Anomalies - Part 1 (Commission for ShrapnelTheWolf)

TAGS: Breeding/Bred, Hyper, Exotic Hyper (Ovaries), Hyper Preg

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Given that she’d never had sex with anyone, the sudden bumps on her belly left Elizabeth slightly concerned about what might be going on with her… doubly so considering that was very much a plural, and she was mostly certain that pregnancies didn’t usually split wombs into two. She was content to ignore it at first, back when the lumps were merely patches of skin that seemed to have less “give” to them, but as time went on and those two spots on her belly began to swell outwards, it became harder to pretend that everything was fine and it would just go away on its own; at the very least, the serval knew that it couldn’t possibly be cancer, because as far as she knew, tumours didn’t just grow that quickly without completely crashing the rest of the body they were inside of. Not to mention, she was actually perfectly fine, with no symptoms to speak of, at least apart from her period having stopped for no discernible reason; the thought of a phantom pregnancy crossed her mind, but the odds of that happening without any sort of trigger for it were so low as to be laughable… but it was still a good idea to check anyway. When the first pregnancy tests came back (predictably) negative, and yet the swelling kept going despite Liz’s almost excessive use of anti-inflammatories, she decided it’d be best to schedule something with her family doctor before it was too late, at which point she immediately beat herself up for having allowed things to progress so far that she had to pick the baggiest clothing she had just to keep those things from being noticed. Especially from her mom, given what sort of reaction they’d have to finding out their precious Liz had finally had sex with a pretty little boytoy and gotten bred at the same time; the amount of unnecessary hugging that would be had, not to mention the scandalously unnecessary lewdness spewing out of their mouth, were enough to convince Elizabeth to keep things a secret, at least until she found out what was wrong with her. That her GP had no clue either only made things worse; cursory examinations revealed nothing wrong with her, and seeing as the older cat had never seen anything like those two lumps on her abdomen before, and lacked the appropriate equipment to look into it deeper, it was off to the nearest hospital with Elizabeth, who winced all the way to the bank as she tried to find out whether or not her insurance would cover this sort of random medical check-up. All the while, the bumps continued to bloat and swell, taking up alarming amounts of space on the sides of her torso; it was hard to tell what they could be, given that they were at once hard, yet didn’t hurt in the slightest when she tried to push her fingers into them… quite the contrary, in fact. More than once the serval found herself openly massaging those things, feeling increasingly more hazy the more she did so, not unlike that time back in high school when she had to be admitted after a nasty fall and the doctors prescribed perhaps a bit too many painkillers; it wasn’t exactly a sensation that Elizabeth ever thought of going through again, but now that she had a choice in the matter, she often would just keep rubbing the bumps until her eyes were half-lidded and her legs were quivering. That this made it incredibly easy for the lumps to grow even more completely evaded Liz’s notice, at least until the morning after when she looked at herself in the mirror and realized that their circumference was clearly wider than the day before, then utterly failed at connecting the dots regardless. Her appointment couldn’t come sooner, though by the time it showed up, the battery of exams that the serval had to go through left her feeling incredibly anxious over how much money would be needed to pay for all of it without her mother finding out, or worse, if the medical professionals decided to call Cynthia anyway to let them know their daughter was suffering from some kind of rare condition that would have to be named after her. The expression on her physicians’ faces didn’t help her state of mind either, especially when they clearly wanted to tell her something, but had to wait for further test results before they could do so without opening themselves up to litigation; how exactly she managed to hide her mounting anxiety while waiting for the phone call back from the hospital was anyone’s guess, and though her mom did pick up on something being wrong, a couple of badly-fabricated excuses about her being ill allowed Liz to escape mostly without being questioned too much. Ultimately though, since she wasn’t a doctor, the serval still had to bring her test results over to her GP, which led to a sentence being uttered that she never once in her life had ever expected to think about, much less hear… and one that didn’t strike her nearly as harshly as she believed it should have.

“Liz, you’re… not pregnant,” her doctor very carefully explained, “these are your ovaries.”

