a moment, and he took a deep breath, hoping it was over. But then the wave returned, stronger this time.

“Father,” whispered a new voice, young and trembling. “I’ve had… impure thoughts.”

Father Michael closed his eyes tightly. The irony was a dagger in his heart.

“Temptation is the test of our faith, my son,” he said, his voice a little louder to mask the sound of his own ragged breathing. “It is the fire that forges our devotion. The Lord...”

An involuntary spasm ran through him. He rested his hands on the bench, his knuckles white. The swelling between his legs was now a constant presence, a promise of imminent pain. The baby’s head was pressing down, and his opening was beginning to give way, a slow, agonizing stretching that made him see stars.

“…the Lord gives us the burdens we can bear,” he continued, tears threatening to fall. “And He gives us the strength to bear them. We must not fear pain, for pain is...”

He paused, biting back a scream as the burning began. His body was opening, slowly, reluctantly. The swelling was turning into a tear.

“...pain is a reminder of our sacrifice,” he finished, his voice breaking. “A reminder of the passion of Christ, who suffered for us. We must embrace our suffering, just as he embraced the cross.”

The young man on the other end was crying, moved by the priest’s words. “Thank you, Father. That is exactly what I needed to hear.”

Father Michael didn't answer. He was too busy fighting his own body. The burning sensation was a fire consuming him, and every time the young man on the other side said “Amen” or “Thank you,” Father Michael felt as if God himself were mocking him.

He stood there, in the darkness, preaching sermons on faith and sacrifice while his own body was being torn apart in a sacrifice he had never asked for. And no one, no one noticed the tears mingling with his sweat, or the moans he disguised as coughs, or the way his enormous belly contracted beneath the sacred vestments. They were all so devout, so blinded by faith, that they did not see the blasphemous miracle taking place just inches away from them.

The confessional had become his own personal hell, a box of wood and penance where his body was the only true penitent. Father Michael’s sermon had become a desperate mantra, a way to anchor his mind as his body crumbled.

“…and that is why, my children, we must find strength in humility,” he whispered, his voice a strained thread. “For it is in our weakness that the Lord’s grace…”

The sentence was cut short by a gasp. A new and terrifying sensation coursed through her body. It wasn’t the swelling, it wasn’t the pressure. It was a sharp, final stretching, as if an invisible seam were tearing. Her pussy opened wider, yielding to a force she could no longer contain.

The tiny tip of the baby’s head peeked out.

It was a minuscule yet monumental sensation, the rounded tip of the skull parting her lips from within. A point of hot, firm pressure that heralded the beginning of the end.

Father Michael jumped, a convulsive, violent movement that made the entire confessional shake. His head struck the top of the lattice with a dull thud. The repentant whisper on the other side stopped, confused.

“Father? Are you all right?”

But Father Michael didn’t hear him. In an instinctive and terrifying reflex, he brought a hand to his pussy, over the heavy vestments. His trembling fingers found the bulge, the impossible shape pushing its way into the world.

His fingers touched the wet, hot tip of his own son’s head.

The shock was electric. A chill ran down her spine, a chill of panic and revelation. It was real. It wasn’t a nightmare; it wasn’t an imaginary punishment. It was real. He was being born. Here. Now.

“Father?” the voice on the other side sounded worried. “I heard a thud.”

Father Michael couldn't respond. He stood there in the small space, his hand pressed against the lower part of her belly, feeling the life struggling to emerge. Her pussy lips parted a little more, and the baby's head slid another centimeter forward—a slow, relentless advance that took his breath away.

“The Lord… the Lord is testing us,” he managed to say, his voice a hoarse, broken gasp. “He is testing us in ways… unimaginable.”

She leaned against the wall of the confessional, eyes closed, her hand still pressed against the spot where her body was opening. Labor had truly begun, and no sermons or prayers could stop it.

The world narrowed to the point of contact between her fingers and her child’s head. And then, that point turned to fire.

It burns. It’s starting to burn badly.

The burning was an explosion, a sharp, white pain that spread from her opening to the very core of her being. It was the flesh reaching its limit, stretching beyond what nature had intended for a body like hers. A trapped scream turned into a stifled silence.

She clung tighter to her pussy, her fingers pressing hard against the head trying to be born, a pathetic and desperate attempt to stop the inevitable. The pressure from her own fingers only intensified the pain, but it was all she could do.

Now it is a tear.

The flesh opened a little more, not with a clean cut, but with a slow, agonizing tear. She saw in her mind the tissue of her own body turning into a tear of flesh, a wound giving birth. The pain was so intense that her vision blurred, tears welling from her eyes and falling onto the black robes.

“The Lord… the Lord asks us for sacrifices,” he continued, his voice a trembling, broken thread, almost inaudible. “He asks us to carry our cross… to… to endure the pain… for salvation…”

The young man on the other side of the grille listened devoutly, unaware that the sermon on sacrifice was not a parable. It was the real-time chronicle of Father Michael’s own hell.

Only four left... four more and she could give birth in peace.

Father Michael’s mind, fragmented by pain, found a strange and terrifying logic. He counted the contractions, the irresistible urges of his body. If he could endure four more, he could end this. He could surrender, let his body do what it had to do, and find a peace he hadn’t known in months.

He just has to hold his cunt tight.

He clung to the idea like a lifeline. Hold. Contain. Resist. His fingers dug into his own flesh, an act of violence against himself in an attempt to buy time. Every contraction he held back was a small, bitter victory.

It’s uncomfortable with his member in the way, but no one notices anything...

The baby’s pressure pushed downward, and his own member, erect from adrenaline and panic, was trapped in the middle, pressed against his thigh by the emerging head. It was a strange and humiliating sensation, a constant reminder of his duality, of his sin made flesh. He felt clumsy, deformed, a monster halfway between two worlds.

But no one noticed anything. The young man on the other side kept listening, devout and blind. The outside world kept turning, oblivious to the miracle and the nightmare unfolding in the darkness of the confessional.

“For in suffering… we find redemption,” Father Michael finished, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Amen.”

