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birthanon · 2 months ago

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Birth Ordinance

The following story contains: explicit birth, birth denial, twin birth, and enough information about Mormon temples they'd be upset with me. But hey, it was my experience too and I have every right to it. Some creative liberties were taken with the temple stuff. It's my first attempt at sharing something like this. So I'm happy to get feedback.

Story behind cut:

Mariah groaned, reaching down and wrapping around her large stomach as the car went over a bump and into the Mormon Temple’s parking lot. Her husband, Mathew, glanced over.

“Almost there, honey,” he said. “Just keep breathing, and soon God will bless us with a pair of new children.”

The latest contraction eased, and Mariah eased back into her seat, breathing hard as her stomach visibly relaxed under her hand. The new prophet, President Oaks, had revealed that there was a new covenant and ritual that women had to participate in during the birth of their children. It was still new enough Mariah didn’t know anyone who had participated in it, but the prophet spoke for god so she and her family would obey. Surely a birth (or two) in God’s house surrounded by holy men would be far more blessed than a birth in a hospital surrounded by doctors who had been corrupted by fake-science like vaccines, gender ideology, dinosaurs, and other such satanic lies.

The car came to a stop, and Mathew got out, dressed in his nice suit. Then he came around and opened the door for Mariah. As she stood, another contraction seized her. She clutched the door handle and moaned through the pain, curling in on her stomach instinctively.

“Come on, hon,” Mathew said, grabbing her hand. “We’re gonna be late.” Then he pulled, dragging her up out of the car with zero warning.

Mariah stumbled, still mid-contraction. Her back screamed as it took on the weight of her twins. Mathew managed to catch her, as her legs gave out, keeping her from face planting in the temple parking lot.

“Woah careful there,” Mathew said, smiling, completely oblivious. He did however stay long enough for the contraction to end and for Mariah to get her footing back. The shoes she wore had a slight heel to them. She thought it wouldn’t matter too much, and she didn’t have anything completely flat that was nice enough for the temple, but the way her hips ached, she already fiercely regretted her choice. Even more so when she looked up and saw just how far away the temple was. Her husband had parked in the furthest parking stall from the main doors.

“Go ahead and start walking,” Mathew said, “I’ll grab our temple bags.”

With a sigh, Mariah began the trek, pressing one hand to her back to counteract the growing pain there. Everything felt strange down below, both open and tight at once, her hips oddly shaky, which led to a distinct waddle in her walk. It took almost no time at all for Mathew to catch up to her, both temple bags slung over his shoulder.

They made it to the temple doors without further issue, the massive white building standing out starkly against the blue sky, stain glass windows gleaming. A patron exiting opened the door for them, smiling and greeting them. Then their eyes strayed to Mariah’s belly. “Congratulations,” the man said. “Are you excited about the new revelation from our prophet?”

“We are so lucky to be some of the first to experience it,” Mathew replied, proudly resting his hand on Mariah’s belly.

Mariah didn’t say anything, anxiety twisting in her chest. She just wished she knew what she was getting into. Neither man noticed her silence however, and exchange a few more quick pleasantries before they continued inside.

Once inside, both Mathew and Mariah produced their temple recommends from their wallets, then Mariah produced her special recommend for a live ordinance, given to her after extensive interviews with both her bishop and her stake president to prove she was worthy. Another contraction came as they checked over her paperwork. She grabbed onto the desk, circling her hips and breathing hard, feeling the pressure increase.

“Has your water broken yet?” the man at the desk asked.

Mariah shook her head, unable to say much else in the midst of the contraction.

Mathew answered for her. “She’s been having regular contractions for the past two hours, one minute on, four minutes off. We’ve come as instructed. And we called ahead.”

“Yes, yes,” the desk worker said, then he handed her a little piece of paper and a pin. “We’ve got your guide waiting for you. Just put this on and head into the main room. She’ll meet you inside.”

Gratefully, Mariah took the paper and pinned it onto her dress with shaking hands, then she and Mathew headed past the white wall of the reception area and into the main temple area. Green plants and pastel green and gold couches lined the walls and filled the center space of the area. A woman and man saw her name tag and came over, shaking both Mathew and Mariah’s hand, and introducing themselves as Sister and Brother Wallace.

Mathew handed Mariah her temple bag, and then was swept away to the men’s changing room by Brother Wallace, leaving Mariah with Sister Wallace, who led her to the other side of the foyer where the sister’s dressing room was.

“We’ve already set aside one of the larger dressing rooms for you,” Sister Wallace said. “There will be a white jumpsuit in there. Put it on, just like if you were getting ready for a baptism for the dead. Then I’ll take you into an instructional room for a short video.”

Mariah nodded, and entered into her dressing room. Though it was definitely larger than the normal stalls, it was still small, barely enough room for her to move around with her massive stomach. She had just enough to to place her bag on a small wooden bench that protruded from the metal doors before another contraction hit. She hissed and groaned, working through it. Once it was through, she awkwardly reached down grabbed the hem of her dress which was significantly closer to her fingers than it would have been pre pregnancy, and dragged it up over her massive belly. It was a bit of a struggle, but soon it was off. Next went her wired bra and her white pregnancy garments, which were soaked with sweat.

Not caring much, she threw the clothes and her old shoes in a locker, then began the momentous task of putting on the silky zip-up garments which barely fit over her massive belly, the tiny sports bra that did very little to contain her leaking breasts, and a large zip up jumper than definitely was not made for a pregnant woman. She barely got the zipper up half her chest, leaving the white undergarments visible. As she sat down to put on the grippy socks, breathing heavily from the effort of changing clothes, another contraction took her she groaned, practically collapsing the rest of the way onto the little wooden bench. The unyielding solidness pressed against her privates which felt much more exposed in the tight white jumpsuit, zipper straining.

Sister Wallace knocked midway through the contraction, asking if she needed any help. Once the contraction released her, Mariah leaned over awkwardly and undid the latch. No way she was getting on those stupid socks without help, not in her condition. Wallace helped her easily enough, getting the soaks on her swollen feet, then helped her up.

The instruction room wasn’t far, and she was sat down in a cushy chair, Wallace at her side, and a video of the prophet showed up. “In order to ensure our families our celestial, God has revealed a plan for his children. As the child is being birthed, the mother will go through each of the ordinances on the path to the celestial kingdom, doing them in proxy for their child. That way, no matter what path the child takes in life, they will already have their work done for them. It is like baptisms for the dead, but for those who have not yet come into this world.”

Mariah stared as yet another contraction hit, the pressure building. The heavy ball of her first child’s head sitting in her hips. All the ordinances? But the baby was coming soon, and that would take hours!

“Best get a move on then, right?” the sister said.

The elevator was broken, so they had to take the stairs down to the font. Midway down another contraction hit, and Mariah was caught with legs on separate stairs, clinging to the bronze railing for dear life as the pressure mounted, and mounted and mounted. She needed to push, she realized suddenly. But no, that couldn’t be right. Her water hadn’t broken yet. And she had to get through these ordinances so her children would make it to heaven with her!

Mariah gasped in relief as the wave of pain eased away. Already her white suit was near-see through with sweat in some areas. But Wallace didn’t seem to mind, she just grabbed Mariah’s arm and helped her hobble awkwardly down the rest of the stairs, her legs forced just a bit further apart than they had been earlier.

