A trans boi's kinks

“The front hooves are staying outside of you now,” my partner says, his hands on my haunches. “They’re cloven, you know. Just like yours.” I feel him pat me. “But they have my white socks.”

“And your hoof size,” I gasp.

“Well…yes.”

I know he feels guilty. He’s the one who knocked me up and put me in this much pain. But I’m the one who didn’t want to abort, even at the fifth month when we could plainly see on the ultrasounds that they weren’t even halfway ready. Seven previous pregnancies, six by another deertaur, one by a satyr, easy pregnancies, easy deliveries. I was bored. This birth was my chance to feel an unimaginable stretch, even though I knew it would also come with unimaginable pain.

“Can—can you get to the ankles yet?” I stammer. My legs are quaking, but this standing position has been the only one that helped move this first foal.

“Yes, I think so.”

I feel his hands in my pussy, trying to get a grip around our foal’s legs. I moan at the sensation—pain, stimulation—and I take a step back into his hands chasing the feeling.

My partner growls, “I’m busy. You can’t possibly want that now.”

“It might help,” I protest. “It helped me foal in the past. I came most of them out.”

“Later,” he says. “When you’re crowning.” His hands still and I feel an experimental tug. “I’ve got it. Tell me when you have a contraction.”

I take a deep, steadying breath and look back over my shoulder at my partner. He’s bent low at his waist just to reach my pussy. We lock eyes and he nods.

I turn and grip the knotted sheet we have thrown over one of the rafters in the living room, bracing myself. A few moments more and a contraction begins to mount, bringing with it a desperate instinct. My triangular white tail raises high and I bear down.

“I’m pushing!” I cry.

My partner digs in his hooves and pulls.

Agony sears throw my belly and hips. I throw back my head, and a sound comes from my throat that I never knew I was capable of. A bleating scream, filled with panic and pain.

My partner lets up immediately. “Oh my god—baby?”

“It hurts so bad!” I shriek. Even though he’s let up the tension, I still feel a stretch like I’ve never felt before—the stretch I’d always wanted. “Oh god! Oh god! It’s working! I’m crowning!”

“No baby,” he says, his voice high with stress. “It’s still the legs. I can’t see the head.”

“No!” I wail, and my legs buckle. My partner drops the foal’s feet and they slam into my backside, pulling me towards the ground. My partner barely catches me. His arms wrap around my torso and pull me into his abdomen—about as high as my head reaches on him.

The legs dangle out of me as I grip my partner’s midsection, breathing heavily. I hear a noise, feel a vibration in my feet as the foal’s legs sway behind me.

“Oh god—oh god! Are the hooves touching the floor?” I try to twist around to look, but it’s an impossible view behind my oversized belly barreling out around me.

“Yes,” my husband says, barely above a whisper.

“And the head isn’t showing?!”

“Barely,” he says. “I saw hair.”

I bury my face in my partner’s belly and allow myself one little sob. Then I pull away and grab onto the hanging sheet with renewed determination.

“If the legs are mostly out,” I say. “Then it’s working.” I look up at him with what I hope is a fiery spark in my eye. “Go back there and pull, and don’t stop until my contraction lets up. No matter how much I’m screaming.”

“Baby…” he says.

“It has to come out,” I say. “They both have to come out. There’s no ending this until they’re out.”

He still hesitated.

“Go!” I say, and point urgently.

He trots around behind me again, and I feel the legs change position as he picks them back up.

“I’m ready. Tell me when.”

I wait for the next one, breathing evenly. A little tingle of fear crawls up the back of my spine, anticipating the return of the most intense birthing pain I’ve ever experienced. I’m wet. I’m wet with birthing fluids and somehow, in spite of it all, wet with arousal. A contraction begins to seep through my body. I raise my tail.

“Now—now!” I shout, and lean heavily on the birthing sheet, and push.

He pulls.

I hope I can feel movement, but I don’t know. My brain is graying out with pain and pressure.

“Oh god—oh god! AaaaaAAUGHHHHH. I’M BURNING! Oh god! Oh god! I’m crowninggggg.”

He stops abruptly.

“No!” I scream. “I’m still contracting!”

“I have to,” he says. “You’re about to reach the widest point. You have to stretch!”