“Amen,” replied the young man, his voice full of gratitude.

Father Michael stood there, alone in the silence, his hand still clenched around his burning cunt. He held his breath, bracing himself for the next contraction, the next step in his own personal Stations of the Cross. Just four more. Just four more and he could give in.

The third push took him by surprise, an earthquake that originated in his pelvis and shook every bone in his body. The burning intensified, turning into a bonfire that consumed him. The tear in his flesh opened wider, and the baby’s head slid out, a slow, torturous advance that made him scream into his own hand.

“My God, have mercy on me!” he whispered, the words a mixture of prayer and blasphemy.

The young man on the other side of the lattice, confused by the muffled sound, asked, “Father? Did you say something?”

Father Michael shook his head, though no one could see him. He clutched his pussy tighter, his fingers pressing against the emerging head, a desperate attempt to halt the progress. Just one more. Just one more push and he could give in.

“Faith... faith is a flame,” he said, his voice a hoarse gasp. “A flame that burns in the darkness, a light that guides us through the valley of the shadow of death.”

The fourth push was the strongest. A wave of pressure that swept her away completely, a force she couldn’t contain. She clung to the bench with her free hand, her knuckles white, while her other hand continued to press against her burning pussy.

The baby’s head slid out, a slow, agonizing movement that made him see stars. The burning was a white fire, a pain that stole his breath and wrung tears from his eyes.

“Save me, Lord!” he cried, his voice broken by pain.

The young man on the other end, now terrified, asked, “Father? What’s going on? Are you okay?”

But Father Michael couldn’t answer. He was lost in his own hell, a world of pain and sacrifice from which there was no escape. The baby’s head was almost out, a crown of dark hair and stretched skin that defied him to give up.

“No! I can’t!” he screamed, his voice a heart-wrenching cry.

He clutched her pussy with both hands, a final act of desperation. But it was useless. Her body gave in, and the baby’s head slid out in a gush of fluids and flesh.

The relief was so overwhelming that she nearly fainted. The pressure in her pelvis vanished, replaced by a strange, dangling weight between her legs. She looked down, gasping, and saw her baby’s head, turning slowly as the shoulders lined up for the final push.

“Thank you, my God! Thank you!” she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

The young man on the other side, now completely bewildered, asked, “Father? Is it over?”

Father Michael nodded, though no one could see him. He leaned back against the wall of the confessional, exhausted and defeated. The baby was almost out, and for the first time in hours, he felt a flicker of hope.

“Amen,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Amen.”

Her head hung down, a heavy, foreign weight suspended from her torn pussy. It was both a victory crown and a mark of Cain all in one. Every beat of Father Michael’s heart sent a throb of dull pain through his perineum, a constant reminder of the torn flesh and the life hanging from it.

“Father… are you sure you’re all right?” the young man’s voice was a trembling whisper, filled with a concern Father Michael could no longer process.

“The… the Lord’s blessing… is immense,” the priest gasped, the words a monumental effort. “Go, my son. Go… and live in peace. Your confession... is complete.”

There was a silence, and then the sound of the small confessional door opening and closing with a soft click. The whisper of footsteps receding down the church aisle. And then, silence.

He was alone.

The mask of the saint crumbled away, leaving the man naked and broken. Father Michael collapsed sideways onto the narrow bench, his breath escaping him in a painful gasp. The baby’s head, dangling between his legs, swayed with the movement, tugging at his flesh in a way that made him scream into the now-empty silence.

There were no more sermons. No more congregation. Just him, the pain, and the child.

With a groan that was pure agony, he leaned forward. The movement was slow, torturous. Every muscle in his back and abdomen protested. He clutched his knees, his fingers digging into the fabric of his pants. He had to end this. He had to get it out.

He spread the cheeks of his ass, an instinctive and vulnerable act that made him feel exposed and animalistic. The pain was sharp, a deep tug on his already fatigued muscles. The weight of the head was immense, an anchor dragging him down. His cunt… his cunt was an open wound, a fire burning with a ferocity for which there were no words.

And there her baby was born.

There was no heroic push. There was no final scream. Just a collapse. Her body, having reached the absolute limit of its endurance, simply gave up. The last resistance of her tissues gave way, and with a wet, painful slide, the baby’s shoulders passed through the torn flesh.

Then the rest of the body slid out in a torrent of fluids, a heavy, slippery mass that fell onto the wooden floor with a dull, wet thud.

Father Michael stood there, leaning forward, gasping, his eyes closed. The relief was so overwhelming it was almost painful. The pressure was gone. The fire had gone out, leaving only a dull, throbbing pain.

He opened his eyes slowly and looked down.

There, on the floor of the confessional, in a pool of blood and amniotic fluid, lay his son. A real, tangible baby, covered in vernix and blood, with dark hair plastered to his cone-shaped head. He lay still for a moment, and then his little chest heaved, and a weak, whimpering cry filled the small space.

Father Michael—the man of God, the sinner, the father—stood there, gazing at the life he had created in the darkness. There were no singing angels, no divine light. Only the smell of blood and old wax, the sound of a baby’s cry, and the silence of an empty church.

The confessional smelled of old wax, dust, and repentance. From the other side of the lattice, the voices were ghostly whispers, minor sins dissolving into the twilight. But the greatest sin, the heaviest one, lay within him. Father Michael sat on the small wooden bench, his priestly vestments stretched to the point of tearing over his enormous pregnant belly. Every breath was an effort, every movement an agony.

The pressure began again, a slow, powerful wave originating at the base of his spine and spreading throughout his pelvis. He pressed his forehead against the cold wood of the lattice, biting his lip to stifle the moan struggling to escape. His hands, clutching a rosary, trembled so violently that the wooden beads clicked rhythmically, betraying him.

A woman on the other side confessed a trivial envy. Father Michael narrowed his eyes, sweat dripping down his temples.