Teens waiting to be baptized stared openly as Mariah hobbled down the hall, one hand on her back, the other trying to support her massive twin stomach. They walked into the main font, a white pool on top of twelve golden oxen, the air heavy with the scent of chlorine, then waited for the teen who was currently being dunked to finish their set of baptisms. Mathew was already waiting on the other side, dressed in a similar white jumpsuit. He smiled and waved, his escort at his side as well. Once the teen finished, him and his adult baptizer exited the font and were handed fluffy white towels, then Mariah and Mathew entered.

The water was warm, a welcome relief to her straining body, and Mariah couldn’t help but groan in relief as Mathew walked her to the center of the pool. He took her wrist in his hand, holding her hand up by her face, then held his right hand to a square behind her. “Sister Johnson,” he prayed. “Having been commissioned by Jesus Christ, I baptize you for and behalf of, Nephi Johnson, who is not yet born, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen.”

In the midst of his prayer, another contraction wrapped its way around her belly. As he put his hand to her back and pressed her down into the water, the pain and pressure mounted. She tried to scream with the pain, but water flooded into her mouth. Down, down, deeper into the water, as her husband tried to get her whole massive body completely submerged. Then she was up again, spitting up water, ears ringing, barely aware her husband was saying the prayer again, until she was plunged unsuspectingly back into the water.

As her knees bent, something popped inside her, and the pressure was gone. She came back up spluttering, wiped away the stinging chlorine from her eyes and stared down at the red tendrils spread from her into the holy water.

She blushed, but Mathew didn’t seem to notice. He pulled her to him instead, then helped her back out of the font. The stairs were slippery. A towel was wrapped around her as the cool air made her tremble in her wet clothes.

Then she found herself in a shower, her legs spread, panting, struggling to get her white jumpsuit off while the shower spread the chlorine off of her. She managed to get the zipper undone with shaking hands, but she couldn’t get the fabric off her hips without closing her legs, and that just didn’t seem possible. Groaning with the effort, she put her legs together despite her body screaming at her, and pushed the suit down. Then came the too small bra, which clung to her chest, and then the zip up garments, which present similar problems. Once they were down around her feet, she eased down, groaning as her necked butt rested on the plastic shower seat, to try and kick her clothes off the rest of the way.

As she curled forward to try and get them off, another contraction struck. She groaned panting, trying to spread her legs to give the baby’s massive head room, but couldn’t. Her feet were caught by the restrictive material bound around them. She panicked, reaching blindly downward, kicking frantically, trying to get a leg free, because she needed her legs free.

Finally a leg slipped free, and she eagerly spread her legs, pushing hard as the contraction ebbed, thankful for the warmth of the shower water dripping over her. Perhaps I should just stay and birth in here, she thought as the water cleansed her sweat. But no, she had to follow through. Had to make sure her children were saved.

Heaving herself to her feet she grabbed her towel from her hook, did her best to dry herself off, then tried to wrap it around her. It was made for teenagers, so it wasn’t the best modesty shield for a full grown, very pregnant woman, but she got the important parts covered. Barely.

Sister Wallace met her outside the shower, all smiles, and handed her a white poncho. “This is a shield,” she said. “We’ve brought it back for innititories, go ahead and put it on.”

On the plus side, it was just a giant rectangle with a hole in the head, incredibly easy to put on compared to the earlier clothes, on the other hand, Mariah was left nearly completely exposed, the fabric hanging down only to mid-thigh in the front because of her massive belly, and left completely open on the sides.

Those attired, with shaking legs, she was led into a room and told to sit down in a chair. Mathew and Brother Wallace awaited her, they placed their hands on her head as another contraction began and began the confirmation prayer. Mariah tried not to moan as her legs spread apart, her massive belly sinking between them, covering her parts as her clothes seemed to do very little of that. She couldn’t help but push, and felt the massive baby within move further down. The contraction let up, then another came, and she pushed with it again, trying to stay quite so she wouldn’t disrupt the prayer.

Gosh, the baby was right there, right between her legs. It needed to be born. But she’d been grabbed by the arm and yanked to her feet before she could fully process the change. “Hurry now,” Sister Wallace said.

Practically naked, she was led through the temple, and back to the stairs. “No,” she moaned, leaning forward as another contraction started and she felt her nethers begin to sting. Her hand shot to her pussy, although she wasn’t sure if her intention was to support the baby or hold it in.

The contraction ended before she had to make up her mind, the stinging easing as the baby slipped back inside.

“It’s coming,” Mariah moaned.

Sister Wallace frowned. “Hold it in, or it will never be able to be in the celestial kingdom with you.”

Nodding, Mariah steeled herself, staring up at the spiral staircase. She’d do this.

Up and up she went, one stair at a time. Each time her leg went up and separated to reach the next step, she could feel the sting of the baby settling against her holds, then she’d bring her feet together and the stinging would ease. One contraction stopped her midway up, and she breathed hard. Do not push, do not push, she chanted to herself, as she pressed her hand against the head, supporting it, keeping it inside.

The top of the stairs opened to the women’s locker room, and inside that the initiatory. Another sister met her inside a curtain and told her to sit in the small waiting chair. Wish shaking legs, she sat, purposely tilting her pelvis so the chair put counter pressure on her baby, keeping it inside. Her hand when she finally pulled it away, was wet.

“Sister, having authority, I wash you preparatory to receiving your anointings for and behalf of Nephi Johnson, who is yet to be born, that youmay become clean from the sins of this generation,” the sister in this room said. Then with wet hands she placed her hand on Mariah’s head, blessing it, then her ears, then her eyes, then her nose, then her lips. A strange game of reverse head, shoulders knees and toes, each body part its own blessing.

“Your neck, that it may bear up your head properly,” the woman said, then she reached down inside the shield, resting her cold wet hands on Mariah’s shoulders. “Your shoulders that they may bear up the burdens that shall be placed thereon.” Then the hands moved further down, onto her back, then they slipped and rested on Mariah’s ample, aching breast, blessed to be a receptacle of pure and virtuous principles.

A contraction came as the hands rested on her stomach, and she zoned out, focusing on putting her weight against the head of the baby, keeping it inside as she tried and failed to not push. The hands were back on her contracting stomach, blessing her loins that “they may be fruitful and multiply and replenish the earth, that you might have joy in your posterity.” It was all so much. She needed to give birth, she needed them to stop touching her.

She tilted her hips, lifting them up from the chair, and pushed. The crown grew. Her lips stung. Then another set of hands rested on her head and shoved her down. The growing crown hit the chair and was shoved back into her. She screamed as the second officiant sealed the blessings of the washing upon her.

Her ears rang through the next prayer, her body lost in the need to push. But then the touching started up again, though this time instead of cold water, it was slick oil. The anointing, preparatory to becoming a king and a high priest unto God.

Slick oil open her head, nose, her eyes, her neck, her breast, her back, her stomach, her loins, her feet. The hands lingered on her massive belly, caressing it, slathering it in slick oil.

Her body, frustrated with the denial, initiated another contraction. It seemed stronger than the others, desperate. And Mariah didn’t even try to stop it this time. As the hands rested on her head to seal the anointing upon her, she pushed. But she couldn’t get off the chair, couldn’t get it to move, the hands held her steady, pushing her down into the chair. A whine escaped her as the contraction ended and the baby remained just there.

Instructions were given, about the garments to wear, and then a new name was placed upon Nephi, though he hadn’t even officially received his first name.