I push fruitlessly—there’s nothing I can do without his help. “No…no…” I moan. I roll my hips. “Please, I need you. I can cum out the head on the next contraction. Please! You promised!”

He snorts. “I can’t believe it—you’re hard. This head is as big as yours and you’re hard.”

I look over my shoulder. “Please…”

He shifts the foal’s legs to one hand and reaches for me. I shiver as his thumbnail zings down the length of my tdick.

“Yes,” I moan.

He circles the base of my tdick with his thumb and I press back into it, with the rest of my pussy stretched taut in a crown. I wonder if he’s right. I wonder if my foal’s head is as big as mine. But the thought fades into a haze of pleasure and pain as he works on me. I tug hard on the hanging sheet as my tail twitches and I get closer to orgasm.

A contraction pulls at me and I cry out and push.

“It’s happening!” I say. “Don’t stop—I’m pushing! Don’t stop! I’m gonna crown!”

I can’t see and can barely imagine how he manages, but he begins pulling on the legs with one hand while his other hand strokes me.

“Push, baby. Push!”

“It hurts!”

“I know, but push!”

I tuck in my chin and haul on the sheet and push. Blood rushes in my ears and I know I’m fading, the only thing keeping me grounded is my partner’s touch, inching me closer to—

I scream and cum.

The pressure in my pussy vanishes—or, at least it suddenly lessens. My hips buck as I ride my orgasm, and my partner keeps stroking me through the shocks until they fade and I’m left shaking and twitching.

“The head is out,” my partner says.

“I crowned,” I whimper. “I crowned.”

“There’s a lot of hair,” he says, and I can hear his smile. I laugh breathlessly.

“How big is the head?” I ask.

He pats my haunches. “Big.”

“Come here,” I say, and I can feel myself swaying.

He comes around and I let go of the sheet and wrap my arms as far around his middle as they’ll go.

“Let me push out the rest on my own,” I say. “The worst is over. Just hold me—let me foal in your arms.”

He holds me tight.

I push on the next contraction. Not much happens, but the first set of shoulders doesn’t feel stuck—just big. I push through the next several contractions. A few times I whimper softy, “It hurts.” He rubs my back each time, gazing over me at my upright tail while I push on his foal.

Finally I sense a shift. “The first shoulders are coming,” I gasp, and push. One shoulder pops out and I moan. “Almost!” I push again and the second shoulder jerks out of me.

“I see it,” my partner says. “Push and get the upper body out.”

I push and feel the torso slide steadily out of me until it stops at the second shoulders.

“Good,” he says. “It’s half out.”

“I’m half done with the first twin,” I say, a perhaps sardonic tone in my voice. I feel his arms tighten around me.

“Yes,” he says.

Ah, there’s his guilt again. He’d better get over it before the end of my next pregnancy by him. I could never go back to normal-sized deertaur fawns after this.

“Pushing,” I groan. The second shoulders, the foal-fawn hybrid shoulders, begin to stretch me out again. “Ow…” I shift my hooves. “I need to lay down. I’m so tired.”

He helps me lay my massive deer belly down on my side and kneels beside me, supporting my torso upright in his arms. At this angle I can finally see the fawn coming out of me. Hair, so much hair on that head. Cloven hooves, his white socks on the front legs. It stirs slightly in the puddle of birth fluids that have accumulated on the floor. Good—it will be strong. But it’s so big. As I take in the size of my fawn, my foal, I can barely believe that I squeezed any of it out of my body—but it’s still half in me. That’s my proof. Proof that I’m really giving birth to this massive taur.

“It’s coming out of me,” I say. I think I’m a little stunned.

My partner takes my hands and squeezes them. “Push when you’re ready.”

I nod and lean my head back against his chest. “I need to push,” I say after a moment. “I need to push—I’m pushing!”

As much as I want to squeeze my eyes shut against the pain, I also want to see this. I push. I strain against this fawn, grunting and moaning at the back of my throat. My grip on my partner’s hands must be painful, but he bears it. I definitely have it worse right now.

The second set of shoulders erupts out of me, and I yelp with the release of pressure. Fluids gush around the lower body, but it’s still partially in me.

“Do you want me to pull it out?” my partner asks.

“No,” I moan. “I can do it. Let me foal like this.” I squeeze his hands and push.

