The Curious Case of Hyper Pregnancy

Hello again all! This story goes back to my typically kinky work. Let me know what you think. As always, make sure to give me any good ideas you have! ;)

Kinks: Pregnancy, Hyper, Expansion, Lactation, Voyeurism, Feeding, Public Use, Mind Break, Victorian-Era Doctor Women

Within an aging journal, its leather covered cracked and its pages worn and wrinkling, is a name. "Diary, Property of Dr. Rosemary Thimbleton." Past the introductory page are a variety of medical case studies: most of them standard, common affairs, 'till about halfway through -- where an odd-looking stain punctuates an affliction most peculiar.

24th of March, 1902

This morning I was summoned to the abode of Mrs. Marigold. You'll recall her as that woman who did her damndest to refuse the anti-congestionals I prescribed her last autumn. 31 years old, Mrs. Marigold complained of nausea, exhaustion, appetite issues, and an alarming swelling of the abdomen. Upon my arrival, I was greeted by the woman herself, her wavy, brown hair in a bow and wearing white, frilly loungewear. Her expression was tired, yet slightly unhinged, and she appeared to be heavily pregnant. Her tanned, rounded belly was clearly visible beneath the front of her gown, as were her erect, darkened nipples. Assuming a case of lack luster sexual knowledge, I plainly explained to Mrs. Marigold what she was suffering from, yet was met with resistance. Supposedly, her husband was impotent (a closely-kept secret held by the couple) and she hadn't been seeing any other suitors. Her husband professed both his wife's loyalty and her acute knowledge of his reproductional issues.

I sat the woman down in an armchair, and had her disrobe to expose her bulging gut. I found the typical, distended shape of a baby-heavy belly. Alongside this, a cursory listen with my stethoscope revealed not one, but two distinct heartbeats within her womb. I congratulated Mrs. Marigold on the twins, and insisted that short of miraculous conception, potent semen deposited within her womb was the only explanation for her newly rounded figure. After more disagreements and arguing, I squeezed her left breast to prove a point -- both myself and her husband were amused at the squirt of milk that erupted from her nipple. She, however, was not. Furious, Mrs. Marigold shouted at me. "It's impossible, I say! I only started showing symptoms last month!"

This piqued my curiosity. I let her continue, and she talked me through the progression of her new developments. First, she found her favorite corsets uncomfortable to wear. They felt tight around the chest and stomach near the end of February. Additionally, her dresses sat more snugly around her waist, and she found her nipples tender and aching towards the evenings. A full body photo provided by the couple illustrated the change in figure as well -- Mrs. Marigold of but one year prior was a thin girl, with a bony waist and bust that could be misconstrued with that of a young man's. Now, her silhouette was that of an hourglass, with hips rounding out like a watermelon and breasts like tanned, teardrop cantaloupes. I tried and failed not to feel self conscious about my own, meager chest. Accompanying these changes was an abnormal excitement in Mrs. Marigold's sex drive, something that both she and her husband didn't mind: at least till her burgeoning stomach began disrupting the missionary position.

This is when I began to write this entry, sitting on the ground beneath the still-nude woman while her husband prepares us both peppermint tea. Her nausea has cropped up once more, and supposedly it helps. I shall update you, dear diary, once I am able to sort out

The odd-looking stain has soaked the next page, and the three that follow. A frantic, scribbling writing re-emerges on the following unruined portion.

This case is most peculiar. Shortly after Mr. Marigold returned with tea, his wife became distractingly aroused (it was instrusive to the both of us -- her legs couldn't stop rubbing against one another and the scent from her slit was distracting my journaling.) We allowed her to masturbate on the spot to quench her lust, for my examination's sake and undoubtedly Mr. Marigold's personal amusement. It was only when she squirted a jet of fluid onto my shoulder and my journal's pages did I realize how ferocious and animate her sexual desires were. Her moans echoed throughout the house, and she begged her husband to "fuck her right in front of that stuck-up doctor whore." Her fluids fountained out from her cunt like a waterfall, staining the antique rug beneath the now-glistening chair she sat upon. Her legs twitched and convulsed. Her lactating breasts and swollen stomach bounced and jostled along with her insistent clitoral rubbing. She finally stopped on what must've been her third or fifth orgasm, eyes rolling back into her head as she sunk into the chair with a deep, airy sigh.

With his wife soon fast asleep, Mr. Marigold explained that this was not the first time such an episode had occurred. The crippling arousals were rare at first, but were now happening almost daily. If she was went without sating her urges, she was liable to make a mess of her dresses with milk and squirt, and could end up soliciting complete strangers for sex. She could hardly put her mind to anything else till she was satisfied. Hearing this debilitating mental state being put forth as a symptom, I immediately cleansed myself in the bathroom and did my best to excuse myself from the home. I offered some standard depressants and promised to return the following day. Should this sickness be infectious, I cannot risk my own mind and body falling into a similar state. Not until I devise a cure.