“Envy is a poison, my child,” he began his sermon, his voice a little more tense than usual. “It corrodes the soul, turns us bitter, and blinds us to the blessings the Lord has bestowed upon us. We must…”

The pressure intensified, becoming a force pushing downward. The baby was settling in, descending to the exit station. She felt a deep, strange swelling, a fullness in her perineum that was new and terrifying. She looked down, despite the darkness. Beneath her habits, she could feel it, not as an opening, but as a bulge. The baby’s head was fully down, pressing against the bottom of her birth canal, but her body had not yet yielded. Her opening, still closed, simply bulged outward under the relentless pressure—an invisible yet palpable dome of flesh preparing to be stretched beyond its limits.

“...we must open our hearts to grace,” he continued, his voice now a controlled gasp. “Accept God’s plan, even if we do not understand it. For His ways are not our ways, and His will is perfect.”

The woman whispered “Amen” and left. Father Michael was left alone in the deathly silence. The pressure eased for a moment, and he took a deep breath, hoping it was over. But then the wave returned, stronger this time.

“Father,” whispered a new voice, young and trembling. “I’ve had… impure thoughts.”

Father Michael closed his eyes tightly. The irony was a dagger in his heart.

“Temptation is the test of our faith, my son,” he said, his voice a little louder to mask the sound of his own ragged breathing. “It is the fire that forges our devotion. The Lord...”

An involuntary spasm ran through him. He rested his hands on the bench, his knuckles white. The swelling between his legs was now a constant presence, a promise of imminent pain. The baby’s head was pressing down, and his opening was beginning to give way, a slow, agonizing stretching that made him see stars.

“…the Lord gives us the burdens we can bear,” he continued, tears threatening to fall. “And He gives us the strength to bear them. We must not fear pain, for pain is...”

He paused, biting back a scream as the burning began. His body was opening, slowly, reluctantly. The swelling was turning into a tear.

“...pain is a reminder of our sacrifice,” he finished, his voice breaking. “A reminder of the passion of Christ, who suffered for us. We must embrace our suffering, just as he embraced the cross.”

The young man on the other end was crying, moved by the priest’s words. “Thank you, Father. That is exactly what I needed to hear.”

Father Michael didn't answer. He was too busy fighting his own body. The burning sensation was a fire consuming him, and every time the young man on the other side said “Amen” or “Thank you,” Father Michael felt as if God himself were mocking him.

He stood there, in the darkness, preaching sermons on faith and sacrifice while his own body was being torn apart in a sacrifice he had never asked for. And no one, no one noticed the tears mingling with his sweat, or the moans he disguised as coughs, or the way his enormous belly contracted beneath the sacred vestments. They were all so devout, so blinded by faith, that they did not see the blasphemous miracle taking place just inches away from them.

The confessional had become his own personal hell, a box of wood and penance where his body was the only true penitent. Father Michael’s sermon had become a desperate mantra, a way to anchor his mind as his body crumbled.

“…and that is why, my children, we must find strength in humility,” he whispered, his voice a strained thread. “For it is in our weakness that the Lord’s grace…”

The sentence was cut short by a gasp. A new and terrifying sensation coursed through her body. It wasn’t the swelling, it wasn’t the pressure. It was a sharp, final stretching, as if an invisible seam were tearing. Her pussy opened wider, yielding to a force she could no longer contain.

The tiny tip of the baby’s head peeked out.

It was a minuscule yet monumental sensation, the rounded tip of the skull parting her lips from within. A point of hot, firm pressure that heralded the beginning of the end.

Father Michael jumped, a convulsive, violent movement that made the entire confessional shake. His head struck the top of the lattice with a dull thud. The repentant whisper on the other side stopped, confused.

“Father? Are you all right?”

But Father Michael didn’t hear him. In an instinctive and terrifying reflex, he brought a hand to his pussy, over the heavy vestments. His trembling fingers found the bulge, the impossible shape pushing its way into the world.

His fingers touched the wet, hot tip of his own son’s head.

The shock was electric. A chill ran down her spine, a chill of panic and revelation. It was real. It wasn’t a nightmare; it wasn’t an imaginary punishment. It was real. He was being born. Here. Now.

“Father?” the voice on the other side sounded worried. “I heard a thud.”

Father Michael couldn't respond. He stood there in the small space, his hand pressed against the lower part of her belly, feeling the life struggling to emerge. Her pussy lips parted a little more, and the baby's head slid another centimeter forward—a slow, relentless advance that took his breath away.

“The Lord… the Lord is testing us,” he managed to say, his voice a hoarse, broken gasp. “He is testing us in ways… unimaginable.”

She leaned against the wall of the confessional, eyes closed, her hand still pressed against the spot where her body was opening. Labor had truly begun, and no sermons or prayers could stop it.

The world narrowed to the point of contact between her fingers and her child’s head. And then, that point turned to fire.

It burns. It’s starting to burn badly.

The burning was an explosion, a sharp, white pain that spread from her opening to the very core of her being. It was the flesh reaching its limit, stretching beyond what nature had intended for a body like hers. A trapped scream turned into a stifled silence.

She clung tighter to her pussy, her fingers pressing hard against the head trying to be born, a pathetic and desperate attempt to stop the inevitable. The pressure from her own fingers only intensified the pain, but it was all she could do.

Now it is a tear.

The flesh opened a little more, not with a clean cut, but with a slow, agonizing tear. She saw in her mind the tissue of her own body turning into a tear of flesh, a wound giving birth. The pain was so intense that her vision blurred, tears welling from her eyes and falling onto the black robes.

“The Lord… the Lord asks us for sacrifices,” he continued, his voice a trembling, broken thread, almost inaudible. “He asks us to carry our cross… to… to endure the pain… for salvation…”

The young man on the other side of the grille listened devoutly, unaware that the sermon on sacrifice was not a parable. It was the real-time chronicle of Father Michael’s own hell.

Only four left... four more and she could give birth in peace.

Father Michael’s mind, fragmented by pain, found a strange and terrifying logic. He counted the contractions, the irresistible urges of his body. If he could endure four more, he could end this. He could surrender, let his body do what it had to do, and find a peace he hadn’t known in months.

He just has to hold his cunt tight.