It was over, finally. She could move on to the next step. Except—

It started over again, with the blessing. With the wet touching. Twins. She was having twins. She had to do everything twice. She gave in to the touching, groaning as the hands caressed her breasts and belly with both water and oil a second time. The touch turning from foreign to comforting as she searched for anything grounding, anything positive to help her through this.

Three contractions later, the babies still safely within, the initiatory was over. Mariah stood from the chair, legs spread wide to accommodate the head which lurched forward as soon as she stood. She barely wobbled out of the room, catching Sister Wallace’s shoulders to stead herself and instantly crouching and barring down.

The head eased forward, the stinging increased. The head was massive. Twins were supposed to be small. How was she supposed to get this out?

Then the contraction eased and the head went back inside, leaving her panting and sweaty, but with no progress to show for her efforts.

“Oh dear,” Sister Wallace said. “You seem quite far along. Don’t worry. I’ll help you get dressed for the next step. I’ll be with you each step of the way.”

Then Mariah was forced to walk the short way to the dressing room, gasping for breath, feeling the weight of the head between her thighs, her hips protesting the constant movement while being spread so far apart.

“We have special garments to help in situations like this,” Sister Wallace said. “Step in.”

Blind with pain, Mariah managed to get a foot up, then the next one as Sister Wallace pulled on some sort of white undergarment. It was a bit of a wrestle, but finally it was on, tight as can be and pure white, nestled just under her belly. Mariah paid very little attention as Sister Wallace put on her white temple dress, her long white socks, and white shoes, focusing on not passing out or throwing up from the pain.

“You’ve just got the endowment left,” Sister Wallace said, patting her on the shoulder.

If the endowment ceremony wasn’t two hours long, if she didn’t have to do it twice, that would have been more reassuring.

At least she didn’t have to climb another stairs, as she was led into the endowment room, women on one side, men on the other, the seats full except the one at the front nearest the white alter that sat in the front of the room, a man standing behind it, ready to officiate.

Mathew sat in the seat closest to the alter on the men’s side of the aisle.

They were to be the representative couple. No. That meant standing up and kneeling and. . . gosh, how was this possible? Why would god ask this of her? No. Obedience. It was a test of obedience. To prove she and her family deserved the blessings. She would do it. She would prove she was strong enough.

With Sister Wallace's help, she waddled down the aisle, legs spread, crotch stinging, and settled into the front seat. Instructions sounded on the speaker, then the movie began. It was a movie she’d seen hundreds of times, about the creation of the world and Adam and Eve, so she quickly lost herself in the pain of the contractions. As each one came, she tried not to push, breathing through it as the head pushed through her tender folds, then eased back in as the contraction ended, too big to get all the way through or stay out without her help.

She was jerked from her pained breathing and the rhythm of the heading coming in and out, by a tap on her shoulder. Sister Wallace sat beside her, pointing toward the altar where Mathew waited, the rest of the audience waiting impatiently, staring at her.

With a groan she eased herself to her feet, stumbled the few steps to the altar, and kneeled beside her husband. There she promised the officiant, who was standing in for God, that she would obey Adam (Mathew)’s law so long as he obeyed the Father’s.

Kneeling hurt her knees, and her huge stomach pressed into the altar. She had a skirt of fig leaves on under her belly, but she didn’t remember putting it on. Sister Wallace must have done it earlier. A contraction came as she kneeled, and with legs forced apart and with gravity helping, the baby came down. She couldn’t help but push, and gasped as the head shot out further than it had yet. Agony tore through her pussy and she couldn’t help but let out a gasp, barely muffling the full scream of pain that surged from her throat.

As soon as the contraction ended, however, the massive head began going back inside. The baby kicked, the feeling was wrong. Revulsion and agony surged through her body, and she tried to catch it, engaging her core muscles, stopping the baby in its tracks. There was pressure, something pushing back against the baby. As she slowly stood from the alter and headed back to her seat, the baby’s head brushing the inside of her thighs, she lost the push. The baby eased back inside her all the way. Tears filled her eyes.

She would have sunk to the floor right there in pain and despair, but Sister Wallace caught her and brought her back to her seat. “Don’t worry,” she whispered in Mariah’s ears. “Those special garments will keep that baby in, no matter how hard you push. It will be saved.”

The next contraction brought the baby to a full crown, then the garments immediately began pushing it back in once the pressure released. Desperately, Mariah kept pushing, trying to keep the head there so she wouldn’t have to experience the agony of it returning. But eventually, she had to breathe, giving up the fight. Nausea filling her chest and throat.

She had to stand again, to put on a hat and robe and other holy emblems. Then again to kneel at the altar. Then the altar again. The third time, as she knelt the baby’s head completely popped out, slipping off to one leg of the garment. As she stood, her cheeks red with embarrassment and exhaustion, the head pressed against her leg. She felt it as she walked, bowlegged back to her seat, but before she could sit down, Sister Wallace caught her arm.

Right. It was time to go up the stairs to the terrestrial room. Each step was agony, the shoulders shifting in her hip, her legs spread awkwardly around the head, which touched her thighs. A line of people waited behind her awkward shuffling, impatient. When a contraction hit, Sister Wallace kept pulling her up the stairs, not giving her time to push.

Her legs shook, each step torture, then they were at the top, and she was being pushed into a seat again. Sister Wallace frowned at her, and reached subtly under her dress as the rest of the people found their seats. Her hand slipped to the baby’s head that had somehow escaped the restrictive garment.

In a horrible flash, Mariah knew what was coming. “Please, don’t” she whispered. “Please.”

“We have to save your baby,” Sister Wallace responded, then her hand pressed on the babies head, forcing it inside.

Mariah opened her mouth to scream, but Sister Wallace’s other hand grabbed her jaw and forced her mouth closed. “This is a holy place,” she reminded Mariah. “You must be quiet.”

More standing and kneeling and contractions. Endless pain. Torture of another kind. She needed to push. Needed to give birth. How could she play Mother Even for this long, making covenants for her, and yet not be allowed to give birth?

The prayer circle finally came, the last bit until the end. Mathew grabbed her arm, and hauled her to her feet. Her legs trembled, the world swirled. “I can’t,” she whispered.

“This is for our babies,” Mathew said. “Please?”

Before she could say no, but how could she when she’d just promised God she’d obey him?, she was dragged to the front of the circle. The officiant said a prayer, she repeated what she said with the others in the circle, her legs spread awkwardly, the baby’s full crown bulging against the worn garments. Agony.

Then she was standing against the veil, making the tokens, with Sister Wallace whispering the right answers in her ears. She normally had these memorized, but she had no more brain power, no awareness except for the bulge in her pants and the desperate need to birth. Finally, it was over, she was through the veil.

“Very good,” Sister Wallace said, “just one more time through the endowment.”

“No,” Mariah begged, falling to her knees. “Please, I need to give birth. Please. To one of them. At least.”

Sister Wallace hesitated, then nodded. She reached out and pulled Mariah to her feet, in through the celestial room with its giant mirrors and massive crystal chandelier, then off to a small room to the side. It was all white, a single altar in the center.

Sister Wallace knelt down, under Mariah’s skirt, fumbling with the tight garment bottom. “You must push your legs together to get this off,” she said.

But the baby’s head was there, fully crowned. Her legs weren’t going anywhere. “I can’t,” Mariah whined.