The rest of the body spills out of me, and with an instinctual kick of its back legs that makes me groan, I fully foal onto the floor of our living room.

I sag in my partner’s arms. “Oh my god,” I pant. “I did it. I foaled. It’s out! Oh my god, it came out of me, I got it out!”

My partner kisses me with a fierce tenderness.

“You pushed out my foal,” he says, his voice ragged. “I’ve been so scared you wouldn’t get it out.”

“Get the fawn,” I say. He gathers pillows and cushions from the couch in a single hand and props me up, and retrieves the foal in his big arms. Honestly, it doesn’t look so big when he’s holding it.

“I see the next set of hooves,” he says while he’s around by my tail. “They’re cloven too. Push, baby.”

“I’m so tired,” I say, my upper body quaking against the pile of pillows.

“I know, baby,” he says. “I didn’t mean to put two in you. It’s almost over, you just have to get this one out.”

I push half-heartedly, but I’m surprised when I feel the hooves begin to emerge. “It’s coming already,” I gasp.

“You’re very stretched out,” my partner admits.

I push harder and see the tips of the cloven hooves between my legs. “Oh! It’s coming!” I reach for my partner. “Hold me! Hold me! I need to foal again!”

He shuffles back up to me, juggling our newborn fawn in one arm while he wraps the other around my shoulders and holds my hand. I grip his wrist with my other hand and squeeze hard.

“It’s coming—it’s! It’s..! Oh god!” I give in to the overwhelming urge to push, and my second foal’s legs slide out of me. And out of me. And continue stretching out between my legs, growing thicker as the head and shoulders approach. “Ohhhh it hurts. It hurts! Hold me! Oh god!”

I bear down, my half-empty belly tight and hard. My pussy begins to bulge, and open, and I see hair. I didn’t get to see myself crown the first time.

“It’s huge!” I scream. “Oh god—I have to crown! I…I…I’m crowning! Hold me! I’m crowningggggg.”

My pussy opens and stretches tight over the head, growing wider and wider as I push. The ring of fire burns through me as I watch.

“Push!” my partner says. “Push hard!”

“Oh god! It’s coming out! Aaaughhhhhhh—“ The head reaches its full crown, stretching me obscenely. I hold the pressure, moaning through the agony. Almost, almost…

The head pops free and I scream at the release.

“Oh! Ohhhh that hurt so bad!” I cry, my back legs shaking. I’m glad I’m already lying down. The head between my legs is equally as big as the first foal.

“Can you get the first shoulders? Or do you want me to pull?”

“I can do it,” I whimper. “Don’t help me.” The next contraction washes over me and I push, eyes fixed on my oncoming foal. I stretch around the shoulders, and it’s painful, but the head was worse. One shoulder. Two shoulders. I fall back against my partner, panting. I pant through the next contraction and am rewarded when the foal begins inching forward on its own. So I pant. My partner holds me tight and I pant his foal’s upper torso out slowly over the next twenty minutes. I pant a little longer, but I know what I have to do.

“I need to push.”

“Second shoulders?”

I nod wordlessly and shift slightly, trying to get comfortable. But that’s impossible with a foal half-born out of my body. I finally collapse back against my partner’s chest and just push.

“Oh…ohhhh,” I moan. “This is it. I’m about to foal. It’s coming, it’s coming! Oh my god, it hurts so bad! OhhhhhHHHHHHHHH!”

The second shoulders lurch out of me, and with a rush of fluids the rest of my fawn is born on the floor where its twin just came out.

“Yes!” I shriek. “Oh, fuck! I did it! Oh my god—they’re out!”

My partner cleans the foals and helps me into the shower, where I labor on the placenta. It’s painful—I’m raw, and the placenta is nearly the size of any given fawn from my previous pregnancies. My partner holds my hand tight during my final moments of pushing and screaming until I give birth to it.

As my contractions fade away, I begin to scheme about how soon I can get my partner to breed me again. I want to be pushing out a new foal when these two are barely yearlings.

It’s all I’ve thought about for a year. Begging to be bred over and over, then once I was pregnant, begging to be fucked every day until I couldn’t think. It’s much too late for second thoughts, but I am having them, and I’m also having a centaur foal.

I double over again and clutch my stud’s hairy arm. It hurts so bad that I can’t even make a sound. A tremendous pressure builds inside me but I’m locked in place. I don’t know what to do.