He clung to the idea like a lifeline. Hold. Contain. Resist. His fingers dug into his own flesh, an act of violence against himself in an attempt to buy time. Every contraction he held back was a small, bitter victory.

It’s uncomfortable with his member in the way, but no one notices anything...

The baby’s pressure pushed downward, and his own member, erect from adrenaline and panic, was trapped in the middle, pressed against his thigh by the emerging head. It was a strange and humiliating sensation, a constant reminder of his duality, of his sin made flesh. He felt clumsy, deformed, a monster halfway between two worlds.

But no one noticed anything. The young man on the other side kept listening, devout and blind. The outside world kept turning, oblivious to the miracle and the nightmare unfolding in the darkness of the confessional.

“For in suffering… we find redemption,” Father Michael finished, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Amen.”

“Amen,” replied the young man, his voice full of gratitude.

Father Michael stood there, alone in the silence, his hand still clenched around his burning cunt. He held his breath, bracing himself for the next contraction, the next step in his own personal Stations of the Cross. Just four more. Just four more and he could give in.

The third push took him by surprise, an earthquake that originated in his pelvis and shook every bone in his body. The burning intensified, turning into a bonfire that consumed him. The tear in his flesh opened wider, and the baby’s head slid out, a slow, torturous advance that made him scream into his own hand.

“My God, have mercy on me!” he whispered, the words a mixture of prayer and blasphemy.

The young man on the other side of the lattice, confused by the muffled sound, asked, “Father? Did you say something?”

Father Michael shook his head, though no one could see him. He clutched his pussy tighter, his fingers pressing against the emerging head, a desperate attempt to halt the progress. Just one more. Just one more push and he could give in.

“Faith... faith is a flame,” he said, his voice a hoarse gasp. “A flame that burns in the darkness, a light that guides us through the valley of the shadow of death.”

The fourth push was the strongest. A wave of pressure that swept her away completely, a force she couldn’t contain. She clung to the bench with her free hand, her knuckles white, while her other hand continued to press against her burning pussy.

The baby’s head slid out, a slow, agonizing movement that made him see stars. The burning was a white fire, a pain that stole his breath and wrung tears from his eyes.

“Save me, Lord!” he cried, his voice broken by pain.

The young man on the other end, now terrified, asked, “Father? What’s going on? Are you okay?”

But Father Michael couldn’t answer. He was lost in his own hell, a world of pain and sacrifice from which there was no escape. The baby’s head was almost out, a crown of dark hair and stretched skin that defied him to give up.

“No! I can’t!” he screamed, his voice a heart-wrenching cry.

He clutched her pussy with both hands, a final act of desperation. But it was useless. Her body gave in, and the baby’s head slid out in a gush of fluids and flesh.

The relief was so overwhelming that she nearly fainted. The pressure in her pelvis vanished, replaced by a strange, dangling weight between her legs. She looked down, gasping, and saw her baby’s head, turning slowly as the shoulders lined up for the final push.

“Thank you, my God! Thank you!” she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

The young man on the other side, now completely bewildered, asked, “Father? Is it over?”

Father Michael nodded, though no one could see him. He leaned back against the wall of the confessional, exhausted and defeated. The baby was almost out, and for the first time in hours, he felt a flicker of hope.

“Amen,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Amen.”

Her head hung down, a heavy, foreign weight suspended from her torn pussy. It was both a victory crown and a mark of Cain all in one. Every beat of Father Michael’s heart sent a throb of dull pain through his perineum, a constant reminder of the torn flesh and the life hanging from it.

“Father… are you sure you’re all right?” the young man’s voice was a trembling whisper, filled with a concern Father Michael could no longer process.

“The… the Lord’s blessing… is immense,” the priest gasped, the words a monumental effort. “Go, my son. Go… and live in peace. Your confession... is complete.”

There was a silence, and then the sound of the small confessional door opening and closing with a soft click. The whisper of footsteps receding down the church aisle. And then, silence.

He was alone.

The mask of the saint crumbled away, leaving the man naked and broken. Father Michael collapsed sideways onto the narrow bench, his breath escaping him in a painful gasp. The baby’s head, dangling between his legs, swayed with the movement, tugging at his flesh in a way that made him scream into the now-empty silence.

There were no more sermons. No more congregation. Just him, the pain, and the child.

With a groan that was pure agony, he leaned forward. The movement was slow, torturous. Every muscle in his back and abdomen protested. He clutched his knees, his fingers digging into the fabric of his pants. He had to end this. He had to get it out.

He spread the cheeks of his ass, an instinctive and vulnerable act that made him feel exposed and animalistic. The pain was sharp, a deep tug on his already fatigued muscles. The weight of the head was immense, an anchor dragging him down. His cunt… his cunt was an open wound, a fire burning with a ferocity for which there were no words.

And there her baby was born.

There was no heroic push. There was no final scream. Just a collapse. Her body, having reached the absolute limit of its endurance, simply gave up. The last resistance of her tissues gave way, and with a wet, painful slide, the baby’s shoulders passed through the torn flesh.

Then the rest of the body slid out in a torrent of fluids, a heavy, slippery mass that fell onto the wooden floor with a dull, wet thud.

Father Michael stood there, leaning forward, gasping, his eyes closed. The relief was so overwhelming it was almost painful. The pressure was gone. The fire had gone out, leaving only a dull, throbbing pain.

He opened his eyes slowly and looked down.

There, on the floor of the confessional, in a pool of blood and amniotic fluid, lay his son. A real, tangible baby, covered in vernix and blood, with dark hair plastered to his cone-shaped head. He lay still for a moment, and then his little chest heaved, and a weak, whimpering cry filled the small space.

Father Michael—the man of God, the sinner, the father—stood there, gazing at the life he had created in the darkness. There were no singing angels, no divine light. Only the smell of blood and old wax, the sound of a baby’s cry, and the silence of an empty church.

The confessional smelled of old wax, dust, and repentance. From the other side of the lattice, the voices were ghostly whispers, minor sins dissolving into the twilight. But the greatest sin, the heaviest one, lay within him. Father Michael sat on the small wooden bench, his priestly vestments stretched to the point of tearing over his enormous pregnant belly. Every breath was an effort, every movement an agony.