“I’ll help.” Then once again, the worst feeling of her life, the baby’s head being shoved back in. Mariah did vomit then, falling to her knees, vision blanking. She woke up sprawled over the altar, her baby’s head in her pussy, the garment bottom’s finally, blissfully off.

“Push,” Sister Wallace ordered. “Quickly, the next endowment session is starting soon. Your husband is waiting.”

Exhausted, but relieved, she pushed. The head shot out, and she screamed at the sudden shift despite herself. Gasping for breath, she clung to the side of the altar, her fingers digging into the cushions to keep herself upright on her trembling legs. An agonizing few minutes of breathing as the shoulders turned, then more pushing, the first shoulder popped out, stretching her even more.

Big, so big. Mariah shifted, awkwardly on her knees forcing them further apart to make room for the second shoulder, then with a final massive push and gush of fluids, the baby fell from her, into the waiting hands of Sister Wallace.

Or no, another Sister in white had entered at some point. She came in, cut the cord, washed up the baby, while Sister Wallace was doing something down there. Mariah didn’t quite care what. She watched her baby, Nephi, as he cried, wrapped in a blanket, still smeared with unmentionables, but beautiful anyway. Perfect. And promised to her forever, no matter what he did.

Another contraction distracted Mariah from that holy moment. She groaned, feeling the next baby pressing down on her worn insides, already pushing through her dilated cervix.

Then something snapped shut around her waist and her eyes shot open. Mariah stared in betrayal at Sister Wallace as she stood back up and held a dainty hand to Mariah. The restrictive, birthing-proof garments were back on. “Come on then, you must save the other one still.”

“No, please. I can’t.” Mariah didn’t even think she could stand. Even kneeling was too much.

“You must, for your child. Come, you won’t be the witness couple this time. You can just sit through it.”

She had to drag Mariah to her feet. Mariah leaned on Sister Wallace heavily as they walked back down the halls, back to the first endowment room, the telestial room, painted with mountains and animals a plenty. Mathew waved at Mariah from where he sat, giving her a thumbs up.

The story of creation and Adam and Even droned on as the second baby dropped. It was moving much slower than before, the cramps having shifted to Mariah’s back more than her front. She leaned against the seat back, desperately seeking counter pressure as she pushed with each contraction. But it was getting harder and harder to do so.

Her body ached. Her head spun. She was so tired. Robotically, she obeyed the instructions from Sister Wallace to get through the session. By the time they needed to switch rooms, the second baby, the daughter presumably, was low again. This birth felt different somehow. Worse, slower. Maybe everything was harder because she was exhausted? Mariah wondered.

But as she stood and pressed her hand subtly to her bulging nethers, she felt something that was definitely not a head. Still it spread her apart plenty.

She was only two steps up to the next room when the next contraction hit. It was too much. Despite Sister Wallace’s support arm, Mariah’s legs gave out and she went down. She was too tired to scream, so she could only moan as something stretched her lips apart, only to be slowly shoved back in by the restrictive garments.

“Help,” she moaned. “Let me birth it, please.”

It took both Mathew and Sister Wallace to drag her limp, stumbling, exhausted body up the stairs and plop her in the seat for the next section. The contractions came and went, her body’s frantic, last push to get the baby out. The pressure and pain was awful, but the baby was stuck fast, spreading her lips wide apart, far wider than the son’s head. The garments were too worn by this time to push the baby back, it only held it, at the butt equivalent of a full crown, as the contractions continued on and on.

She zoned out in the pain, lost, distant. Until, at last she was pulled to her feet once more. The baby’s body brushed against her inner thighs as she was dragged to the front of the veil, muttered through the secrets, and was finally let inside. She didn’t have the energy to kneel, so she was laid across the altar.

Mathew was there this time, as Sister Wallace took off the garment bottoms, throwing Mariah’s skirts up, over her belly and out of the way.

Completely exposed, Mariah tried to look down to see what was happening, her legs propped up on either side of the altar on stools to keep them separate. She couldn’t have held them up, someone was doing it for her. Despite her efforts she couldn’t see over her misshapen belly.

“You are doing so good, I can see it,” Mathew assured her, from where he held one leg. “Push!”

The contraction came, and Mariah tried. The baby’s butt scooted forward a bit, then resumed its place, comfortable where it had been stuck for the last hour.

“Can’t,” she gasped out, head falling limply, once the contraction ended.

Then Mathew’s hand pressed down on her stomach, pushing hard. The increase in pain, the suddenly movement of the baby startled Mariah, she let out a squeak, and stopped pushing.

Mathew’s hand rested on her stomach. He leaned down, grabbed her chin, and forced her to look up at him. Then he forced his mouth on her, kissing her. She gasped at the contact, kissing back instinctively, unsure if it was too much or just the reassurance she needed. Then he pulled back. The next contraction came, contorting her stomach. She whimpered and tried to push, but she was too weak, too exhausted. The baby wasn’t moving!

“Keep pushing!” he commanded as he pushed.

Slowly, the baby’s butt slipped out of her straining, purpled lips. After three contractions, where she tapped out early, exhausted, heading spinning and he kept pushing on her stomach, the legs finally flopped out. She was too exhausted to even scream at that point.

Her world narrowed to pushing, to the sensation of her lips dragging across the stomach and arms of her baby. Until finally, it popped out, accompanied by another flash of fluids.

Done. No. The head. She still had the head.

Someone had grabbed the baby and was tugging at it from the other end, sending fire shooting all through her worn body. Her lips spread again, more and more. The lips, the nose, oozing slowly out of her. And then with a pop, and a final gush of fluids she was done. The baby was crying. Mathew was holding it, cooing. “Oh she’s perfect,” he whispered, holding the baby out to Mariah.

Mariah smiled. She’d done it. They were a family of four. Together. Forever.

#birth denial #birth kink #clothing birth #public birth #giving birth

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stupidlypregnant · 9 months ago

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Hold onto my belly as you fuck me. Feel your babies thrash inside me as you use me the same way you did nine months ago. Feel how tight I am with the first baby already dropped so low.

Do you like it? Seeing me like this?

You did this to me. You fucked me full so now you have to pop me, fuck me in labor so you can cum to the sight of me giving birth.

#bunnyboywrites #birth denial #birth kink #giving birth #labor #labor and delivery #labor kink #mpreg belly #mpreg birth #mpreg kink #mpreg labor

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laborlover33 · 7 months ago

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“Oh my god!” She exclaims desperately trying to get up as she can feel the sudden pressure from her waters being about to break!!!

UGHH i wish this were me

#birth kink #birth roleplay #fpreg #labor kink #preggo kink #preggophilia #pregnancy #pregnant kink #pregnant roleplay #birth rp

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underscorezoo · 3 months ago

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“Easy,” I murmur, “easy.” I show her what a deep breath looks like, trying to steady her growing panic. Her body shakes, her blue eyes wide, sweat glistens across her forehead. I rub my thumb against her knuckles, her hand gripping mine like life depends on it.

“It hurts,” she whimpers, eyes closing with a hard wince. My other hand closes around her jaw and I softly blow hair into her face to cool her down.

“I've got you, darling.”

She shakes her head in refusal, a cry bubbling up her throat, “oh. Oh.”

“Tension isn't helping our baby, please relax.” She gives me a look that makes me want to bury myself alive to recover from it. A hopeless scared gaze that makes me want to claw out my eyes on top of being five feet underground.

“Help me,” she whines, “get him out of me.”