“I need to push,” I finally gasp. “I need to push really, really bad.”

My stud lays a hand on my shoulder and gives me a little shake. “Then do it! Push, boy!”

I dig my fingers into his arm and push. It’s indescribable. The foal’s bony front legs are being pressed into the sides of my sensitive birth canal by a head bigger than a bowling ball. Oh god. It will never get through my pelvis. My body forces me to push again before I can panic. I think the hooves are inching further out—I can’t tell. But it hurts. Oh god, it hurts. Every cell in my body below the chest is ripping apart in agony as I strain.

“No,” I wheeze, under my breath. “No, no, no, no—“

My stud lies belly-down beside me and leans me against his broad back. I drop my hands into his coat, and I’m at just the right height to half-sit there in a partial squat.

“Good boy,” my stud tells me. His upper body is turned at an angle so he can hold onto my shoulder. “Foal for me, just like that.”

“It hurts,” I whimper. “It hurts so bad. Oh—oh! Ohhhhh!” And I push. In this half-squat the head finally begins to make progress and I feel it squeezing through me. The front legs emerge a little further, and one of them gives a little kick. I give a half-scream, half-laugh.

“What was that?”

“You’re birthing a strong foal,” my stud says proudly. “I’m glad I bred you. You were built for this.”

I take a deep breath, tuck my chin to my chest, and push. The head begins to peek at my opening, I can feel the stretch continuing the job where the massive hooves left off. It starts to burn, hot and growing hotter.

“Ow ow ow owww, it huuurtsss!” I screech.

My stud squeezes my shoulder. “Good boy, you’re starting to crown.”

“It hurts! I don’t want this anymore! Oh my god, oh my god, make it stop!”

My stud shakes me roughly by the shoulder and bends me painfully over my belly. “Push, boy!”

I cry, and push. And I keep pushing. After every contraction my stud lets me sit up to take a breath, but when the contraction returns he bends me over again to put pressure on my womb. I don’t know if it’s helping. I don’t know if anything is helping.

“It’s too much,” I wail. “I’m going to die! We should not have done this!”

“Be quiet, boy, and push,” my stud grunts. “You’re at the widest part of the crown.”

That snaps me back into focus. “I am?” I ask shakily. It’s almost over!

“Yes. Push.”

I slide off of my stud’s back and squat deeply on the forest floor, pushing hard. Nothing. I push again. Nothing.

“No, no,” I start saying again. “It’s stuck—it’s stuck!”

I break out into sobs, and my stud catches me before I can collapse. He stands up with me, my legs bowed out around the bulge of the head, my feet well above the ground.

“You’ll give birth with gravity,” he says. He pushes his muscled front against my back and pries open my legs until I’m sitting wide on nothing—the air. The crown of the head and front legs.

“The foal,” I sob. “Don’t let the foal fall!”

“You’re nowhere near pushing it out,” he says, almost exasperated.

In a haze, I remember some of his stallions have foaled standing up, and the hardy foals hit the ground in the birthing pen without injury. I start pushing again, praying gravity will ally with me.

It does. Moment by moment, I feel the head coming. I take a deep breath and heave hard, and finally crown out the head with a spurt of fluids.

“Yes!” I scream as it happens, and the pressure release instantly arouses me. “Oh my god,” I gasp. “I need to cum.”

“Good boy,” my stud says. “Push on the shoulders, you’ll cum soon.”

“The baby hasn’t turned,” I say. But my arousal begs me to push at his behest.

“It’s not a baby,” he says. “It’s a foal. You don’t have the space for it to turn with its second body still curled in your womb.”

I’m incredulous. “No…no! It’s gonna hurt so bad! That’s like—that’s like crowning again!”

“Do you want me to pull it out?”

I didn’t. I’d had to pull only one foal from its struggling stallion, but his screams were unforgettable. His centaur cunt had much more room to stretch and maneuver and even for him the pain I inflicted while helping him was excruciating. So I shook my head.

“Okay. Then be a good boy and push. Push on my foal.”

I shiver, half from arousal and half from the fear of pain. Then I put both hands on top of my belly and press down, and push.

