Pregnant Slut, Ready to Burst

This story is about Klara, a seven-months-pregnant woman who feels invisible, heavy, and sexually forgotten -- until an unexpected encounter at the mall reawakens her deepest desires.

Klara moved like she was wading through thick honey.

Every step came with effort now -- a roll of her hips, a press of her hand to the small of her back, a slight wince she tried to disguise as a sigh. Seven months pregnant. Her belly stretched tight and beautiful under the pale knit dress she'd chosen -- not for sexiness, not anymore, but for stretch, for comfort, for the illusion of ease.

Still, her thighs brushed with every step. Her breasts, fuller and lower than before, ached against the soft cup of her wireless bra. And she felt... huge. Huge and alone.

The mall wasn't busy -- midweek, midmorning. A few moms with strollers. A teenage couple sharing a pretzel. No one looked at her. Not in that way. Not anymore.

She passed the lingerie shop without meaning to. Then stopped. Backed up.

It was a small boutique -- delicate brass hangers, dim lighting, the kind of place she hadn't let herself enter in months. She stared through the glass at a silk chemise, navy blue with black lace that dipped low across the belly. A mannequin wore it effortlessly. Slim, narrow-hipped, flat-stomached. Nothing like Klara.

Still. Her hand rested on her belly as it kicked gently. As if the child inside her wanted to feel what desire was like again, even through her skin.

She stepped inside.

The scent was soft: rosewater, powdered musk, something faintly citrus. The salesgirl didn't look up at first -- early twenties, effortlessly stylish, black jeans painted on, a tank top that clung like oil to a dancer's body.

Klara felt the weight of comparison like a slap.

"Can I help you find something?" the girl asked, finally glancing up. Polite. Kind. Neutral.

Klara hesitated. Her voice felt foreign. "I was just... looking."

The girl smiled professionally. "Let me know if you need sizes. We have a few maternity-friendly options over here too."

Maternity-friendly.

Klara nodded, but her gaze drifted -- not to the cotton shelf bras and high-waist panels in soft pinks and dove grey. But to the corner display: garter sets, lace robes, mesh slips that wouldn't hide a thing.

She used to wear that kind of thing.

Not to seduce. Not always.

Sometimes just because she could.

Now...

Now she felt like a vessel. Beautiful, sure. Sacred, maybe. But not wanted.

She ran her fingers across a deep burgundy teddy -- the lace soft, almost obscene in its delicacy. She imagined herself in it. Her round belly pressing forward, her nipples dark and swollen, visible through the mesh. Her thighs thick and soft. Her hips spilling out on either side.

Could that be sexy?

Could she still be touched like that?

She felt the heat before she knew she was flushed.

"You okay?" the salesgirl asked gently.

Klara looked up, startled. "Yeah. Yes. Sorry. Just... remembering."

The girl smiled. "It's always good to remember."

Klara laughed softly. "Not always."

She didn't buy anything.

Nothing fit quite right.

But she walked out of the store trembling -- not with shame, not quite -- but with something deeper. A hunger that had nothing to do with food. A desire she thought had curled up and gone quiet.

But it was awake now.

And it had teeth.

Klara walked slowly, one hand beneath the curve of her belly, the other dragging lightly along the brushed steel of the mall's second-floor railing. The central atrium opened beneath her -- escalators gliding quietly, soft voices echoing from the food court far below.

She wasn't walking anywhere in particular. Just drifting. Floating, almost. Her belly, enormous and proud, led her like a tide-swollen sail. The knit of her dress clung over it like second skin, stretching taut where the fabric met the curve of her navel -- deep and obvious through the thin ribbing. Her body felt like architecture now. Round and firm and beautifully obscene.

She passed a bookstore. A shoe shop. A smoothie stand.

And then she heard it. A voice.

"Holy shit. Klara?"

She turned -- startled at first -- and then her face broke into something soft. Pleased. Genuine.

"Mark?"

He stood there, a few paces back, one hand still half-raised from where he'd gestured. Same scruffy stubble. Taller than she remembered. His shoulders broader now, chest thick under a black hoodie that hung open over a faded band tee. He looked like someone who still skated sometimes -- but paid taxes.