To put into words the sheer confusion that Elizabeth felt in those few seconds before her family doctor opened his mouth again would require a more artistic mind than hers; for a good minute or so, the outside world ceased existing, as the realization slowly sunk in, and the serval began to put the puzzle pieces together, her body temperature rising ever so slowly every time she recalled those hours she spent rubbing what were apparently her ovaries without even realizing it. She was a freak of nature, a genetic anomaly, a one-in-a-trillion occurrence of some sorts, because normal people didn’t suddenly and inexplicably start to develop egg-makers the size of baseballs and larger, and even if they did, then surely it would need to wait until they became sexually active… or had any kind of ancestry to explain it, which she most certainly didn’t! Liz only tuned back in when her GP called her by name, but even then she mostly missed whatever it was the man was trying to tell her; there were a lot of technical terms, suitably simplified so she could understand them, but even the most base-level explanation wouldn’t have had the slightest chance of penetrating the thick veil of sheer bafflement that had taken over her mind. Those were her ovaries, and she had absolutely no idea how to handle that information as a concept, let alone as a medical fact about herself that she’d have to deal with on a daily basis.

“-and amazingly, your body’s hormone levels appear to be perfectly fine, as is the rest of you really,” the doctor carried on, apparently not having noticed that his patient wasn’t listening, “I… don’t really know what to tell you Elizabeth, it seems your ovaries are just… growing. I can see here that you’re producing a lot more eggs as well, which I can only assume might have some unforeseen effects should you ever decide to have children in the future, which, if I may-”

She tuned off again. The mention of having children, even as a hypothetical, had left her cheeks so bright that the serval’s first instinct was to try and cover her face so her doctor couldn’t see, only barely succeeding at stopping herself at the very last moment. There was a dangerous amount of imagination roiling around inside of her, a cavalcade of mental images of herself in the future, as she could be, as she should be, that left her wanting to go back home as soon as possible just so she could lock herself in her room and massage her egg-makers for hours on end, knowing now that if she did, she’d just stimulate them into producing even more. She saw herself as her perfected version, filled with babies, stuffed really as her expanded ovaries were made to work on overtime to leave her so bloated and gravid that even their extra girth would go completely unnoticed next to the belly she’d have slung out in front of her. In fact, the serval didn’t even know why she was even in that office at all; in between her GP waffling on about how he didn’t know what to do and how their patient didn’t need any medication that they knew of, Liz was doing nothing but wasting time, time she could be spending at home tending to herself for the coming storm… so she left. She got up, turned around, and in spite of her family doctor’s insistence that she should sit back down and talk things through, the serval instead walked all the way out to the parking lot, got in her car, drove back home, then locked herself in her room, thankful, in some remote corner of her mind that could still formulate such thoughts, that at least her mother wasn’t home. She took her shirt off, lying down in bed where she could look down at her ovaries and the promises they made, at the amount of eggs being produced and just how many young she could carry because of them… and it was hard to resist. Already her hands were drawn to the two bumps, already were fingers gently pushed into them, this time with a reverence they hadn’t carried before; it was one thing to just rub against a part of herself that made her feel good for each second she spent doing it, quite another for her to be taking care of the very things which would swell her figure into a truly motherly one. It was sacrosanct, in a way, so much so that the pleasure she derived from it was less one that was purely sexual in nature, and far more a matter of divine, rapturous ecstasy, as if each and every push, every circular motion, brought her just one step closer to an ascension that she had been working towards for her entire life. Of course, it could be that the sheer absurdity of the situation, coupled with the ridiculous amount of serotonin being produced in those moments, had left her completely bereft of any sense of… well, sense, but where was the fun in that? Better to assume that she was readying herself for an ultimate payoff, that what she was going through was but step one in some grand plan to turn her into a breed-happy broodmother, two words that left her so hot and bothered that Liz was once again thankful for her mother’s absence, because she would not have been capable of holding back the moan that escaped from her lips. Hell, the neighbors probably heard it, which would at some point circle back to Cynthia’s ears and make them think their daughter had been carousing with a boyfriend when they weren’t in the house… though, by that point, it was quite likely Elizabeth would’ve found someone anyway, at least judging by the frankly ludicrous lust and arousal that she was beset by with each motion of her fingertips over her skin. It was almost blasphemous in its own way, because clearly whatever was happening to her couldn’t be normal, and her deriving pleasure from it could only mean that something was wrong with her; alas, as the old adage went, if what she was feeling was wrong, then Elizabeth really didn’t want to be right, and in fact, only sought to deepen the pit of depravity she had dug for herself, hopefully so that someone else could fall into it and the two of them could enjoy themselves where no one could watch. After all, what was the point in becoming a hyper-fertile breeding machine if she didn’t have someone else to help her with that? It took two to tango, at the end of the day, just as it took two to fuck properly.