It’s worse than crowning the head. But the harder I push, the closer I feel to cumming. I lean into that feeling and try to let the pain drop away. It doesn’t, it still hurts, but my orgasm is building.

“Oh…ohhhh,” I moan.

“Good boy,” my stud whispers in my ear. “You’re a good boy, pushing on such a big foal. I know it hurts but it’s almost over. The upper body is almost out.”

I focus on his voice, and the stretch. “It’s coming,” I whimper. “It’s coming…ohhhh…ohhhhh. OHH. OHHHHH—AH!”

One shoulder lurches out of me. I don’t cum. I need to cum so bad—I need to foal so bad. I bear down again and cry out as the other shoulder pops out.

“Ow! Oh fuck!” I say. “Fuck—fuck, it’s coming out! OHHHHH.” I push hard and the body slides out of me to the waist. “It’s almost out, it’s almost out!”

“Not yet,” my stud says. “You still have to foal the lower body. Crown the second shoulders now.”

Fuck. “Fuck!” I scream. “I can’t! I can’t do this anymore! I need to cum, I need it to come out!” A painful contraction takes hold of me and I push against my will. The shoulders, the horse shoulders, press hard against the inside of my lips. I’m going to split open. The pressure of my foal and my blocked orgasm is painful, I’m overstimulated and I need release.

“Make it stop! We shouldn’t have done this—oh god, oh god, I need to puuuuuush.”

My stud holds me tightly as I bear down on his foal, half out of me already. The second shoulders burn in the ring of fire, worse than the head, worse than the first shoulders. I can’t stop pushing. I can’t, I can’t—

The second shoulders pop out of me and I cum, and birth out our foal onto the forest floor. I spasm with aftershocks as I stare past my now-deflated belly at the massive centaur foal shifting in the leaves below me.

“It’s out! Oh my god—it’s out!”

My stud lays me down carefully and picks up the foal to clean it. I’ve seen him with his other foals, and maybe I’m biased, but I think he’s regarding my foal with even more pride than his others. I just lay there catching my breath until I can finally say,

When I stop pushing, the stretch is so bad that I keep screaming. The young man near me screams louder, though, and I look and see that he’s at the widest part of the head of his firstborn. Push, baby, push, I think doggedly to myself—but I can’t say it out loud. To help him or even encourage him would make him lesser in the eyes of whichever bull here knocked him up.

I feel my belly contracting again and I push, but my eyes are on the emerging head of the young man’s calf. His cunt is stretched beyond its limits. Push, baby. Push hard. The first calf is always the worst. The others will come out easier after one calving. I know it hurts, baby, it’s a big calf. Push.

And he does push, and the head comes rocketing out of him. At the same moment I push hard and my calf’s head comes out, and I moan as I cum hard, bucking my hips and squirting. Fuck. He has collapsed on his side, panting and sobbing. But there’s no relief. I see the calf begin to turn until the broad shoulders are pressed up tight against the inside of his lips, and his body bears down against his will.

“No! No!” he screams. “No—ghnnnnNNNNRAAAAA.”

The primal sound come with the emergence of one shoulder. Push, baby. You’re almost there. I know it hurts, push.

“I’m calving!” he shrieks. “Oh god, I’m calving! It’s coming, it’s coming, oh god, oh god, OH GOOOODNGHHHHHHHH!”

The second shoulder lurches out of him and he calves his firstborn completely and cums, curling over his belly as he squirts and screams, his ruined hole pulsing. Good boy. My calf turns inside me and I bear down, working through the pressure on the first push, delivering a shoulder on the second push, and finally turning my gaze back to my husband as I bear down a third time. Our eyes lock as I push, and with a heady release of pressure I birth out his calf into the world.

He nods.

It’s all the approval he’s allowed to give me. It’s all the approval I need. It’s also the only approval I have time for, as the second calf rushes to take its place in my birth canal.

I keep my husband’s gaze and push, teeth gritted, panting harshly through my nose. He’s the one to break the staring contest—so that he can look at my cunt as his second calf begins to open me up.

The young man is moaning again, still lying on his side. He’s giving half-hearted pushes on his next calf.

The pressure and burn of my next crowning takes my attention. I give a long, hard push, grunting through the pain. I can feel myself building, so I reach around my huge belly to touch my tdick. I stroke myself between contractions, and as the new contraction builds I push again, and cum my entire second calf out of me with an animalistic sound. The third is right behind it, and I calve again in the orgasmic aftershocks.