She laughed. "I didn't even see you."

Mark stepped closer, eyes fixed on her with open warmth -- and something else. Something slower, heavier, tucked behind the smile.

"Damn," he said, glancing her up and down -- openly, not even pretending to be subtle. "You look... different."

Klara raised her brows. "Gee, thanks."

"No, I mean--" he grinned, then ran a hand through his hair. "Pregnant obviously, but... wow."

She flushed slightly. Aware again of just how visible she was. Her belly wasn't cute. It was massive. Round like a drum. Heavy. The hem of her dress rose higher in front, catching slightly on the underswell of her bump. Her breasts looked swollen and unreal under the fabric -- high and pendulous, clearly braless, her nipples dark and softly pointed in the filtered mall light.

Mark's gaze lingered. Not just on her face. Not just once.

Klara shifted her weight.

"How far along?" he asked, casually -- but his voice was lower now. Like he wanted to hear her say it.

"Seven months."

His brows lifted, lips parted slightly. "Seven?"

"Yeah."

"You sure it's not twins?"

She laughed -- too loudly. Her face flushed even deeper. "Jesus, Mark."

"I mean--fuck. That's a real belly."

She exhaled, not sure whether to be flattered or mortified. But the way he said it...

Real.

There was a pause then. A heavy breath between them. A current under the silence.

Mark tilted his head slightly. "You look amazing, though. Seriously."

She looked down -- just for a moment -- then back up at him, her voice a little quieter now. "I don't feel amazing."

He frowned, but gently. "No? You should."

Klara shifted again. She felt every part of her body all at once -- the stretch of her belly, the fullness between her thighs, the way her nipples tingled beneath the knit. She hadn't meant to wear anything tight. But now she felt watched. And it wasn't unpleasant.

Mark looked at her belly again -- this time slower. Not glancing. Studying.

"It's just so..." He trailed off.

"What?"

"Big," he said, almost reverently. "Firm-looking. Round. Like... I dunno. Perfect."

Klara's breath caught in her throat.

No one had said anything like that. Not her doctor. Not the cashier at the baby store. Not even her reflection.

Mark's eyes flicked to hers. Then down again.

And for a moment, she swore he wanted to touch it.

"I've never seen a belly like that in person," he added. "It's like you're... glowing."

Klara's lips parted. Not in objection. In surprise. And pleasure. The word hung between them.

Glowing.

She smiled, a little shaky. "That's just sweat."

Mark chuckled -- but didn't disagree.

She could feel it now. The heat between her legs. The slow throb behind her cunt. A part of her that hadn't lit up in weeks -- not since her breasts had started leaking, not since she'd stopped touching herself at night out of frustration and grief.

But here he was.

Looking at her like she wasn't just pregnant.

Looking at her like she was erotic because of it.

She swallowed. "It's been a while since I've seen anyone from before."

He nodded. "Well, I'm glad it's me."

And then -- with a half-smile that made her thighs clench -- he said:

"You have no idea how beautiful you look like this, Klara."

There was no denying what he meant.

It wasn't sweet.

It was wanting.

They walked together along the quieter end of the mall. No stores, just skylights above and the occasional echo of distant footfalls. The kind of stretch that makes you feel alone even with company.

Klara's belly moved like its own planet. Full and high and swaying with each step, drawing the hem of her dress tighter across her hips, clinging at the small of her back where sweat had dampened the fabric. She could feel it sticking there -- outlining her body like paint. Her thighs rubbed as she walked. She could hear it.

Mark stayed close. Too close. His body warm beside her, his scent soft and male -- fabric, soap, skin. Not perfumed. Lived in.

She could feel his gaze drifting. Returning. Holding.

And then he asked it.

"Can I... touch it?"

She stopped walking.

Turned.

Met his eyes.

He looked serious now -- but not solemn. Hungry, but trying not to be obvious about it. There was no mockery in him. No teasing. Just the thick, quiet desire of someone aching to put his hands on the very thing no one had dared to ask about.

Klara's breath caught. Her belly kicked -- as if it knew.

She nodded.

A small, simple nod. But her cheeks flushed crimson.

