Naughty Stories

ambrose birthing nightmare

Ambrose hardly notices anything at first, except for a slow yet continuous increase in his appetite. He goes from three regular meals to five, six in the first week, and although he tries to control himself when he realizes he is growing heavier and that his middle is becoming a little swollen, his stomach cramps in hunger every time he goes less than two hours without eating something. By the second week, it is larger enough that he has to resort to loosen clothing to hide it. By the third, he has swollen enough to a burden, and it’s when Ambrose accepts that something is wrong and he’s not just getting fat.

For one, it’s just his stomach getting bigger while the rest of his body remains roughly the same.

For two, it seems as if there’s a furnace inside him, boiling him from inside out.

Panicking and trying not to panic, he locks himself in his bedroom.

Two days after that it’s when something changes.

He is pacing trying to figure out what he should do, but he gets tired so easily these days that after a few minutes he’s forced to sit down on the bed, almost breathless. He wipes sweat from his brow, clothes sticking to him uncomfortably with beads trickling down his back, and reaches for his stomach pushing against the front of his t-shirt. It’s the size of a football now and firm when he presses and warmer than the rest of him. Since yesterday, it seems to pulse steadily and he can feel it now, as he splays his hand opens over his bloated navel. A soft breath scraps from his throat when something seems to react to his touch, shifting inside. He pants, his already flushed face from the heat fills to a dark red. This too—since yesterday.

There’s something inside him. Something alive.

How is that possible, he doesn’t know. Did that- that thing impregnated him when it fucked him all those days ago? How would that even work? His head spins, confused and frighted. His thoughts jumble when a strange, unfamiliar pressure surges through the core of him, rippling under his skin and he shudders, groaning heavily. “W-what-” It happens again, stronger, and his hands fall behind him on the bed as he arches with a gasp, barely registering his legs falling open on their own. Down, between his thighs, liquid bursts, soaking up his boxers and shorts instantly, darkening the fabric. Ambrose takes a shaky breath at that, a cold shiver climbing his back at the realization.

He barely manages to stumble into his bathroom before another surge of pressure has him collapsing against the sink, the muscles of his back as if twisting in painful cramps yet the inside of his thighs buzz, hot and quivering, and the noise he makes rings off the tile walls, filling the air. By the time he reaches the bathtub, the buzz seems to have clawing inside him and a different liquid is leaking from him now, stretching into thin transparent lines when he removes his boxers and the rest of his clothes and slicks his folds as he flops against the tub wall. The  next contraction hits him sooner than before and Ambrose clings to the tub, eyes squeezing shut. His body trembles harder, and relentlessly pulsations seem to converge towards his pussy—towards his hole, and he opens his legs without thinking, feet squeaking on the tile as he squirms and tosses his head to the side in denial. The weight inside him slowly stirs… downwards. Ambrose back leaves the wall, knuckles going white around the tub’s edges—his lips are straining open and something is coming out.

A dark, trembling thing slowly slips out, stringing juices from its abandoned home as it slops onto the bathtub, uncurling to reveal itself as a long tentacle. But it’s not over. The weight continues to dislocate. Another pressure surges through his pussy and Ambrose has to bite his lips to muffle his cries as another coiled body squeezes out with a viscous squelch. Tears roll down his cheeks as he stares at the ceiling. Not in pain but in terror of what is happening. Of the welling sensations deep in his loins, which could only be described as—No. Not pleasure. He is not feeling pleasure from birthing this- this twitching, endless thing, jostling against his strained insides and squirming against his walls. He is not— he is not…! His feet slip and squeak against the bathtub, trying and failing to find proper support as nails dig into the tile, chest heaving up and down in harsh short breaths. The trembles his body lapsed into under the harrowing ever-growing strain on his hole just can’t be from- from pleasure. It can’t.