The next entry is coupled with numerous illustrated diagrams of heavily pregnant women, drawn by the author herself. Their exaggerated features fit Dr. Thimbleton's in-text descriptions -- yet they are detailed to the point of obsession.

2nd Of April, 1902

In the week following that strange case of sudden pregnancy, I bore witness to a variety of things. Two of my house calls resulted in the discovery of additional afflicted. The first was a pale woman of 22 years with unruly, short blonde hair and a similarly fiery personality. She stood at 5' even, and had a face like a pixie's. Her name was Rhapsody. She was furious that her suddenly distended gut and jiggling hips were getting in the way of the button-ups and high-waisted pants she preferred to wear. Though her father disparaged the "un-womanly" attire all together, I felt sympathy for the girl. My own sense of dress is similar to Rhapsody's, and there is no pair of trousers on Earth I could fit into should my womb swell to the size of hers. It's distension mimicked Mrs. Marigolds, though Rhapsody's breast size and subsequent lactation was much more severe: her white dress shirts, when they actually managed to fit around her football-sized-teats, became translucent within an hour of wearing them. No amount of padding or fabric-dense bras seemed to be able to stop the tide of humiliating milk. I performed my examination while she held her chest over the bathtub.

Rhapsody's father assumed her pregnancy was the result of too many nights spent with unscrupulous men of the streets, but his daughter told a different story: One of similar unscrupulousness, but held with more female suitors than male. She first noticed her swelling proportions after an afternoon with her current lady friend, four weeks prior to our meeting (a whole week sooner than Mrs. Marigold's developments.) Rhapsody hadn't seen her recently for fear of endangering their romance, given her appearance, but quickly started to fantasize about her lover regardless. She began to touch herself in front of me, groping her tits as they sprayed creamy streams into the tub before us. I didn't stop her -- both to give an adequate examination of her symptoms and...with a lustful fascination, I must confess. She ejaculated a constant, thick stream of dew from her snatch for multiple seconds upon orgasm, making my exit across the slippery bathroom tile a bit precarious.

The next day, I went to the address of Rhapsody's lover, a woman who lived just a few streets away from my own residence. Her name was Deidre. Newly 20, and the heir to a mild fortune, she lived a life of gourmet foods in a house all to herself. Her dark skin was already soft and rounded before becoming infected, thanks to an abundant diet of pastries and marinated meats. One could have initially mistaken her figure with that of a mother's: With buttocks that totally encompasssed barstools and breasts that hung just above her belly button, thighs as thick as pillows and every step making her whole body jostle --

Perhaps I am being overly descriptive. Regardless, she was a beautiful woman -- her curling black hair outlined a circular face with pouting lips and deep-set eyes that drew me into them as well as her plight. Much like the others, the source of her rapidly developing pregnancy was a complete mystery. Her muffin-top belly had ballooned out significantly, and her hips could scarcely fit between doorways. Any dress she wore exposed the deep-set crack of her ass, something she overtly displayed and I took vigorous note of. Over the past few weeks, much of her inheritance had been spent on a number of sexual toys that littered her home, some of intimidating size. However, with her sudden growth, they were difficult to use without assistance. I obliged in bringing her to climax multiple times throughout the day and the morning following. A few times she stumbled backwards and landed atop my body: It could be that I am developing symptoms of my own, but being smothered beneath a young mother's wet, sweaty behind was almost enough to make me orgasm. I know I must be careful going forward. I know that I am slipping, and have most likely become infected myself. Yet I cannot help but indulge in the pleasures of the pregnant.

The diagrams now become hastily scrawled, and constant, some taking up entire pages. All of them have taken up a more sexual nature; thick-bellied bodies rubbing against one other with copious heart symbols surrounding them. Multiple stains blot the text.

16th of April, 1902

The last two weeks have been challenging, to say the least. First, I have established a plan of care for my three patients: Mrs. Marigold is to be satiated by her husband as much as possible, and when he cannot, I have no problems stepping in. I've borrowed one of Deidre's strap ons and it has proven to be an indispensable tool. Savagely fucking Mrs. Marigold and yanking her hair like a horse's reins proves to be incredibly cathartic for the both of us. The sight of her ill-fitting evening wear barely containing her tyre-sized belly never fails to arouse me...Her husband and I often "tag out" whilst caring for her. Her nausea and stomach aches seem to be sated by gentle rubbing and kissing, though she also appears to enjoy us grinding our genitals on it. The two of us eagerly partake in both forms of "worship", as she calls it. Moving her from room to room is now a joint effort between the three of us -- her legs are far too weak to lift her belly alone.

Rhapsody requires a different method of treatment. Her tits have swollen to the girth of pumpkins, and though her belly is as burdening as the others', her chest deserves special attention. Her areola are the size of plates at this point, with nipples that often engorge themselves to the proportions of golf balls, barely small enough to fit my mouth around. After I've filled my jars with her lactate I drink as much as my stomach can hold. Though I'm proud of the amount I can chug, it would be a lie to say that none of it goes to waste. Even after both methods of storage, much of her pearly, creamy ambrosia flows straight down the drain. Even with her father's assistance in consumption, their icebox is packed to the brim with breast milk. We shall need more volunteers, and a hell of a tailor.