Next to me, the young man is still crowning his second calf, whimpering with each push. He’s too tired.

I struggle to my feet, my cunt leaking birth fluids and cum, and I wobble to the fence nearest the young man. He looks up at me, his forehead gleaming with sweat and his eyes hollow. I nod to him and grip the fence, then drop into a low squat to push. My fourth calf emerges to a full crown while he watches.

I hear my husband snort behind me on the other side of the birthing pen. He knows what I’m doing, but I haven’t spoken to or touched the young man. In the public pen, newcomers learn by watching the birth techniques of more experienced men. I haven’t done anything wrong.

The young man pulls himself onto his hands and knees with a little sob, his eyes fixed on my bulging hole. He grips the fence with a shaking hand and rises up on unsteady legs. I stand up beside him, legs spread, and then squat in unison with him.

“Oh god,” he moans. “It hurts so bad…nghhhh—“

Our bulls aren’t close by, and the cries of other laboring men will drown out a quiet voice.

“Push, baby,” I finally whisper aloud. “Push for me.”

He tucks his chin down and obeys me, straining on his second ever calf. What did that feel like for me, that first calving season? The three huge calfs I squeezed out of me? It took me hours of pushing.

“Good boy,” I murmur soothingly. “The first calf is the worst. It’ll always be easier now.”

“It hurts,” he says, and his voice isn’t so quiet, but he’s been screaming this entire time so I know nobody will take any notice.

I groan as my body pushes for me. “Ah! Ah—“ I deliver the calf’s head, and the shoulders press up against the inside of my lips. “Nghh…take a deep breath and push, ten seconds. Don’t stop.”

He pulls in a breath and squats, his belly pulled taut. I squat beside him. Nine, eight, seven—I calve and cum, gentle this time. I roll my hips slowly to ride out my orgasm. The young man reaches his ten seconds and gasps for air.

“Fuck! Fuck!”

“Feel between your legs, baby,” I whisper. “That’s your calf. You’re at the widest part of the crown, you’re about to calve. Ten seconds, push.”

He squats and bears down, but he can only hold his breath for half the time before he opens his mouth in a scream. His calf inches out of him, and with a sudden release he fully crowns the head and the rest of the calf comes out all at once. His belly heaves and he cums, hips bucking wildly, his head thrown back in ecstasy.

“Fuck! Fuck!”

“Good boy,” I say while he screams, hiding a smile. Then I moan and drop down low to push. I’m not done yet.

Neither is he, and his body is pushing on its own while he basks in the haze of his orgasm. His twitching cunt is already bulging with the next calf.

I push out two more calfs before he’s calved his third, and my belly is still huge. So is his. Two more for each of us, probably.

But both of us realize at about the same moment that we’re on our final calfs, and they’re both huge.

“Oh god,” he cries. “It’s too big. I can’t do it!”

My calf is squeezing slowly through my cervix while I pant. It burns, still deep inside me, not even beginning to make an appearance at my entrance.

“Oh, honey,” I whisper. “It’s huge. They’re both huge.”

“Does it hurt?” he whimpers.

“Yes,” I say, inhaling sharply through my teeth. “Push with me.”

We squat side by side, gripping the fence like it’s our last tether to life. I think he gets to the point where the shoulders are making their way through his cervix inside him when he starts wailing.

“It hurts! Oh god! It huuuuuurts—“

The burn is rising inside me, and I can’t stay quiet any longer. I dip my head between my shoulders and groan, loud and long, sounding for all the world like a calving minotaur instead of a laboring man. Blood is rushing in my ears, and I can hear the young man’s screams as if from a great distance. I can’t help him or encourage him anymore. We’re both alone, straining to deliver enormous calfs for our bulls.

A ring of agony grows between my legs. It’s beginning to crown. I press into the pain, there’s no other way—the pressure mounts and I can’t remember ever delivering a calf this huge. My cunt keeps stretching around it, and every second I know I’m at the widest part of the head only to realize that the stretch is still mounting. I’m not breathing, I think. I may be screaming, or holding my breath, but I’m not breathing in. I’m only pushing into the crown.