I flash a look at the royal healers around me, their eyes mildly impatient. I give them a cold stern look that has them shifting into action to avoid my ire.

“I'm still convinced it's a little girl,” I smile, brushing her hair that's matted onto her forehead.

“There's nothing little about her then,” she groans and shifts away from me, her body locking up, “no, not again,” she cries and her fingernails dig into me. I have several of these wounds now but I can't even register it with the way I've been watching her so intently.

“Breathe,” I remind her quickly, “breath in and out. Relax your jaw.”

Her teeth are bared to the world, the entirety of her rigid, airless.

“Breathe,” I bark, my worry crawling up my mouth.

She does but the sound that leaves with it is enough to drive me over an edge. My hand leaves her face and falls onto the swell of her stomach, bare to the room, our child begging to escape it. A blanket covers her lower half and I'm tempted to tear it away to see if there is progress. A healer beats me to it, bending my wife’s knee up and opening her legs like a butterfly, blanket falling away.

“That's the sound we were waiting for, your majesty,” the midwife coos gently. “You’re ready to start pushing. It’ll all be over soon.”

Terror strikes me like a hard fist to the jaw and I sit there in stunned silence. My wife on the other hand starts a tantrum, limps a chaos as she tries to leave the bed. None of us expect this but with her so bloated, she barely makes it before I'm holding her still, pinning to the mattress. Her eyes are crazed and dazed with pain and anger.

“I am not pushing,” she hisses at me as if I was the one who suggested it.

“Are you saying that because you're afraid of the pain or because you don't think you can do it?” I challenge, raising an eyebrow. I dare to let my hand travel down between her legs, my fingers breaching the now expanded opening. I almost groan, “darling,” my head slumps towards her with near relief, “you are so close.” I feel the spot of thin hair, the curvature of a baby’s head. Our child.

“Get your fingers out of me,” she groans, whimpering.

“First I've heard that one,” I smirk. She flashes me a warning look that I eat up.

She again seems to be primed with a retort when both hands furiously find the bottom sheet. Giving my hand, wrist, and arm a break from her piercing touch. A terrified little yelp breaks from her mouth and one leg loses grip on the bedding and kicks out.

“Oh please,” she heartbreakingly pleads. So unlike my vicious wife. “Make it stop.”

I instinctively brush my knuckles to her cheek, my other hand resting low on her stomach. “You need to push, darling,” I press on her skin, “and hard. You're going to be just fine if you do that.”

She says something incoherent, a blubbering mess of raw emotion, exhaustion, and pain. Still she does what we all hoped, pushed. Her face tight with determination, chin to her chest, the sound of an animal in full heat coming out of her. She's never looked so beautiful.

“That's it,” I encourage softly and twist, getting a cold cloth for her forehead and neck. She relaxes instantly, tears streaming down her face.

“I can't do this,” she says, voice breaking.

“Of course you can,” I say softly.

She shakes her head in defiance of my words. Head tipping back against the pile of pillows behind her. My wife shrieks, her body shaking violently. “No, please, no,” she begs.

“It comes, your majesty, push,” the healer beckons.

My focus waivers between how vulnerable and how strong my wife is in this moment that I too am breathless for a spell before I am smiling, staring down at the peek of dark hair.

“I see her, darling, push oh please push.” Our ‘please’ is so contrasting that I laugh. She follows my suggestion and cries out again, this time her hand finding my forearm and holding tight. She looks at me, a face full of unabashed fear and loathing, “you did this to me.”

I still can't wipe the joy from my face so my, “I know,” comes out manic.

She whimpers, tears cascading down her face and mingling with sweat. She swears colorfully. That head of dark hair moves forward and now holds her folds open and taut. She's screaming loud enough to break the windows and I'm there, holding her head against mine, getting closer and closer. “Shh, it's almost over, you're doing so well.”

“Small pushes now, blow out, stretch wide,” the healer mimics the breathing she wants to achieve but my wife just lets out the most pathetic of whimpers.

“Hurts,” she mumbles.

“You're amazing. I'm so impressed,” my lips brush into her sweaty hair.

“Don't say that like you're surprised,” she huffs at me.

I chuckle, leaning back to take in her burning blue eyes. “I'm not surprised.”

“Just a few more pushes,” the healer coaxs.

I watch the head pop out with a bit of liquid and a shrill cry from my partner, who now pants wildly, eyes lidded with weariness. “Pull it out,” she demands, narrowing her gaze to menacing.

“You'll push in a minute here,” the healer amends for her.

“Just take it out,” she begs and then groans deeply, eyes closing quickly, “ohhh nooo” I watch in fascination as the baby starts to rotate slowly.

“Hold on, dearie,” the healer tugs the cord up and over our child’s head eliminating a threat against its life already. “Open these legs wider for me, there you go. Push, push, push.”

Thankfully my wife follows her orders. Her face bright red, and voice raising as more and more of the child emerges. Unceremoniously the screaming is replaced by the baby who now flails around in her mother's arms. Her. Our daughter. My wife and I lock eyes, her face split with adorable shock as if she hadn't just gone through all the work to make this happen. I slump towards them both, my adrenaline wearing off and I'm realizing my own hand has left crescent moons into my flesh from concern. I relax my body and take a deep breath.

“Thank gods,” I murmured to no one in particular. I look up timidly to my wife who wipes our baby with a towel and scrunches her entire chin towards her neck to get a better look at the purple screeching face. Our daughter finally has a lapse in annoyance and her eyes open, stormy gray eyes forming a perfect mirror to gaze into. My wife drops back, a lifeless laugh forcing out of her, “all that only for her to look like you.” She sounds both bitter and proud.

I grin, “she will no doubt be a stunner like me then.”

She huffs loudly but matches my smile, content with such a notion.

“The next one will look like you.”

Her jaw drops open. “The next one?!”

#birth #birth fic #giving birth #birth kink #painful birth #graphic birth #fantasy #fanfic #vanilla birth #fluff

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birthenjoyer · 2 months ago

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Want someone to kiss my neck and rub my clit while I struggle to crown. Want to moan while they whisper in my ear about how wide their baby is going to stretch my cunt. Run their fingers over where my lips start to part as I push, and to tell me how good I’m doing even when the head recedes back in when I let up…

#birth kink #text

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begtopush · 3 months ago

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The Cult Breeder

Word count 2980

Tw: Dark Topics, kidnapping, pushing baby back in, hard birth,descriptive birth, cult vaguely referenced

The cruel captor smirks wickedly, his eyes glinting with malicious glee as he sees Emily suffering in the throes of labor. He leans in close, his putrid breath hot against her ear as he whispers in a sinister tone.

“Aww, listen to you moan and cry, you pathetic slut. You want this baby out so badly, don't you? Too fucking bad.” He chuckles darkly, trailing a finger along her trembling jawline. “I'm in charge here, remember? You don't get to make demands.”

He steps back, folding his arms across his broad chest as he watches her writhe in agony, a sadistic grin spreading across his face. “Beg for it, whore. Beg me to help you deliver this bastard child. Maybe if you grovel enough, I'll consider it.” His laughter echoes through the room, cold and merciless. “Go on, entertain me. I'm all ears.”

“Please" she whines out weakly but it was not nearly good enough for him and makes him a bit mad with her lack of effort.

The captor's grin vanishes, replaced by a scowl of anger and disappointment. He grabs Emily's chin roughly, forcing her to meet his icy stare as another contraction wracks her body.