Deidre, unfortunately, has been confined to her living room the past few days. The doorways have become far too small for her hips, now in excess of three feet wide. I've continued feeding her the fattening diet she's grown accustomed to, though her normal portions no longer sate her. Thankfully, it is not my own money paying for the crate-fulls of food I shovel down her throat. She enjoys me feeding the foodstuffs to her by hand as I finger-fuck her swollen, sopping cunt; her vaginal lips alone are enough to conceal my whole hand. Occasionally, we are met with peeping Toms and Theresea's gazing through the first floor windows. Deidre is unconcerned about their presence. She insists that she enjoys "putting on a show for them" -- perhaps there's a show woman in me as well.

Lastly, as suspected, I have begun to show developments of my own. My tweed vests and belted pants were the first to feel tight around the waist, and I was lucky enough to watch my buttons pop and buckle burst as my seed-laden gut grew. Though I was never one for dresses, I appreciate their loose-fitting nature now more than ever. Additionally, they allow me to wear nothing beneath them for maximum comfort, and allow me to expose my stomach with one swift gesture: I may admire it whenever I choose. I rub it with lotion in the mornings and evenings, and stare down at my growing cleavage with glee and perversion. I am exhausted by the end of the day; I want nothing more than for someone to care for me as I do for others. I have added my own lactation into some of my typical tinctures, and get weak in the knees as I watch my patients consume them. I feel myself dripping whenever I approach another pregnant woman, and so desperately wish to pin them beneath my broad, glistening hips. I want to spray her belly with milk while I drown her in my girlcum, till both of us are spraying like fountains.

I have never had sex. I've always been a virgin. But now I reap its rewards.

The following pages are spotty, both in text and fluid. There is no date, and the ink has taken on a peculiar, white-ish hue. It smells of milk.

The three other women and I now share a residence, my own home, so that we mothers may brave this ordeal together. Each of us now desperately struggle with our developments, as does my house's structural integrity. Mrs. Marigold can now only lay atop her belly, as any other position is liable to crush her beneath the weight of her own babies. Her grapefruit of a protruding belly button is it's most sensitive spot, now almost functioning as an additional clitoris. The workers we've hired, as well as Mr. Marigold, must coordinate themselves in lifting and transporting the woman. Their efforts to sate her lust are similarly cooperative. Step stools are necessary to put her hips at thrusting height, and raincoats are employed to escape her constant, gushing showers. While some could find the lifestyle pathetic, she doesn't seem to mind -- that is, if her mind can think about anything else.

With the two lovers reunited, they are now inseparable. Deidre has proven to be a gluttonous pig for Rhapsody's milk, even as she's smothered by them. Rhapsody's tits are filled to the proportions of dressers, and Deidre's ass is too wide to even fit in the bathroom. Even with Deidre's equally potent pregnancy, I wouldn't be surprised if her gut was more milk than child at this point. Perhaps the excess fat will be beneficial in the end: it is certianly a hindrence when parting her thighs for fucking. On average, each of us orgasm nearly three times an hour, and nights are often spent sleepless when there is no-one to ravage our holes. That being said, our door is always open for volunteers, of which there have been many. Some follow the trail of liquid to our abode, while others heed the call for a "donkey dicked stud to put more twins into us."

As for me, any further care or research into our affliction has been put on hold till we birth our burden. I've taken it as a much needed vacation -- and one to explore as many sexual fantasies as I can muster. I've been fucked by man, woman, and everything in between. I've sprayed milk onto cocks like lube, I've done journaling whilst being pounded by two suitors at the same time. I've even had the workers assist me in fucking others, and pinning someone beneath my titanic belly is a fantastic pleasure. While I cannot reach my cunt now, I've drowned countless people beneath it. But a recent discovery has unveiled something even more pleasurable to think about, one that I have --

A large stain ruins the rest of the page.

One that even now, I squirt thinking about. The help has assisted me with my stethoscope, and I have totaled the number of children we are to welcome into the world. By my count, Mrs. Marigold will be welcoming 19, Rhapsody 13, Deidre 15 and myself 11. 58 children total between all of us, kicking and turning within our wombs. What's more, is they've all increased in activity -- we will no doubt be birthing them soon. Yet, what a life to pass up -- one of endless delicacy, endless worship and carnal pleasure. How am I to move on from this? What was the cause of all of this? What

My water just broke.

In the days that followed the Birthing of the Mothers Four, as they came to be called, their story attracted the focus of the world at large. Each of the mothers were able to deliver their payloads happy and healthily, and received total support from fans, onlookers, and those that assisted them. Soon after, the cause of their conception was identified -- a faulty batch of tea, contaminated by the countless ejaculations of spiteful workers. Even so, they didn't lose their jobs: In fact, the beverage became quite popular, and the Mothers Four were joined by dozens of others who, as Dr. Thimbleton put it, "could not help but indulge in the pleasures of the pregnant."