Suddenly I’m past the widest point. Unlike my other calfs today, this one’s head doesn’t come fully out all at once. I just know the pressure is easing, and I keep pushing as the head slowly slides out. I reach between my legs and let out a startled cry. The head is bigger than any newborn calf, I could almost guess this was a three month old coming out of me.

Suddenly my husband is in front of me, on the other side of the fence. He’s crouched low, looking into my eyes. With the head of his calf dangling out of me, the long crowning over, I have the wherewithal to realize there’s a spark of concern in my husband’s brown eyes. At his side is a young bull, crouched too, and holding the young man’s hands through the fence. The young man isn’t screaming anymore, his face is just a twisted, silent mask of pain as he pushes.

“It’s big,” my husband whispers. “They’re both big.”

“We can do this,” I moan, my tongue thick, my voice barely coherent. “We can do this.”

My husband nods and doesn’t touch me, but he doesn’t get up from his crouch, either.

I carefully let go of the fence and shuffle behind the young man. His opening is bulging obscenely as he struggles to crown a calf at least as big as the one hanging out of me—maybe bigger. I moan as I settle into a kneeling position.

“Okay, baby,” I say, and rub the young man’s lower back. “Your bull put a big calf in you. Let’s get it out.”

I press two fingers at the base of his stretched opening and he lets out a strangled cry.

“I’m not gonna let you tear,” I say. My breath hiccups as a contraction ripples through me and I give an instinctive push. But I stop—the shoulders haven’t rotated yet. It won’t come out. I have to let this happen. “Oooof. Okay, baby, push where you feel my fingers. On my mark, take a deep breath, push for 10 seconds. Okay, deep breath—and go.”

The young man inhales and tenses his entire body. Everything he has is being used to crown his calf. Ten, nine, eight. His calf is moving, slowly. He’s stretching wider. Five, four, three, two—

He gasps for air. “It hurts! Get it out! Get it out of me!”

“You’re getting it out,” I say, rubbing his back with my free hand. “You’re doing it. Deep breath, push.”

He tamps down a scream and does what I say. While he’s pushing, I feel my calf begin to turn. The new stretch of the shoulders is burning at my opening, and my eyes water. Fuck…

“Get it out! I can’t do it!”

“Good boy,” I whisper, trying not to push. “Good boy,” I say louder. “You’re almost there. Deep breath and push!”

He sucks air into his lungs and bears down, but a deep low rumbles through his chest. I realize with sudden clarity that if he can get through this, he will be highly prized, even with my help and the tender touch of his young bull through the fence. He’s perfect for this.

“Push, baby,” I murmur, eyes fixed on the head of his calf. Its size is unbelievable as it slowly emerges. “Don’t stop, take another deep breath and push.”

He does it, every muscle in his body taut and glistening. The head is slowly crowning, crowning…

“Aughhhh!” he wails, and the head is out.

I gasp. Both our bulls gasp. I hear other gasps too, and glance around. Others are watching, even the veteran from earlier who was calving on my other side. He’s done, I realize—his afterbirth is on the ground at his feet—but he hasn’t left the pen. He’s staring along with the rest of us at the massive head the young man has just birthed out.

“Fuck! It’s out!” the young man says. He turns to look at his calf on the ground, but as he shifts he feels the head between his legs. “What?”

“That was just the head,” I say, shakily. The urge to push is strong but I’m focused on him right now.

“What?” he whimpers, and I see tears forming in his eyes. “No…no! I can’t push it out! It’s too big, the head nearly killed me! I can’t! I can’t!”

I look at my husband. “Hold him.”

My husband loops a strong arm under the young man’s armpit and gestures to the young bull to do the same. Together they pin him to the fence in a half-squat, facing me.

“No!” he screams. “No, it hurts! I can’t!”

His belly tightens with another contraction, and I place my hands carefully but firmly around his calf’s neck.

“Be a good boy,” I say. “Push hard.”

“No! No! Aughhhh—“ But he can’t stop the inevitable. He pushes, and I begin to pry and pull on his calf while he screams. And while I pull, my body does the inevitable too, and pushes.

The shoulders hurt so fucking bad. I realize I’m screaming, delivering and helping to deliver. We push and scream, and I pull.

I jerk back as the young man calves into my arms, and as I fall back with his calf, my body spasms and my calf drops out of me.