Then again, should she fuck someone? Ultimately, the biggest issue at hand was that her ovaries had, for whatever reason, decided to start growing in both size and egg-making productivity, and if that wasn’t a big fat warning sign, Liz didn’t know what would be; surely, if she was so stupid as to try and bed someone now, the results would be downright dangerous, assuming that her fertility went up just as much as those bumps seemed to indicate it did. If she was so stupid as to find a boytoy to fill her up and paint her insides white, the amount of young she’d bear would be catastrophically high, enough that her whole life from that point forward would have to be dedicated to rearing them; whatever plans she had would, by necessity, have to be halted, just so she could handle the… tens? Hundreds? Thousands, perhaps, of young servals born to her hyperactive womb, each and every last one a living testament to a body that broke through organic conventions and became something better. All in all, if Elizabeth went ahead and obeyed her instincts, she would fully realize everything that she wanted to be, and quite frankly, that just wasn’t enough. After all, hadn’t those bumps been smaller before? In fact, had they not started off as not bumps at all, but rather rougher patches of skin indicative of some light swelling? Had they not continued to grow over time, before she decided to ask a doctor what they might be? If that was the case, then surely, if she just sat back and did absolutely nothing to stop them, then her ovaries would just keep growing, certainly until a point where Elizabeth could look at them and honestly declare that she was satisfied with their size and degree of fertility; then again, it might be that she would never reach that point, and no matter how big they became, her egg-makers simply would never trip that switch that let her brain be at rest with the amount of serotonin it was being fed… or worse, her ovaries would stop growing past a certain point, which was, of all the options, definitely the worst one. Thankfully, every possibility had the exact same solution and plan of action: waiting. Seeing as her test results came back completely normal, at least barring those two lumps on the side of her belly, then the only thing Liz could feasibly do was wait for further developments while cautiously avoiding giving her GP any information that might cause him to interfere in the process; it was easy enough to cook up a cockamamey story about how she was just so overwhelmed by the news that she had to go home as soon as possible, easier still to pretend to want to cooperate, noting down a series of names that she should contact just in case she wanted to get drastic with how to “fix” her “problem”. How silly her family doctor was, to think that she’d ever want this to stop, rather than deliberately trying to make it as worse as possible; why, even before the day was out, Liz found herself perusing through dozens of poorly-written and definitely pseudoscientific articles on how to improve one’s fertility, making sure to bookmark the ones that looked the least suspicious so she could completely overhaul her diet… and spend some money on supplements that were most likely just a means of committing credit card fraud thanks to gullible idiots such as herself. But it didn’t matter, honestly; she would gladly give her life savings just to be able to feel and watch as those bumps on her belly grew bigger with each passing day, how their sensitivity too continued to mount, until she could barely wear clothes at all without sporting a constant blush. More often than not, the serval would have to consciously stop her hands from moving of their own accord, especially in public settings whenever she happened to spot someone with a dick big enough for it to be outlined against their choice of jeans or shorts; maybe it was fate that made her develop this condition when she already lived in a city with a preponderance of hypers, at least as far as her unending arousal was concerned. More than once, even her conscious self-denial wasn’t enough, and only the curious stares of bypassers alerted Liz to how her fingers had been rubbing up against something underneath her shirt that no one could see, all while a thin trickle of drool poured down the side of her lips. It almost certainly didn’t help that she already had a massive issue with her choice of clothes, given her decision to get implants right before the whole damned thing started; not that she could’ve ever known that it would, but it almost felt as if the universe was playing tricks on her, because the only clothes she had that could even remotely hide the two bumps on her belly were also the only ones she had which were baggy enough to hang from her torso-covering tits like a set of curtain… not exactly what she would normally wear outside, and indeed they were bought precisely for her to use indoors, but it was better if everyone focused on the massive breasts she sported rather than the two conspicuous lumps pushing out from either side of her midriff. No matter how hard she tried, Liz just couldn’t make them look like a pregnant belly; even using stuffing was difficult, since the only way to keep it looking evenly rounded was to use enough material that it inevitably rubbed up against her ovaries, thus leaving her unable to even think properly, let alone walk anywhere or interact with the world at large with any semblance of sentience. Thus, rather than the form-fitting, tight clothing that the serval had gotten used to wearing everywhere, designed specifically to show off her enhanced, somewhat expensive new curves, she was cursed to have to pick from the bottom of the fashion barrel, oftentimes looking like she’d just rolled out of bed and didn’t bother to put anything on beyond whatever she had the night before… for a time, at least. Just as she predicted, her egg-makers didn’t disappoint in terms of how big they grew, nor in how little time it took them to reach newer and greater sizes; it felt like every day that passed, Elizabeth looked at herself in the mirror and could tell that the bumps had taken just a little bit more of her belly, pushing its skin outwards as they weighed down progressively more on her, their sheer density enough to make the serval lose her mind whenever she truly considered it. To her, of course, this still wasn’t nearly enough; if anything, now that her dreams had come true and her ovaries were continuously engorging far beyond what should even be possible, the most logical thing to do was to set a new goal for herself: letting those things bulge out hard enough that they eventually formed a single, uninterrupted bump, after which she was in the clear to pretend that she’d been pregnant all along! It wasn’t a good plan by any means, especially if those lumps just kept going; after a certain point, she’d have to explain why no babies had come out, why her belly was far beyond that of even hypers blessed with improved fertility, and why the actual roundness of her belly seemed off-center to where it should be. For the serval, however, these were all questions that her future self would have to deal with, a hypothetical version of Elizabeth who lived a few months ahead of her and could have these sorts of concerns offloaded onto them; nevermind the fact that she would be that person herself, all that Liz could really think to do was… nothing. By doing nothing, she had allowed her egg-makers to bloat; by doing nothing, she had given her body carte blanche to improve itself again and again, until she was left with a pair of ovaries that could probably compete for size with some of the larger land mammals, to say nothing of their ability to produce fertile eggs. That her period was still missing in action was highly indicative that something was off, and with her mind being in the breed-happy state that it was, Liz chose to interpret this as a sign that she was being prepared for a grand pregnancy, one that would take her as she was and turn her into a colossal broodmother to end all broodmothers. She would outcompete insect queens, those creatures who lived only to lay eggs and further the existence of the hive, she would birth more young than any bee or ant in existence, and she would do so while screaming for more and begging to be railed even harder from atop a throne of her gravid womb; then, and only then, would she be in a position to state whether or not she was truly satisfied, only to more than likely end up saying she still needed more… but for that to happen, she still needed someone to help.