The pressure began again, a slow, powerful wave originating at the base of his spine and spreading throughout his pelvis. He pressed his forehead against the cold wood of the lattice, biting his lip to stifle the moan struggling to escape. His hands, clutching a rosary, trembled so violently that the wooden beads clicked rhythmically, betraying him.

A woman on the other side confessed a trivial envy. Father Michael narrowed his eyes, sweat dripping down his temples.

“Envy is a poison, my child,” he began his sermon, his voice a little more tense than usual. “It corrodes the soul, turns us bitter, and blinds us to the blessings the Lord has bestowed upon us. We must…”

The pressure intensified, becoming a force pushing downward. The baby was settling in, descending to the exit station. She felt a deep, strange swelling, a fullness in her perineum that was new and terrifying. She looked down, despite the darkness. Beneath her habits, she could feel it, not as an opening, but as a bulge. The baby’s head was fully down, pressing against the bottom of her birth canal, but her body had not yet yielded. Her opening, still closed, simply bulged outward under the relentless pressure—an invisible yet palpable dome of flesh preparing to be stretched beyond its limits.

“...we must open our hearts to grace,” he continued, his voice now a controlled gasp. “Accept God’s plan, even if we do not understand it. For His ways are not our ways, and His will is perfect.”

The woman whispered “Amen” and left. Father Michael was left alone in the deathly silence. The pressure eased for a moment, and he took a deep breath, hoping it was over. But then the wave returned, stronger this time.

“Father,” whispered a new voice, young and trembling. “I’ve had… impure thoughts.”

Father Michael closed his eyes tightly. The irony was a dagger in his heart.

“Temptation is the test of our faith, my son,” he said, his voice a little louder to mask the sound of his own ragged breathing. “It is the fire that forges our devotion. The Lord...”

An involuntary spasm ran through him. He rested his hands on the bench, his knuckles white. The swelling between his legs was now a constant presence, a promise of imminent pain. The baby’s head was pressing down, and his opening was beginning to give way, a slow, agonizing stretching that made him see stars.

“…the Lord gives us the burdens we can bear,” he continued, tears threatening to fall. “And He gives us the strength to bear them. We must not fear pain, for pain is...”

He paused, biting back a scream as the burning began. His body was opening, slowly, reluctantly. The swelling was turning into a tear.

“...pain is a reminder of our sacrifice,” he finished, his voice breaking. “A reminder of the passion of Christ, who suffered for us. We must embrace our suffering, just as he embraced the cross.”

The young man on the other end was crying, moved by the priest’s words. “Thank you, Father. That is exactly what I needed to hear.”

Father Michael didn't answer. He was too busy fighting his own body. The burning sensation was a fire consuming him, and every time the young man on the other side said “Amen” or “Thank you,” Father Michael felt as if God himself were mocking him.

He stood there, in the darkness, preaching sermons on faith and sacrifice while his own body was being torn apart in a sacrifice he had never asked for. And no one, no one noticed the tears mingling with his sweat, or the moans he disguised as coughs, or the way his enormous belly contracted beneath the sacred vestments. They were all so devout, so blinded by faith, that they did not see the blasphemous miracle taking place just inches away from them.

The confessional had become his own personal hell, a box of wood and penance where his body was the only true penitent. Father Michael’s sermon had become a desperate mantra, a way to anchor his mind as his body crumbled.

“…and that is why, my children, we must find strength in humility,” he whispered, his voice a strained thread. “For it is in our weakness that the Lord’s grace…”

The sentence was cut short by a gasp. A new and terrifying sensation coursed through her body. It wasn’t the swelling, it wasn’t the pressure. It was a sharp, final stretching, as if an invisible seam were tearing. Her pussy opened wider, yielding to a force she could no longer contain.

The tiny tip of the baby’s head peeked out.

It was a minuscule yet monumental sensation, the rounded tip of the skull parting her lips from within. A point of hot, firm pressure that heralded the beginning of the end.

Father Michael jumped, a convulsive, violent movement that made the entire confessional shake. His head struck the top of the lattice with a dull thud. The repentant whisper on the other side stopped, confused.

“Father? Are you all right?”

But Father Michael didn’t hear him. In an instinctive and terrifying reflex, he brought a hand to his pussy, over the heavy vestments. His trembling fingers found the bulge, the impossible shape pushing its way into the world.

His fingers touched the wet, hot tip of his own son’s head.

The shock was electric. A chill ran down her spine, a chill of panic and revelation. It was real. It wasn’t a nightmare; it wasn’t an imaginary punishment. It was real. He was being born. Here. Now.

“Father?” the voice on the other side sounded worried. “I heard a thud.”

Father Michael couldn't respond. He stood there in the small space, his hand pressed against the lower part of her belly, feeling the life struggling to emerge. Her pussy lips parted a little more, and the baby's head slid another centimeter forward—a slow, relentless advance that took his breath away.

“The Lord… the Lord is testing us,” he managed to say, his voice a hoarse, broken gasp. “He is testing us in ways… unimaginable.”

She leaned against the wall of the confessional, eyes closed, her hand still pressed against the spot where her body was opening. Labor had truly begun, and no sermons or prayers could stop it.

The world narrowed to the point of contact between her fingers and her child’s head. And then, that point turned to fire.

It burns. It’s starting to burn badly.

The burning was an explosion, a sharp, white pain that spread from her opening to the very core of her being. It was the flesh reaching its limit, stretching beyond what nature had intended for a body like hers. A trapped scream turned into a stifled silence.

She clung tighter to her pussy, her fingers pressing hard against the head trying to be born, a pathetic and desperate attempt to stop the inevitable. The pressure from her own fingers only intensified the pain, but it was all she could do.

Now it is a tear.

The flesh opened a little more, not with a clean cut, but with a slow, agonizing tear. She saw in her mind the tissue of her own body turning into a tear of flesh, a wound giving birth. The pain was so intense that her vision blurred, tears welling from her eyes and falling onto the black robes.