“Please?” he sneers, his grip tightening painfully. “That's all you've got? Fucking pathetic!” He shakes her head like a rag doll, his fury mounting. “You think a meager 'please' is enough to make me lift a finger to help you?”

He releases her roughly, letting her head thump against the wall as he steps back. He begins to pace the small cell, his boots thudding heavily against the concrete floor. “I should leave you to suffer, you ungrateful bitch. Let you scream and wail until you pass out from the pain. That's what you deserve for your half-assed begging.”

He spins on his heel, jabbing a finger at her as he leans in close once more. “You want this baby out? Then beg like you fucking mean it! Beg until your throat is raw and your lungs burn. Beg until I believe the desperation pouring out of you. Only then, and only if I'm feeling generous, will I even consider letting you push this brat out of your worthless body. Now fucking TRY!”

She groans "please god pleaseee” the contraction building again making Her whimper trying to grip onto the chain to squeeze it.

The captor's eyes narrow as Emily's groans reach a desperate new pitch, her voice cracking with the anguish of her labor and his cruel torments combined. He leans in closer, his face mere inches from hers, his breath hot and noxious against her skin.

‘Please god pleaseee…’ he mocks in a high-pitched, whorish imitation of her voice, his lips curling in a sneer. “Still not good enough, you miserable slut. You want the big man upstairs to hear you? Then fucking SCREAM IT!”

He slams his fist against the wall beside her head, making her flinch and cry out in fear and pain. His eyes burn with sadistic fury as he growls, “Beg me, you fucking CUNT! Beg me to end your suffering and deliver your bastard spawn. SCREAM my name until it's the only prayer you know. Until the echoes of it are seared into your goddamn soul!”

He grabs a fistful of her hair, wrenching her head back and forcing her to meet his wild, deranged eyes. His face is a mask of cruel intensity, his voice a vicious snarl.

“DO IT, YOU DISGUSTING BITCH! BEG ME LIKE YOUR FUCKING LIFE DEPENDS ON IT. BECAUSE IT FUCKING DOES! NOW SCREAM! SCREAM MY FUCKING NAME LIKE THE ONLY HOPE YOU HAVE IS IN MY FICKLE MERCY!”

She begs and whines for a bit but he still isn't satisfied she tries to disobey him and push she lets out a yelp as he forces something in to stop the descent and locks on a chastity belt so she can't push as she screams.

The captor's eyes blaze with rage as Emily's feeble attempts at begging still fail to satisfy his sadistic cravings. He watches in disgust as she tries to disobey him, attempting to push the baby out on her own. A vicious sneer twists his lips as he hears her pathetic yelp.

In an instant, he's on her, one hand clamping over her mouth to stifle her cries, the other grabbing a Length of coarse rope. He forces her thighs apart, his calloused fingers roughly shoving the rope between her legs and tying it tightly around her upper thighs, just below her swollen belly.

He cinches the makeshift chastity belt with brutal force, cutting into the soft flesh of her thighs until she whimpers into his palm. Satisfied with his handiwork, he releases her mouth and admires his cruel creation with a wicked grin.

“There, now you won't be trying to disobey me anymore, will you, you stupid fucking cow?” He chuckles darkly, giving the rope a sharp tug that makes her gasp in pain.” You want to be a stubborn bitch? Fine. But you'll suffer for it.”

He steps back, folding his arms as he watches her writhe against her bonds, her belly throbbing with the need to push. His grin widens as he sees the desperation and anguish etched into her features.

“Keep fighting it, whore. Keep resisting me. It'll only make your suffering that much sweeter.” He laughs cruelly, relishing every second of her torment. “You're not going to birth this brat until I allow it. Now, beg. Beg like you fucking mean it, you pathetic cunt. Beg until the only word you know is my name!”

“PLEASE OH PLEASE OH PLEASE” she cries and screams begging his name for 3 hours as the head pushes against the belt just to make no progress.

The cruel captor watches Emily with sadistic glee for three interminable hours, relishing every second of her desperate, anguished begging. He listens to her voice grow hoarse, her pleas becoming more and more frantic as the pain of labor consumes her. But still, he remains unmoved, his heart as cold and hard as the concrete walls of her prison.

Only when her begging reaches a fever pitch, when her words dissolve into incoherent, pain-wracked wails and cries, does he finally deign to respond. A wicked, triumphant grin spreads across his face as he leans in close, his putrid breath washing over her.

With deliberate, agonizing slowness, he reaches down and unties the cruel chastity belt binding her thighs. He drags it out, letting the rough rope scrape against her sensitive skin, making her flinch and whimper.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity to the suffering woman, he tosses the belt aside. He leans in even closer, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispers in a voice dripping with mocking gentleness.

“There, there, my pet. You've begged so very prettily. I suppose you've earned a small reward.” He chuckles darkly, his hand coming to rest on her swollen belly, feeling the tightness of her uterus as it prepares to push.

“Push, you fucking slut. Push this bastard out. And remember, you only get to scream for me. Now, PUSH!”

She pushes and screams it wasn't long before she gets the head out she screams out "OH GOD PLEASE IT HURTS" this pisses him off he's not God he said she could only scream for him. He comes up to her gripping the head and with deliberate slow movements he pushes the head in very slowly as she screams and begs.

The captor's eyes blaze with fury and outrage as Emily screams out her desperate plea to a higher power, completely forgetting his cruel command. A vein throbs in his neck as he fights the urge to strike her for her disobedience. Instead, he leans in, gripping the newborn's head with deliberate slowness, his fingers sinking cruelly into the soft, vulnerable flesh.

He glares at her, his voice a low, menacing growl as he forces the baby's head back inside her with agonizing slowness. “YOU WANT GOD TO HELP YOU, BITCH?” he snarls. “THEN PRAY TO THE ONLY GOD WHO MATTERS HERE!”

He grinds the baby's head against her cervix, making her shriek in agony as he continues to force it back inside her. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING THAT HURTS?” she cries. His other hand comes up to wrap around her throat, squeezing just hard enough to make breathing a struggle.

“I am your god now, you fucking whore. The only one who can grant you mercy or suffering. And you just pissed me off.” He leans in closer, his eyes burning into hers with sadistic intensity. “Now, scream for me. SCREAM MY FUCKING NAME LIKE THE ONLY WORD YOU KNOW. SCREAM IT AS I FORCE THIS BRAT BACK INSIDE YOU. SCREAM IT LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT. BECAUSE IT FUCKING DOES! NOW PUSH, YOU DISGUSTING BITCH! PUSH HARDER! PUSH LIKE YOUR VERY SOUL IS ON THE LINE. BECAUSE WITH ME, IT FUCKING IS!”

"STOP STOP DONT OWOWOWOWOW" She screams trying to close her knees on him her hands still chained above her head forcing her into a standing position as he's slowly forcing the head into her body.

The captor's eyes widen with vicious amusement at Emily's desperate screams and futile attempts to close her knees, to protect herself and her unborn child from his cruel ministrations. He chuckles darkly, a sound that sends icy shivers down her spine.

He leans in closer, his grip on the baby's head never wavering as he forces it even deeper, making Emily wail in agony. “Stop? Don't push it in? Oh, I don't think so, you pathetic slut.” He snarls, his voice dripping with sadistic glee.

He uses his free hand to grab her thigh, his fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave livid bruises. He forces her leg open wider, exposing her most intimate places to his ruthless violation.

