Looking Down At Your Stomach And Clearly Seeing Something Move In There, But When It Presses Against

This is me in bed, writhing in pain. Can you help me keep my legs open so I can push?!

Please? Oh GOD I NEED TO PUSH! AUUUUH!

Don't mind me just thinking about the thought of sitting in a dark movie theater as I feel the head of a baby starting to push against my jeans.

I regret to inform every breeder reading this that there is a worldwide outbreak of rapid pregnancy. Stop what you are doing! Get inside as soon as possible! The longer you stay exposed the more you are at risk! Please share with others!

Hmmmm.....what should my next spontaneous pregnancy and birth be 🤔?

How far along am I?

“OH!! OH GOD!!! I’M GIVING BIRTH!! ”

Too Many Babies, Too Much Movement

My belly is a dense mass of misshapen flesh distending from my lap, its roundness deformed with the bulges, valleys, and plains across its surface that are caused by baby bodies and heads pressing against it. It towers over me, my own fearsome fertility glaring down at me, the hideous pressure inside from seven, eight, maybe more, fetuses making me moan pitifully.

Then the babies move.

I can’t withhold a wail of agony as my massive abdomen begins to churn visibly on my lap, the sound one of horror as much as it is one of pain. My belly is churning, the flesh undulating in front of me, my mass of unborn children writhing in a pile inside me. My uterus bulges, feet and heads and hands distorting the already deformed surface of my flesh with their movements, the entire mass alive with eager internal activity.

I’m moaning constantly, a pitiful and helpless cry of despair and agony emanating from my throat like a siren. My entire body had been colonized by these babies, my breasts engorged for their milk, my hips widened for their birth, my poor belly blown up and out and destroyed for their gestation. I know that after they’re born I will never look the same, I will be forever transformed by the incredible pregnancy I’ve been made to endure.

The babies won’t stop. It feels like I’m going to pop. There are so many packed in there, the babies piled on top of each other, squirming and kicking against each other, that my belly is warping grotesquely as it leers down at me. My voice is a guttural groan, throaty and coarse as my mind reels at the thought of being ripped open. My skin burns, already stretched way beyond its limit and aching terribly as my children torture it further with their aggressive movements. Desperately, I reach up and grab whatever painful bulges jutting out from my mound that I can reach, trying to push the babies’ limbs and heads back inside me, my belly so large that I can’t reach the softball-sized protrusions at the top of my womb.

My belly jerks in my arms, the entire mass heaving from side to side as if trying to escape from my grasp. My breasts, painfully engorged and massively enlarged, are pressed up into my face and threaten to smother me. I feel wetness trailing down the impressive curves of my tits and the front downward slope of my belly, and I know it’s because the pressure has caused my nipples to gush milk from their enormous supply.

I want to give birth. I want to get them out. But I can’t. They’re not done growing. They need to be bigger.

It’s my fate to my taken over by babies. I am a slave to pregnancy.