“The Lord… the Lord asks us for sacrifices,” he continued, his voice a trembling, broken thread, almost inaudible. “He asks us to carry our cross… to… to endure the pain… for salvation…”

The young man on the other side of the grille listened devoutly, unaware that the sermon on sacrifice was not a parable. It was the real-time chronicle of Father Michael’s own hell.

Only four left... four more and she could give birth in peace.

Father Michael’s mind, fragmented by pain, found a strange and terrifying logic. He counted the contractions, the irresistible urges of his body. If he could endure four more, he could end this. He could surrender, let his body do what it had to do, and find a peace he hadn’t known in months.

He just has to hold his cunt tight.

He clung to the idea like a lifeline. Hold. Contain. Resist. His fingers dug into his own flesh, an act of violence against himself in an attempt to buy time. Every contraction he held back was a small, bitter victory.

It’s uncomfortable with his member in the way, but no one notices anything...

The baby’s pressure pushed downward, and his own member, erect from adrenaline and panic, was trapped in the middle, pressed against his thigh by the emerging head. It was a strange and humiliating sensation, a constant reminder of his duality, of his sin made flesh. He felt clumsy, deformed, a monster halfway between two worlds.

But no one noticed anything. The young man on the other side kept listening, devout and blind. The outside world kept turning, oblivious to the miracle and the nightmare unfolding in the darkness of the confessional.

“For in suffering… we find redemption,” Father Michael finished, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Amen.”

“Amen,” replied the young man, his voice full of gratitude.

Father Michael stood there, alone in the silence, his hand still clenched around his burning cunt. He held his breath, bracing himself for the next contraction, the next step in his own personal Stations of the Cross. Just four more. Just four more and he could give in.

The third push took him by surprise, an earthquake that originated in his pelvis and shook every bone in his body. The burning intensified, turning into a bonfire that consumed him. The tear in his flesh opened wider, and the baby’s head slid out, a slow, torturous advance that made him scream into his own hand.

“My God, have mercy on me!” he whispered, the words a mixture of prayer and blasphemy.

The young man on the other side of the lattice, confused by the muffled sound, asked, “Father? Did you say something?”

Father Michael shook his head, though no one could see him. He clutched his pussy tighter, his fingers pressing against the emerging head, a desperate attempt to halt the progress. Just one more. Just one more push and he could give in.

“Faith... faith is a flame,” he said, his voice a hoarse gasp. “A flame that burns in the darkness, a light that guides us through the valley of the shadow of death.”

The fourth push was the strongest. A wave of pressure that swept her away completely, a force she couldn’t contain. She clung to the bench with her free hand, her knuckles white, while her other hand continued to press against her burning pussy.

The baby’s head slid out, a slow, agonizing movement that made him see stars. The burning was a white fire, a pain that stole his breath and wrung tears from his eyes.

“Save me, Lord!” he cried, his voice broken by pain.

The young man on the other end, now terrified, asked, “Father? What’s going on? Are you okay?”

But Father Michael couldn’t answer. He was lost in his own hell, a world of pain and sacrifice from which there was no escape. The baby’s head was almost out, a crown of dark hair and stretched skin that defied him to give up.

“No! I can’t!” he screamed, his voice a heart-wrenching cry.

He clutched her pussy with both hands, a final act of desperation. But it was useless. Her body gave in, and the baby’s head slid out in a gush of fluids and flesh.

The relief was so overwhelming that she nearly fainted. The pressure in her pelvis vanished, replaced by a strange, dangling weight between her legs. She looked down, gasping, and saw her baby’s head, turning slowly as the shoulders lined up for the final push.

“Thank you, my God! Thank you!” she whispered, tears streaming down her face.

The young man on the other side, now completely bewildered, asked, “Father? Is it over?”

Father Michael nodded, though no one could see him. He leaned back against the wall of the confessional, exhausted and defeated. The baby was almost out, and for the first time in hours, he felt a flicker of hope.

“Amen,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Amen.”

Her head hung down, a heavy, foreign weight suspended from her torn pussy. It was both a victory crown and a mark of Cain all in one. Every beat of Father Michael’s heart sent a throb of dull pain through his perineum, a constant reminder of the torn flesh and the life hanging from it.

“Father… are you sure you’re all right?” the young man’s voice was a trembling whisper, filled with a concern Father Michael could no longer process.

“The… the Lord’s blessing… is immense,” the priest gasped, the words a monumental effort. “Go, my son. Go… and live in peace. Your confession... is complete.”

There was a silence, and then the sound of the small confessional door opening and closing with a soft click. The whisper of footsteps receding down the church aisle. And then, silence.

He was alone.

The mask of the saint crumbled away, leaving the man naked and broken. Father Michael collapsed sideways onto the narrow bench, his breath escaping him in a painful gasp. The baby’s head, dangling between his legs, swayed with the movement, tugging at his flesh in a way that made him scream into the now-empty silence.

There were no more sermons. No more congregation. Just him, the pain, and the child.

With a groan that was pure agony, he leaned forward. The movement was slow, torturous. Every muscle in his back and abdomen protested. He clutched his knees, his fingers digging into the fabric of his pants. He had to end this. He had to get it out.

He spread the cheeks of his ass, an instinctive and vulnerable act that made him feel exposed and animalistic. The pain was sharp, a deep tug on his already fatigued muscles. The weight of the head was immense, an anchor dragging him down. His cunt… his cunt was an open wound, a fire burning with a ferocity for which there were no words.

And there her baby was born.

There was no heroic push. There was no final scream. Just a collapse. Her body, having reached the absolute limit of its endurance, simply gave up. The last resistance of her tissues gave way, and with a wet, painful slide, the baby’s shoulders passed through the torn flesh.

Then the rest of the body slid out in a torrent of fluids, a heavy, slippery mass that fell onto the wooden floor with a dull, wet thud.

Father Michael stood there, leaning forward, gasping, his eyes closed. The relief was so overwhelming it was almost painful. The pressure was gone. The fire had gone out, leaving only a dull, throbbing pain.

He opened his eyes slowly and looked down.

