Medication, Part 8 - Female Version

Story Directory: $5 Patrons
Story Directory: $10 Patrons
Story Directory: $20 Patrons

Story Schedule

Note: This is a female version of Medication.

Summary: All her life, Tris’s mother forced her to take a daily medication, but  never really told her why. After Tris goes off to college, she starts  skipping doses, and finally realizes just what the medication is for.  Monthly expansion. Contains: Female: belly expansion, breast expansion, and more.

Previous Chapter

-

Tris felt so weak most of the time. She came in and out of consciousness on a continuous basis, and every time, her belly was a little bigger. The disease had completely drained her energy reserves, and it was a struggle to regain her strength. The stress of the pregnancy didn’t help. It was a while before she could manage to stay awake for even a few hours at a time, but it was worth it. Soon she was able to hold her baby for a full hour, and even nurse little—though this, too, drained her. With her body, grew her feelings of uneasiness. The language barrier between Tris and the tribe was a huge problem, and she couldn’t even tell how long she had been there. She used her growth to estimate how much time had passed. It seemed she was nearing a full month in the forest, judging by how large she was getting. Huge, really. It left her uneasy and worried. If it was taking her this long to regain her strength, what was she going to do if she fell pregnant again? After another pregnancy, she would have more babies than she could physically carry out of the forest with her.

She didn’t know what she was going to do. This was the largest pregnancy she had ever carried. She realized that the day that she was helped to her feet. She felt unbalanced, her massive belly bulging out of the canvas shirt that had been strewn over her. Just the thought of her impending birth made her wince.

Tris was baffled, still, by her growth. Malnourished as she had become, the baby should have been small, not large. She was relieved that her baby was a healthy, if extraordinary, size. But that relief would be short-lived if she couldn’t push it out of her. What if she needed surgical intervention? What would happen to them?

A sob shuddered though her throat before she even realized it, and she was overcome by a wave of dizziness. The hands on either side of her, aiding her in standing upright, helped guide her back down to her bed. Tris was appreciative, because she didn’t think her legs would have supported her for much longer.

In another day, Tris was able to walk, with assistance. She had been clothed in a long, soft animal skin, that she thought to be a dress. The tribespeople didn’t seem to understand her, yet they were heartbreakingly welcome, and helpful. They were fascinated by her, and had drawn odd clay symbols on her belly. Tris hadn’t had the heart to wipe if off. The tribespeople had facilitated the slow process of her recovery, and she couldn’t have been more grateful.

Tris was still growing. The dress was stretched tight against her abdomen. She suspected it was a maternity gown, yet it was still too small.

By then Tris experienced small twinges in her gut, but nothing substantial. She still hadn’t gone into active labor, and she was starting to panic. She grew rapidly with every passing day, and she didn’t think she could afford to grow any bit larger. The tribespeople watched her in fascination as she panted and waddled beneath the weight of it all.

She felt doomed in a way, but she tried to stay ambitious. She just needed a little more time. She would regain her strength, give birth, then make the long trek back to the retrieval site, and she would worry about the rest later. She just had to get home.

Tris was guided to a chair, and though she was incredibly weary, it felt good to be upright for once, seated normally. The weight of her gut shifted against her pelvis and sat on her lap, rather than leaning on her aching back as it often did when she was lying down.

She stared at herself, absently running her fingers over her mound. She couldn’t believe how huge she was getting.

The old woman she had met on her first day there brought her a hot cup of stew. Tris still wrinkled her nose at the taste, but she had learned to gulp it down.

Her month-old child was brought over, but by then, Tris couldn’t even hold her, not at her size. She gave a sad smile and simply stroked the fine hair as one of the girls held and rocked the child, who whimpered as though in protest of the separation. It made Tris’s heart clench and her milk seep into her clothing, but she didn’t even have the energy to be embarrassed about it.

Another girl came over. She gave Tris a wide, smooth piece of tree bark. There were clay marks on it. For a while Tris studied it, not understanding what it meant. There were several individual marks lining it—slashes. She counted them, and came to the number twenty-eight.

“I don’t unders…” she trailed off, and looked up at the girl, who in return, smiled encouragingly. Tris felt her heart sink.

Unless she was mistaken, the slashes signified…the number of days that had passed since Tris’s arrival. Twenty-eight meant that she had been here less than a month. She wasn’t even necessarily due to give birth yet. All this time she had suspected she was overdue, but it seemed that her baby still had more growing to do.

Occupied with her anxieties, Tris went back to her tent to lie down. The next two days were largely spent in bed, as her body tightened and tensed, and she tried to mentally prepare herself for the coming labor. The size and weight of the baby was a lot on her thin body. She was still malnourished from the brunt of the disease. Her mound felt tight and suffocating, outgrowing her flanks, heaving as though it wanted to burst away from her insufficient frame.

Finally the pain came, and she didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. She shook and sobbed as contractions violently barreled through her, the pain made more intense and exhausting by her weakened state.