You don't get to tell me what to do, whore. You don't get to make demands. He grinds the baby's head harder against her cervix, drawing a blood-curdling scream from Emily's throat. “I decide when this baby lives or dies. I decide when you live or die. And right now, I decide that you're going to take this brat back inside you, whether you want to or not.”

He starts to push the baby's head back in with brutal force, ignoring Emily's desperate screams and pleas. His eyes glint with cruel, twisted amusement as he watches her suffer.

“Fight it all you want, bitch. It won't change a fucking thing. You belong to me now. This baby belongs to me. And I say it goes back inside your worthless cunt until I say otherwise. NOW STOP STRUGGLING AND PUSH, YOU FUCKING WHORE! Push this brat back where it belongs, or I'll make you fucking regret it!”

But her respite is short-lived. He reaches for the discarded chastity belt, his lips curling in a wicked grin as he holds it up, letting her see the cruel device that will once again deny her the right to push her baby out.

He leans in close, his voice a sinister whisper against her ear. “You want to play the stubborn bitch? Fine. You can earn the right to push this brat out. But you're going to fucking work for it.”

With brutal efficiency, he forces her shaking legs apart and shoves the belt between them, cinching it tight and cruelly around her thighs. He grins at her whimper of pain and protest.

Next, he reaches up and unchains her wrists from the restraints above her head. She massages her red, aching wrists as he grabs her roughly by the arm and hauls her to her feet.

He drags her stumbling and groaning form out of the small cell, not caring about her labor pains or the baby's desperate need to be born. He forces her to walk, to move, as he marches her through the house.

He sets her to work, making her clean, making her scrub, making her cater to his every whim and demand. All the while, he watches her with a cruel, mocking smile, enjoying her anguish.

“Clean this fucking toilet, you disgusting pig.” He growls, shoving a scrub brush into her hands. “Keep begging if you want to, but you won't push until I say you can. Now fucking work, you worthless cunt. Work for your brat's life!”

She cries and begs pushing every contraction just for the head to reach the belt and recede again making her cry “PLEASE LET ME GET IT OUT PLEASE"cries screams

The cruel captor watches Emily with sadistic amusement as she stumbles through the house, her belly heavy and aching, her body wracked with the pains of labor. He listens to her pitiful begging and crying, his name falling from her lips like a broken mantra between each agonizing contraction.

He forces her to clean every inch of the house until it gleams, until not a speck of dust or dirt remains. All the while, he hovers over her, criticizing her every move, demanding perfection and punishing any perceived shortcomings with cruel words and harsher actions.

Finally, when the house is spotless and Emily is exhausted and shaking, he drags her back to the bedroom and throws her onto the bed. She lands hard, a grunt of pain escaping her as another contraction seizes her, the urge to push overwhelming.

The captor watches, his eyes glinting with wicked anticipation, as Emily's body instinctively starts to push. He sees the baby's head begin to crown, stretching her poor abused flesh to its limit.

He leans in close, his lips curling in a smirk of cruel satisfaction as he growls, “Damn, I put a big one in you, didn't I? And I'm not sorry. Not one fucking bit.”

He reaches down, his fingers sinking cruelly into the flesh of Emily's inner thighs, spreading them wider as she screams and pushes against her bonds. “You want this baby out so badly, don't you, you filthy whore? Well, keep pushing. Keep screaming. Let me hear how much it hurts. Let me hear how much you need me to give you permission to birth this fucking brat!”

She pushes screaming as the head crowns “IT BURNS OH IT BURNS SO BAD GET OUT GET OUT” she cries

The cruel captor throws his head back and laughs, a harsh, grating sound that echoes through the room as Emily screams in agony, her voice raw and hoarse from her labor and begging. He grins down at her, his eyes alight with sadistic glee as he watches her writhe and push against the burning, stretching pain of her cervix yielding to the baby's passage.

He leans in closer, his breath hot and foul against her face as he snarls,” ‘OW, OW, OW, IT BURNS?’ You think that hurts, you pathetic slut? You haven't seen anything yet.” His fingers dig harder into her thighs, his nails leaving livid red welts in her soft flesh.

He watches, enraptured and cruelly amused, as the baby's head pushes out a little further with each of Emily's agonized screams and pushes. He reaches down, his fingers sinking into the baby's slick, compressed head as it emerges inch by excruciating inch.

He chuckles darkly, his voice dripping with mocking sympathy. “Oh, you're doing so well, my pet. Your body was made to be bred, made to be used for pleasure and pain. And I'm going to use you for so much more.”

He leans in, his teeth sinking into the fleshy part of her shoulder, biting down until he tastes blood on his tongue.” Keep screaming, my lovely little fuck toy. Let me hear how much it hurts as this big, beautiful baby destroys your pussy on the way out. You've earned it. Now, PUSH! Push this brat out and maybe, just maybe, I'll go easy on you. Maybe.”

She pushes and the head pops Out with a squeal she doesn't stop though she just keeps pushing “GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT” she was so delirious

He watches with sadistic fascination as Emily pushes with all her remaining strength, her face contorted in agony, her voice raw from her screams and cries. With each push, her body strains and convulses, her muscles taut and trembling as they work to expel the large baby from her tight, abused channel.

Sbee can feel the baby's head emerging further with each contraction, stretching her cervix to its limits and beyond. Emily's screams reach a fever pitch as the burning, searing pain of the baby's head crowning becomes too much to bear.

With a final, agonized scream that echoes through the room, Emily pushes one last time, pouring every ounce of strength and willpower into that final, desperate effort. And then, with a gush of fluids and a rush of relief, the baby's head slips free, followed immediately by the broad, sturdy shoulders.

The captor catches the baby as it emerges, lifting it up and holding it aloft, letting Emily see the fruits of her labor. He grins down at her, his eyes wild with cruel triumph.

He leans in close, his voice a sinister whisper against her ear as she collapses back onto the bed, exhausted and shaking. “Look at what a good little breeder you are,” he growls. “Breeding a big, strong boy. I'm so fucking proud of you.”

He sets the baby down roughly on the bed beside her, not caring about its cries or needs. His attention remains solely focused on his broken, defeated prisoner as he sneers down at her.

“You did well, whore. You've earned a small reward.’ His grin turns wicked, his eyes glinting with dark promise. “I think it's time to start working on giving me a little girl next. What do you say, my pretty fuck toy? Ready to be bred again?”

#birth kink #giving birth #birth denial #fpreg #hard birthing #labor kink #preggophilia #painful birth #pushing baby back in #dark topics

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monochrome-serpetine909 · 2 months ago

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Orgasmic Birth

My mom would tell other people the story of my birth at inappropriate and awkward times to strangers she crossed paths with. I would be standing next to her, holding her hand, my 5 year old big eyes staring at the stranger in the aisle of a grocery store. The stranger would lean down to squeeze my cheek with a nervous laughter and hover us for a couple more aisles. Most of the time, they were adult men with thick mustaches, and sometimes grannies. My mom would squeeze my hand in hers with a wink, wrinkles showing around her eyes and mouth. I would be instructed to stay by the cart when she needed to use the store’s bathroom. She would come back 10 minutes later or more. When she came back out, she’d grab my hand to leave the store despite having a full cart of items. Rarely did we actually ever check out the store items. As I grew, it only made it more and more awkward. Women avoided my mom like she was a plague of death, while men gravitated to her.