There, on the floor of the confessional, in a pool of blood and amniotic fluid, lay his son. A real, tangible baby, covered in vernix and blood, with dark hair plastered to his cone-shaped head. He lay still for a moment, and then his little chest heaved, and a weak, whimpering cry filled the small space.

Father Michael—the man of God, the sinner, the father—stood there, gazing at the life he had created in the darkness. There were no singing angels, no divine light. Only the smell of blood and old wax, the sound of a baby’s cry, and the silence of an empty church.

Your partner is on the bed, supported by pillows, and you’re kissing your way down their torso, achingly slow. They’re sweating, grunting, fidgeting. You plant kisses on their gravid pregnant belly as it tightens and quakes.

“C-come on, babe, hurry…it’s…coming…” They croak. You gradually crawl back, rounding the curve of their belly with your lips, until you’re kissing around their pelvis. When your head is between their thighs you pull back… under their shorts/panties, you can see up-close that their sex is bulging…

You come back up, moving forward and burying your face in their shoulder. In a low voice, you say, “Mmm…you’re pushing?”

You kiss their neck as they nod quickly. “Gggh…lots of…pressure…”

Goosebumps riddle their neck where your lips touch. They’re trembling as they bear down, overcome by sensation. You carefully take your hand and rub your fingertips on the growing bulge between their legs. You feel where the baby’s head is stretching them through the fabric. They shudder and gasp, muscles spasming at your touch.

“I don’t think you should rush it, hon…” You tell them. “Just hold it there for a bit, hmm?”

Their eyes are shut in grimace, their voice coming out breathy and moaning. “Ahh…oh, please…please I wanna push it out sooo bad…I want it now…”

You cut them off by moving your face in front of theirs and gently kissing them on the lips. Their lips are quivering, but after a moment, they reciprocate. Even in the throes of labor, the kiss grounds them.

“O-okay,” They say. “I can…hold it…a little longer.”

i think he can fit a few more eggs in there actually

SUMMARY: Before heading out for a couples' day at the beach, a young woman takes a pregnancy pill, allowing her to have a baby within six hours. However, the relaxing day causes the two to lose track of time...

(Contains rapid pregnancy, birth, birth denial, and sexual content- reader discretion advised)

Word Count: ~5.5k

//////////

"So when do you think I'll start to show?" Molly asked, excitement in her voice.

Owen stepped into the bedroom and saw his girlfriend observing herself in the mirror, miming the curve of a pregnant belly over her flat stomach with her hands. He smiled and approached her.

"Well, according to the instructions, you'll be due in about six hours," he told her, though she already knew. "And the first few, uh, months...won't show much growth. So you may need to give it another hour or so."

She whips her headset off, glaring down at her belly, which bulges out distended and taut, oversized boxer shorts yanked up around her swollen mounded stomach, full with baby.

“Gnnh… it’s this thing’s fault that I went 0-7. Why can’t it wait until I’m positive again?”

I can’t resist, watching her in the doorway as matters progress—her flashes of gamer rage become increasingly punctuated by surprised, unwelcome grunts. Her belly heaves and roils under her desk as she plays, squeezing her baby down. Her thighs spread and close, boxers slipping down the curve of her pregnant belly.

“Fuck,” I hear her muttering under her brush. “Push, you useless fucking toplaner. Push!” Then, she grunts hard, her entire body stiffening. Her belly seizes, and she bears down into her boxers.

“GNNNNGHHHHH—oh, FUCK! Mmm—I’m—I’m PUSHINNNNNGGGG!”

My mouth goes dry as I see her legs spring apart and her eyes pop open, goggling down at her clenched round orb. She breaks for a startled, gurgling cry before her birthing urges force her into another deep, hard push.

“Nnngh—guh!

One hand on the mouse, she uses her other to yank her now-soiled boxers down to her knees.

“What the fuck,” she whispers under her breath. “I-it’s in my—pussy? The fucking head’s coming out?!”

An ult, followed by a sudden death screen. She wrenches her attention back to the screen and curses loudly.

You’ve been going to all your prenatal checkups and the baby looks perfectly healthy, so you decide that it’s safe to have a home birth. Your partner holds your hand as you push for hours, breathing through the strong contractions. Your midwife coaches you through it, telling you that you’re doing so well. She returns to her spot between your legs to check your progress.

It’s a good thing you can’t see the shock on her face as she spreads your legs to look. She watches as you push out a loop of the baby’s umbilical cord. Your sex has begun to bulge with the shape of the head, but you haven’t reached a crown yet. She firmly tells you to stop pushing and removes her gloves to pick up her phone. “What’s wrong?” You ask, panic rising in your voice. She calmly explains that you have something called a prolapsed cord, which means that the umbilical cord is coming out before the baby. You need to go to the hospital for a c-section, as pushing naturally could cause the baby to crush the cord and suffocate.

You burst into tears, the stretch of the baby’s head burning your birth canal and the urge to push overwhelming. Your partner tries to help you breathe through it and calm down. Once the midwife gets off the phone with 911, she announces that the paramedics are on their way. She puts on a new set of gloves and returns to her position between your legs.

“Okay honey, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to have to hold the baby up off of the cord so it keeps receiving oxygen. I’m going to slip two fingers into your birth canal, and gently create space between the head and the wall of your vagina to keep the baby off the cord. You cannot push anymore, okay? You could hurt yourself or the baby.” The midwife explains.

You try to protest, screaming “No! No! I have to push! Don’t put your fingers in me! It’s too much pressure!” The midwife does it anyway. Your partner shushes you, telling you that you can do this. That you’re strong. You don’t feel strong. You feel like a desperate animal, fighting the urge to push with every second.

After what feels like hours (but was really more like 10 minutes) the ambulance arrives. The paramedic and EMTs walk in with all their gear, immediately getting to work and asking the midwife questions. One starts to take your vitals. Another asks your husband about whether you take any medications or have any allergies. You’re still wailing with every contraction, trying so hard not to push.