She panted, mumbled curses, and fidgeted ceaselessly. Sometimes she sat up to shift the pressure from her back, but it never helped with the pain, it just changed it, or moved it. She held her flushed face. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” She needed medical attention. She needed surgery or—something. The pain was crippling. The baby was too big. There was something wrong with it.

The old woman tipped fluid into Tris’s mouth the scarce times Tris would accept it. Tris pulled her shirt over her belly, rubbing her hands over the flushed, throbbing mound, as it jutted and jerked. She was soaked it sweat, her heart pounding, and her throat burning. “Please, just, nnghhh…ooohhh,” she groaned, arching, crying, pleading with her body and her baby in her desperate, delirious state.

But the baby would have none of that.

It sat low on her body, her pelvis aching and hips tensing as it slowly, painstakingly, worked its way through her birth canal. She couldn’t believe her poor fortune in life, being a woman who developed continuous pregnancies even when sexually inactive. It sucked. It was torture. “Fuhh-fuckk,” she groaned, hugging herself, hunched over and whimpering.

It was coming now, but it was unfamiliar. Nothing about this felt right to her. Her nipples ached and seeped. This was so fucking hard. The baby sat low now, pushing, stretching, and she felt like she might pass out. She couldn’t do this. It was too hard. The urge to push came but she whined in protest. Her trembling hand clutched her navel.

Bronzed limbs reached down for her. She had hardly even noticed the spectators to her struggles. She fought against them. “Mmmghh…nooo…” she groaned, as she was contorted, pushed onto her knees, her face shoved down into the blankets beneath her.

The burning pain was secondary to how arduous this was. The baby crowning, her huge gut shoving against her thighs. “Ngghh…” Her body seemed to push automatically, an instinct it couldn’t resist. It went on for what felt like hours, by which point she was aching and wheezing, her vision blurring in and out. She hardly knew who she was or where she was anymore. Just the stretching and the pain. Finally pushing through.

When it was over, any celebratory grimace or doze was cut short before it could even start, because she was still pain, her stomach still clenching forcefully.

By then, her attendants had laid her newest born on her chest, not realizing something was wrong. It began to nurse, but Tris cried out, shuddering through yet another wave of tension.

There was a yammering of voices. Someone was gesturing. Tris could hardly register what was going on, feeling locked in her own head by then, and the sheer brutality of her existence.

“Fuuhhh…” she wheezed as the pain radiated down her back and to her thighs. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. Maybe she had been sicker than she’d realized. Maybe the birth had been too much. It felt almost as though she was—

She was still having contractions.

She cried and resisted, but those aiding her pushed her along. That, and the baby inside of her. Far more rapidly than the twin had been delivered, Tris gave birth to the newest infant.

When it was over, she was sprawled back with both babies suckling. Her month-old had been laid across her stomach at some point when she laid there dazed, going in and out of consciousness. Feeding them was draining, but it hardly made a difference. She was limp. Boneless. She couldn’t have lifted a finger had she wanted to.

Someone was stroking her hair, almost in a…motherly fashion. She lifted her gaze to the older woman who had personally taken charge of her.

“Thank you,” Tris rasped. She knew the woman didn’t understand her words but hoped the sentiment would get through somehow.

The elderly woman continued to stroke Tris’s head and murmur.

Tris drifted off.

-

Tris stared up at the tent ceiling, loosely holding the twins against her chest.

It was her first time in a week of full consciousness, of feeling alert enough to contemplate.

She was still stunned that she had given birth to twins. It had never happened before. And of all the times it could have happened, it had to be this one. With her lost in the middle of a forest thousands of miles from home, and relying on the kindness of a reclusive tribe she should not have been in contact with in the first place.

She was unnerved by the vicious cycle of her incapacity. Just as she had begun to recuperate from the disease, her pregnancy had left her drained, weak, and dependent all over again. Why had she had twins anyway? Would it happen again? God, she hoped not. But then, that aspect was entirely arbitrary, wasn’t it?

She couldn’t just lay there and keep having babies. Soon she would have more than she could take care of. More than she could travel with. She wasn’t exactly in a place where she could pick up a triple-stroller. And asking the tribespeople to help her transport them was out of the question. Who knew what sort of viruses or bacteria she may have already unwittingly exposed them to just being there. They didn't have the immunities necessary for the outside world.

The following day, Tris heaved herself out of bed, swaying slightly, but remaining balanced. She forced herself to eat and drink despite the feelings of nausea sitting deep in her throat. She managed to sit upright for a full hour, and every day, she pushed herself a little more.

Her belly was already beginning to firm up, push out. She was pregnant again, but she tried not to think about it, because when she did, she became panicked and distressed, which served as a distraction. She had to stay focused. She was going to get out of there before her condition impeded her mobility. She was going to walk back to the pick-up site, and take her babies home. She was going to see her mother and assure her that everything was alright.

And more importantly than anything else, she needed to get back on her medication.

Next Chapter