#a fletcher
(Hey! Long time lurker, first time submitter, you know how it is. First time writing for this kink but it’s been a big fantasy of mine for years. I’ll take the pseudonym Fletcher, if it isn’t taken! Thanks for all the lovely work you do at IYP!)
Imagine this is your job. You carry babies. A lot of them. It’s, in many ways, a typical nine to five. You show up to work a few minutes early, footsteps echoing down long linoleum halls. You clock in to work, you stuff your clothes in your too-tiny locker, and you make your way to your room. Like every carrier employed by the facility, you have a small room to yourself. On the outside is posted a photo of you, a little blurb about why you enjoy the job (most people don’t read that) and some basic information on your bloodline and genetics (many people read that). Nowhere does it say your name.
On the other side of the door is a bed that, at the present moment, seems far too large for you, but you’ll grow into it as the day goes on. After taking the cocktail of hyperfertility pills that the facility has under lock and key, there’s nothing to do but make yourself comfortable in your bed and wait for customers to arrive. You reach under the bed and attach the milk pumps that’ll drain you into the carrier milk storage — maybe a little early to put them on when you haven’t started your lactation today yet, but you can’t help being eager. You’re getting a little bored losing yourself in the rhythm of the pumps pulling on your nipples, when you hear the door open. Your first customer of the day. You don’t know who he is, of course, but you know that he paid to be here, booked the wing that your room is in, and he’s chosen your womb as the one he wants to fuck a baby into. He’s one you’ll be bragging about to your coworkers later, you think to yourself, he’s very good-looking. The man eyes your naked body while latching the door shut behind him. He makes quick work of his pants and you’re not surprised when he’s already hard; they usually are. You’re more than happy to lie back and take it as he climbs onto the bed and fucks you. You don’t cum, but that’s fine. You will later. The man walks out of the facility with a receipt listing the date, your employee number, and which customer of the day he was for you; when you give birth at the end of the day, he’ll know which baby is his because it’ll be the first to come out of you. Not long after he finishes inside you, you feel the first pregnancy taking hold. Your body feels pleasantly warm. You watch as your stomach pushes out, slowly, taking its sweet time. Your hips shift, wider. Ah! There’s your milk. You can’t help making a noise as the pumps finally draw their first drops of creamy white from your tits. It quickly becomes a steady stream, constant pumping of your tits that are themselves getting ever so slightly bigger. Another guy comes in, fucks you, leaves. And another. And another. The whole time, you’re gradually getting bigger and bigger. You zone out, losing yourself in the pleasure of the sex and the expansion. You think you’ve cum, but you couldn’t say how many times. A couple hours into your shift, you’re already huge. About eight clients’ babies are growing inside you. Your stomach is bigger than a medicine ball, your tits a basketball each. The shifting of your hips, soft cracks as they reacclimate to childbearing, is constant. You’re incredibly heavy. This is nowhere near as big as you’ll get. The customers that come at midday and beyond tend to be the type who get off on the sight of your ballooned body. You can’t help making little noises at the men who reach around your stomach to squeeze your teats, laughing about what a giant pregnant cow you are while they fuck yet another baby into you. Men who run their hands over your belly even as it’s too big to wrap one’s arms around. Men who dig their fingernails into your hips as they growl a promise about giving you twins or triplets (your pills guard against that so it’s easier to tell whose baby is whose, but the sentiment is still pretty exciting). At this point, you’ve finally grown into your large bed. You’re as wide as you are tall, and you can’t see the top of your stomach anymore. Your huge udders, comparable in size to how your belly looked just a few hours earlier, fall to either side of your stomach, still producing milk at a constant rate — they don’t seem relieved of the burden of milk at all, if anything they’ve just gotten bigger and bigger and made more and more. You lost count of how many babies must be inside you after about twenty. It’s more than that; you know that much. Your stomach threatens to brush the ceiling. You’re fucking huge. At 4pm, the person that enters your room is not a customer, but one of the facility’s midwives. You have an hour left on your shift, and it’s to be spent pushing out all these babies. The midwife administers your second cocktail of drugs for the day. These induce labor and replace the pain of childbirth with pleasure. Not long after the syringe is poked into you, your first contractions start. You whimper. You’ve done this every day since starting the job, of course, so birth isn’t a big deal. The midwife takes each baby carefully and praises you for how well you’re doing, and after a long, laborious (haha!) process of pushing, you’ve gotten all 29 healthy babies out. That’s going to be very pretty on your paycheck. The midwife injects your third and final round of drugs before leaving with the babies. These ones more or less reverse the effects of the pregnancies on your body — your hips narrow back down, your tits expel the last of their milk before returning to normal size, the stretch marks fade from your skin. Nobody would know your day job from looking at you. You finally take the milk pumps off and tuck them back under your bed. You get up from the bed that once again dwarfs you, thankful it’s not your job to change the sheets before morning. You are employed by a very well-run facility. Clothes back on and clocked out of work, you head home. You can’t wait to go back to work tomorrow.