They bring their stretcher in and maneuver it next to your bed. They tell you they’re going to move you. They grab the sheets underneath you, the midwife still in position to hold the baby in place. They pull the sheets over onto the stretcher in one quick motion. They lay you all the way down, and then pull a lever on the stretcher and your legs are lifted into the air, the midwife following them up with her fingers. You feel the baby slip back inside you a little and wail, protesting the loss of your progress.

They load you into the ambulance, and the paramedic instructs one EMT to take over for the midwife. Once again, you protest having someone else’s hands inside of you. They explain that this is necessary for the baby’s safety, and do it anyway. Your husband says he’ll follow you to the hospital in your car.

The drive to the nearest facility with OBGYN capabilities takes an hour. With every bump on the road, you feel the baby shift inside of you. You fight the urge to push, screaming and crying from the pain. Begging the EMT to take their hand out and let you push. They don’t. The paramedic talks to you, trying to calm you down, but you’re inconsolable.

You’re stuck like this for over an hour, and you know it’s still not over. Once you get to the hospital, you’ll have to have surgery. At least then maybe you can get some drugs to stop the pain.

Like what if you worked on an oil rig and one day while doing your rounds you find a mermaid who was injured and got separated from her pod and despite her initial hostility you decide to help her. Once she realizes you’re not trying to hurt her, she warms up to you, and you both fascinate each other so much you end up becoming friends as her tail heals and you start sneaking down to water level to talk to her every day. But then talking becomes exploring and exploring becomes fucking so you just end up having a secret mermaid buddy that you fuck that becomes the actual highlight of your day while out on the ocean at your shitty, dangerous job.

And then one day she just seems tired and off and in pain and after you pry about it she reveals to you that the reason that her and her pod were migrating is because it’s mating season and she needs to lay or she might become egg bound. Which is something you’ve only vaguely heard about, but you know it’s something that can be fatal to egg-laying creatures. So you ask her why she doesn’t just do that, and she tells you that with the way mermaids mate, she can’t lay unless she’s laying the eggs into a mate, so then you ask her what happens if she doesn’t and she reluctantly tells you she’ll die.

And like, this is your mermaid fuck buddy but she’s also your friend now and you really don’t want her to die so you ask if there’s anything you can do to help.

She just laughs humorlessly and tells you no, not unless you want to take the eggs and you can tell she’s not serious, but you’re pretty serious about having her not die so you say you’ll do it.

She doesn’t believe you at first and then she brushes you off because humans and mermaids have different anatomy and it might not even be possible and it might actually hurt you so it’s not a great idea.

You think sure, it might hurt you, but not laying will definitely kill her and you think it’s worth a shot. You point this out and she agrees after mulling it over.

This is how you find out that mermaid eggs are around the size of a plum at this point in their development and also what it’s like to have a mermaid push her eggs deep inside you as she clutches you from behind in the water, her webbed fingers wrapped tight around fistfuls of your shirt as she shakes with relief.

This is why you end up sneaking back up to your cabin dripping wet and locking yourself inside, leaning against the door as you massage your gut where you can now feel three…? hard, round lumps far beneath your skin.

This is why you spend a month carefully covering yourself in loose t shirts when you’re not wearing boots and waterproof coveralls and watching in equal parts amazement and dread as your belly starts to gently swell around the growing masses inside you. You fend off jokes about your weight gain and when you visit the mermaid, she’s equally amazed that they’ve actually grown inside you instead of just being immediately expelled.

You don’t say it to her—you manage to actually act pretty nonchalant about the whole thing—but the thought of how they’re going to come back out is definitely weighing on you, which is stupid because they’re obviously coming out the way they went in.

You’re just a little nervous because they’re just…Well. They’re definitely bigger than when they went in. When you press your hand into your belly to try to feel them, it feels like one would now fill your entire palm.

You try not to think about it, even when you feel the eggs shifting and settling uncomfortably low inside you. Even when a dull pain starts squeezing your gut at increasingly regular intervals and your belly becomes so tight over the eggs that you can almost see their outline when you take your shirt off in the privacy of your cabin at the end of the day.

You only start to when the pain becomes sharper and so much more intense that you’re forced to call your supervisor to say you’re violently vomiting all over your bathroom because that’s the only way you’ll get out of your shift.

This is when you end up pacing the incredibly short length of your cabin, occasionally stopping as the pressure down there becomes so strong you have to bite the back of your hands to muffle the sounds you make. And then you can no longer pace and you double over your low dresser, gripping its sides with white-knuckled fingers and gasping as the cramps—the contractions—steal your breath away.

You didn’t really ask the mermaid what was going to happen when you had to get the eggs back out of you. You didn’t think of trying to sneak back down to the waterline so that she could help you either. You’re regretting that now, but it’s way, way too late to do anything about it. The eggs aren’t going give you time to question every decision that got you here. They’re not going to wait until you’re ready for them to transition from being inside of you to being outside. They’re coming out now.

This isn't yucking other people's yums. Crank it to what you like (although, I've come across very real transphobic misogynists here, which, eww, gross)! It's just when every other pregkink related post is about "how well daddy bred his obedient slut," the mood gets ruined.

Pregnancy doesn't need to be submissive! Let Momma Kream pin you to the bed and wring those pent up balls dry! Be my special little dildo so I can fill my womb to the brim.

I love pregnancy, hyper, and cumflation so bad! But I don't relate to being someone's broodbitch, or relying on "daddy" to take care of me. I want to be a dominant broodQUEEN!

But, yeah. Don't take this seriously, it's just venting bout kinks. It's not a big deal.

had a thought earlier abt birth denial that causes multiples. like. if someone is going into labor, and they are successfully fully denied and reversed... the baby number goes up by one.

every time someones labor manages to be abated, they get another baby in there. and between the number of babies increasing, and the previous stress... labor starts coming on quicker and is more difficult to reverse. it does take some time for a baby to catch up in growth and settle, but very long.

most ppl wont be able to handle more than one labor reversal, partly bc their water will break. but also bc it just gets too intense very quickly. maaaybe two reversals if theyre lucky.

but? if someone is talented enough and has enough access to medically reverse the labor *repeatedly?*