Addicted II

Note: This is a story-prompt for skyshield.

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There was no moment that an infant wasn’t crying in her house. They had eleven newborns, three one year olds, and a two year old, who hardly understood why his father was so exhausted. John, of course, spent his days running around taking care of their litter of young children.

Emma’s last pregnancy had been rough. She had quickly become wheelchair bound, then later, bed bound, her belly sitting in her lap and resembling a bolder in its massiveness. It had been full of twitching movements, and she was left sprawled back against her mountain of pillows as John catered to her. Just the thought made her shiver. Emma had loved every moment of it.

Though she had given birth recently, Emma was still quite round. Her belly was so fat she looked eight months pregnant. She wore tight dresses around the house to show off her plump mound, her low necklines revealing the cleavage of her milk-bloated volleyball-sized breasts.

Emma tentatively approached her husband that afternoon. He had a baby on each arm, and was pushing a third with his foot in a rocking bassinette. Children wailed in the background, pretty much surrounding them. To Emma, it seemed impractical to try to get some of the babies to sleep when their siblings were crying, but what did she know?

“John I have news.” Emma help up a positive pregnancy test as she gave him a winning smile.

“Oh god,” said John in horror. “The vasectomy failed!?”

Little did John know, the vasectomy had never actually happened. Emma had paid off the doctor to claim he’d done the procedure when in actuality he had just sedated John, then given him a surgical cut and placed stitches in his groin for absolutely no reason.

Emma responded with a shrug and another smile. “When life gives you lemons…” she chimed

“Oh god,” John repeated. He looked like he wanted to bawl. Emma turned and grinned to herself as she left to get a snack.

Within a month, her fat mound had firmed a good deal, and even swelled slightly, as expected. Emma had utilized her heaviest dose of fertility drugs yet, and was expecting a good litter. She was almost afraid to see her OBGYN, but resolved to do so.

Her appointment was after she hit the second month mark. By then she looked as though she was nine months pregnant, and was happily waddling.

“Oh my goodness,” said her doctor following the scan. “Emma, you are quite pregnant. In fact, there are too many embryos to count. Proceeding with this is unquestionably inadvisable.”

Emma brushed the comments off. “Please. I’m a pro at this by now.” She winked.

The doctor looked terribly uneasy. “I cannot in good faith recommend—in fact, I would strongly disadvise you from—”

“Got it doc,” Emma cut the physician off as she pushed herself to her feet. She waddled off, arching her back, both to balance the mound and show off how large she was.

Emma looked the way she had when she was due with triplets by the third month. The mound was heavy, and her waddle more awkward than ever. By the fourth, her back was straining, and she looked as though she had a beach ball attached to her torso. She panted heavily, and poured sweat, drenching her clothing to tight transparency. She spent most of her time perched on ass, munching away, as her belly heaved in her lap, tight and pressurized.

By the fifth month, Emma was still spending a lot of time on couch, hot and flushed. John had to help her stand, and walk for that matter. Her belly looked overinflated, and was approaching the size of a bolder. John got her an extra-wide walker, and adjusted it so that her mound could perch on the seat, and she could thus roll herself around. It was still exhausting.

By the sixth month, Emma was upgraded to an extra wide wheelchair, but it soon became unbalanced, and nearly tipped over at times from the weight in her front. John put bricks at the shelf on the bottom, but it hardly helped. Her large breasts heaved and squirted as her belly pushed up beneath them.

When she was seven months along, Emma was bed bound, squashed beneath her massive mound, as it heaved and throbbed extraordinarily. She had a medical team to adjust her continually, her belly full of twitching movements, as it grew in pressurized heaves that left her grunting. She was slowly filling out the king-sized mattress. John slept in a cot beside the bed, when he wasn’t busy in the nursery.

By the eighth month, the bed creaked from the weight of her body, her breasts were jammed beneath her chin, and she was full to busting. Her doctor came by daily and begged to induce, but in a strained voice, Emma refused.

Nine months pregnant, Emma’s mound was jerking, heaving, stretching, pushing, continually pushing, having outspanned her arms and legs by then. She could barely manage to peek her head over her swollen form.

Her water broke violently, causing Emma to scream. It was so forceful, a baby immediately jammed its ways between her pelvis and crowned, practically popping out of her. Her body jerked and spasmed with violent contractions. And despite the pain and discomfort, Emma was in absolute bliss.