During 5th grade, we had public school sex education classes. Of which was not about sex, but what puberty would look like and what to expect. It included birth, where babies came from. I remember sitting in the back of the classroom, my cheeks grew hot when the scene of a vagina expelling a baby was projected on the wall. However, the big difference was- it was obviously a painful ordeal. My mom described my birth as orgasmic, and I shot out of her like a water geyser, with my father shooting his cum all over my newborn gross body.

In 6th grade, I finally confronted my Mom about how it was extremely embarrassing to tell people the events of my birth. Nobody ever needed to know how my mom’s best orgasms in her entire life was from pushing me out of her vaginal tunnel into the new world. It was an exaggerated, if not fake, story that needed to be buried with all other embarrassing stories of myself.

Mom was hurt that I didn’t believe the full story of my erotic birth. Not hurt that I wanted her to stop telling strangers of the erotic birth, but that I didn’t believe her. So to my dismay, as a 13 year old, she showed me the VHS video of my first birthday. Forever will that video make me cringe. Forever had it changed my whole life for better or worse, still not decided. She was not exaggerating whatsoever.

The VHS tape began in the living room being filmed by a friend who majored in film and theatre. The furniture was different, but it was most definitely the same room we were sitting in, watching this. Mom and Dad were on either side of me, their fingers intertwined across my lap, giddy to start the video.

The camera focused on my parents, zooming closer to their intimate parts and actions. The filmer had no shame or embarrassment to get as close as possible while cheering along to the ‘beautiful’ moment.

“Oh my fuck! Jerry! I can feel her coming!” My parents were literally fucking, his penis inside her anus, as her cervix opened up to the camera view. And at each contraction, she screamed of pleasure and maybe even orgasmed, as my dad screamed cumming into her. She laid in missionary style, holding her large, swollen angry pregnant belly with both hands. “Oh god yes! Yes, that's it. Yes-yes-yes, I feel another one coming!” My mom scrunched her face as she bored further down into the couch, holding her breath. Jerry continued to thrust his engorged penis in and out of her anus, holding her legs up to give more pelvic room. A horrific groan came out of her once she released the push. “I need to change position, I need to be on my hands and knees. Quickly now, before another contraction.”

The contractions grew closer and closer, both were screaming and moaning together more frequently. His penis grew even more as he thrusted harder, increasing his speed as he rode her doggy style. He grunted loudly while squeezing her hips with his hands as another wave of contraction hit her. Her water broke, she gasped, and quickly felt the vaingal lips with her fingers to estimate how far along she was. Her fingers were soaked in the amniotic fluid that was still gushing out of her. The couch was soaked and poured onto the carpet. Her belly was considerably lower and thinner, no longer having the amniotic fluid inside. My infant body was actively, angrily pushing through her womb to vagina to the new world no matter the amount of pain it caused. But apparently that pain was more of a turn-on to my mom, who welcomed the start of ‘Ring of fire’ with gasps and moans, rubbing her clit the whole time.

“Don’t stop! I’m almost there! God, don’t fucking stop!” Her hand remained at the opening of her vagina, ready to catch my head, and casually playing with her clit. The other hand was positioned on the arm of the couch to steady herself. “I need to be on the floor,” she huffed between the thrusts.

My dad pulled his penis out abruptly and assisted my mom to the floor. Speckles of blood from her torn anus gathered to the already ruined carpet. She was bow-legged, her palm holding the opening to her vagina, my head just starting to open her lips, almost to the “Ring of Fire”. My whole infant body weight sat just below her hips, her muscles extremely fatigued. She moaned, struggled to get down to the floor to rest on her forearms. “Get back inside me already! It’s fucking burning! She’s almost here! Keep fucking me goddammit!” She was back in the doggy position, this time knowing the baby, me, will be born in this position. Her fingers quickly found the clit.

Her whole body, swollen pregnant belly swaying, moved along the steady rhythm of the penis violently thrusting in and out to a mediocre rhythm. “Don’t fucking stop! There! God, yes, there!!” She screamed throughout the house. My dad forced his thick penis as far into her anus as possible with violent deep thrusts, causing her to scream in agony. A gush of orgasmic squirt shot out before birthing me. Then everything happened at the same time.

“I’m gonna cum! I’m cumming baby! I’m cumming, I’m FUCKING CUMMING!!” My dad’s face scrunched up with his mouth open, my mom panting short quick breaths. He rode the cum-flation into my mom as long as he could, bursting into her anus over and over. It was a cum-fountain inside her anus with no sign of stopping.

Everyone screamed. I screamed angrily, now in a brand new world, bursting past the vaginal lips. My mom screamed and squirted all over my face from her own climax. My dad screamed and screamed, holding onto his penis like a water hose unable to stop. Mom couldn’t stop squirting on top of me and into the carpet, the same carpet I was looking at. It was a sweet taste, she told me, her squirt all over my face as I cried into my new world.

My baby self wailed outside of Mom’s vagina as my dad finished cumming, pushing his softening penis against her anus, his cum dripping onto my newborn disfigured shaped head. The rest of my body wasn’t out yet. My dad listened to Mom’s groans, moans, and begging for him to not stop; his penis was back to business quickly with his thrusting. She needed to push one more time to release me. Mom took a deep breath followed by short breaths, focused on my dad’s rhythmic thrusting, and waited for the feeling of the need to push again. Her fingers suddenly gripped the carpet and her hips were bored down, and she screamed. And screamed. And screamed. My dad’s fingers dug into my mom’s hips, willing it all to end quickly. With a gush of fluid and last scream, the rest of my body was finally pushed out into the new world. Dad screamed while his thick cum covered my whole body and the still attached umbilical cord.

Neither had clothes on, nor planned to cover up any time soon. They moved to the couch together with a slow, steady movement to a missionary position. While still attached to the umbilicord, she cradled me up to her chest, tears rushing down her face. My suckling mouth quickly found her teat and I relaxed into a drunken state of milk and bliss. My dad’s penis grew back to an erection despite cumming multiple times and he re-entered her anus, thrusting gently while I suckled fiercely away. The video showed me nursing her teat as my father caressed her thighs, his hips moving back and forth with slight images of his penis here and there, behind her disfigured vagina, into her anus. They both looked so serene and proud; this was what they were destined to do their whole life and they finally accomplished it.

“What the actual fuck, you guys?” I breathed heavily. I had a pool of wetness in my underwear, which had never happened to me before. Did my period come back so soon? I wanted to leave, I needed to get out of this living room as soon as possible.

“We are just so happy you are our child and grateful for such an easy, pleasurable birthing experience. The other ones weren’t as easy and required us to have a midwife with us.” My mom played with my wavy messy long hair.

“You’re saying I’m not your only child? You’ve had other children? I have brothers and sisters?” My heart was thumping in my ears.

“No no, you don’t have any brothers or sisters. You’re my only child. I’ve just given birth to many children, perfecting the experience until the day I would meet you, my love.” Mom said, with my dad nodding in agreement. “The other ones were for other families- I was their surrogate. You were the one I chose to keep and love.” My mom and dad fiddled their intertwined fingers on my lap, smiling at each other. I jumped up to make way to my bedroom quickly. I looked back at the spot I was just in and saw a dark splotch of where my vagina leaked fluid. I ran to my bedroom. I hid underneath my blankets, begging for my heart to slow down.

#birth kink #labor kink #giving birth #birthday #birth chart #pregnancy #laborsex

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