Our two bulls swarm into the birthing pen, no longer heeding any semblance of the rules. My husband props me up to get a look at me, and the young man’s bull pulls him into his arms and holds him while he delivers the afterbirth. I push out my afterbirth a few moments later.

Their body is designed to lay quickly. Half a day of laboring, an hour of pushing and you've got a clutch. But with their eggs three or four times bigger than they should be that timeline is simply impossible. They dread those first contractions. Once they start they are trapped in a horrible storm as their body shoves the first egg down brutally hard and fast. The pressure in their hips increases ten fold. They squawk and cry, paralyzed by the intensity and trying desperately to find a position that will ease some of the pressure.

It's not long before the tip of the first egg begins to press down through their cloaca. This is when the real trouble starts. They are gripped with the urge to push. The first push begins to stretch their hole, the heavy egg bulging out the skin between their legs, the very tip visible just inside. But there is not enough space. Two, maybe three pushes should be enough for a regular egg. But their egg is so, so big. It gets stuck almost immediately. A few desperate pushes might bring it down just a bit more, enough than the stretch of their cloaca really starts to sting. But then it lodges itself and won't budge no matter how much they push.

No matter how many times they're forced to do this they are always gripped with horrible panic when they realize the egg won't move. The pain of contractions, the spasming of their stretched hole, the mind numbing pressure, all make it impossible to think. They'll thrash and scream, crying that it's stuck! It's stuck! Oh god please, it won't come! By now they know to have a healer on hand. But during their first lay they cried alone for hours, sure they were going to die.

There isn't actually much the healer can do. The bird-folk must now go through a horrible process of slow stretching. The healer takes some oil and rubs it around the rim of their hole, gently stretching the already taught skin, trying to work them open. They moan as their tortured hole is stretched. The burn is constant and terrible and they feel like they could rip open at any second. The healer stretches them and then they are forced to stand on shaking legs and hobble back and forth, bowlegged around their crowning egg. They shift their hips as best they can, trying to work the egg down. They are still beset by contractions and every few the urge to push becomes too great and they have to squat down and push. On every fourth or fifth push the egg will inch out the slightest bit more.

The progress is glacial and agonizing. They are trapped in a desperate cycle. Once they collapse from exhaustion the healer applies more oil, wedging their finger in alongside the egg and making them stretch. Then after a fruitless push or two they are dragged back to their feet. They rock and sway and squat intermittently, pushing and crying, until their legs give out once again and they slump to the ground in an exhausted heap. Then the healer approaches with more oil.

This goes on for hour after miserable hour. Slowly the egg crowns out of their tortured cloaca. The liberal application of oil and constant stretching protects them from tearing but the burn is indescribable. They are stretched so tight around something much bigger than it should be. At a certain point they go numb, their nerves unable to keep up with the stretch.

It's usually at that point that they break down completely, going limp and weeping, saying the egg will never come out, just leave them, they're too tired to push anymore. Every time they're sure this is it, it's over. They just want the pressure and the pain to end but their will is completely broken. The healer lets them cry and writhe through several contractions then hauls them up on their hands and knees, forces some water down their throat, and tells them to get pushing. It's hard but they've done it every year and this won't be the year they die on the healer's watch. Still crying and hiccuping miserably they bear down and push again.

By the next day they are usually close to the widest part of the egg. The end is in sight but still so far away. The cycles of oil, stretching, and pushing have gotten shorter and shorter. They are no longer able to stand, the egg forcing their legs too wide. It looks obscene sticking out of their hole, taking up the entire space between their legs. They alternate between squatting and rocking back and forth on their hands and knees. By now they are in a kind of trance-like state. Their world shrunk down to just the giant egg holding them brutally open. They emit a constant quiet lowing, their broken voice peaking in distress with every push.

Finally after one push they feel it, on instinct they know that one more push will get them past the widest point. They suck in a breath and push with every desperate ounce of strength left in their exhausted body. The egg moves. The pressure gives. In an almost orgasmic gush the egg bursts through and slides out of their spasming hole. They slump to the ground and sob in relief.

They get maybe an hour of rest. Then the pains return and their body starts working the next giant egg down to their hole. They're stretched now so this one will not take quite as long but they still have hours more of pushing ahead. And after that two more eggs lie in wait.