It was a constant, and a rather fortunate one, that she couldn’t escape from: in order for her to make good use of those new ovaries, she needed to find a boytoy virile enough to stuff her so full of spunk that even the two lumps she had would look like nothing in comparison to the cumgut she was sure to sport, only to then turn all that delicious seed into young for her to carry. And not just any boytoy either, oh no; with her body being the way that it was, Liz would settle for nothing less than the best around, the one lover boy with the biggest dick, the biggest set of balls, and, on a secondary level if possible, a cute lil’ face her to mother over and dote on during her spare time. Not someone who would think twice when she waved her tits in their face and then bent over, but rather a breeder, someone who would see her needy slit and immediately realize that their job, their duty, was to plug it and keep thrusting until they came, then keep on going regardless until that belly they were filling literally couldn’t fill any faster. Surely, this shouldn’t be too difficult; with the hyper scene being what it was around town, there’d be no shortage of potential one-night stands would who love nothing more than to go home with someone like her, and all it’d take would be some form-fitting clothes and a bit of attitude to bring them all out into a neat little line. After all, had she not gotten implants precisely for that reason? Had she not made her tits big enough to compete with natural hypers because she wanted to experience what it was like to be split in half by a cock that was about half as long as she was tall? Forgoing that dream felt like a waste now that her body was ready to make good use of it, now that her very anatomy was revealed to be as malleable and size-hungry as the very people whose sizes she craved for; she was a hyper now, even if a very specific type of one, and as such it’d be incredibly easy for her to march her ass straight into some of the (literally) biggest clubs in town and impose herself on the largest, most cock-heavy lug that she could find in there, before dragging their sorry rear back to her place and proceeding to put some babies in her. Thus she decreed, thus she wanted, thus she would make happen, whether the universe liked it or not; shouldn’t be too hard, not with her kind of body.