Mark stepped forward.

He didn't rush.

He lifted his hands like he was approaching something sacred. And then -- softly -- he laid his palms against the sides of her belly.

Her skin was warm beneath the knit. The pressure light. His thumbs rested just below the swell of her breasts, and his fingers curved under the heavy underside -- where she was fullest, most sensitive.

Klara exhaled sharply through her nose.

"Oh, fuck..." he murmured.

The air went tight.

Mark began to explore -- not overtly, but with reverence. His hands glided along the slope of her belly, feeling the firmness, the impossible roundness, the tension of skin stretched to its fullest. His fingertips skimmed the curve to the side, dipped slightly under. The fabric of her dress shifted. She could feel the heat of his hands through it -- hot, almost too much.

"You're huge," he whispered. "God, it's... amazing."

Klara bit her lip. The heat between her legs surged -- thick and molten. Her nipples ached, pressing harder into the fabric. She wanted to cross her legs. She wanted to press her thighs together and feel something -- anything -- that would answer the pulse now throbbing quietly in her core.

Mark moved one hand lower, resting the heel of his palm just above her pubic bone -- his fingers splayed wide, cupping the weight of her.

She inhaled sharply.

"You feel so full," he said softly. "Like you're... ready to burst."

Her eyes fluttered.

No one had spoken to her like that. No one had dared.

His other hand moved to her side, then slid slowly to the center -- thumbs meeting at her navel. It had popped weeks ago, round and obvious. He rubbed it. Pressed it gently.

She nearly gasped.

"That okay?" he asked.

She nodded.

But her voice said more.

"Yes."

Breathless. A little broken.

He looked up at her. "You're... turned on, aren't you?"

She didn't answer.

She didn't have to.

The flush on her chest, the rise and fall of her breasts, the soft shine of sweat between them -- it told the whole story.

Mark let his thumbs glide outward, dragging across the belly's peak like he was mapping a body he'd dreamed about for years.

"I never knew it could be like this," he said. "So hot."

Klara swallowed.

She didn't stop him.

Didn't tell him to move away.

She took his wrist. Not to remove it -- but to guide it. Down. To the lowest swell of her bump, where her belly met her mound -- where the fabric was tightest, where her body ached the most.

He followed.

His hand rested there.

Heavy. Warm.

Klara's thighs pressed together.

A flush of heat broke over her neck. The baby shifted inside her, a slow, rolling movement that made her belly lurch visibly against his palm.

Mark moaned under his breath.

"God," he whispered. "You're so alive."

Klara leaned in -- just slightly.

Her voice low, daring.

"Is this what you like?" she asked. "Seeing me like this? Stretched out... used... full?"

Mark's eyes darkened. "More than I ever thought I would."

Her cunt throbbed.

And for the first time in weeks, Klara smiled -- not politely, not maternally.

But wickedly.

She held his gaze.

And didn't move away.

"You didn't drive?" Mark asked.

Klara shook her head, brushing her hair back from her flushed face. Her hands instinctively moved to her belly, cradling it -- always present, always in the way. "No. Cab. I don't like driving anymore... feels like I can't even fit behind the wheel."

Mark smiled. Not amused. Interested. "I can imagine."

That pause.

That flick of his eyes -- down her body, over the swell, the sheen, the curve where her bump poured out from under her breasts like a horizon line. His jaw tightened just slightly.

"Let me drive you home," he said.

Klara hesitated, but not really.

She felt the ache between her thighs with every breath. Her underwear was damp -- embarrassingly so. And there was something about the way he looked at her... like she was forbidden fruit, dripping from the stem.

"Okay," she said, quietly.

They walked in silence to the parking garage. The echoes of their steps on the concrete felt loud, amplified by the slow, rhythmic sway of her hips, the slight shuffle of her thighs brushing. Every few paces, her belly shifted under her dress -- moving like it had its own mind. Her hand stayed beneath it, guiding, supporting.

Mark opened the door for her.

A small gesture.

But her belly brushed his arm as she turned to slide in, and they both felt it.

She gasped -- softly. The pressure. The contact. The unspoken excuse to press that firm, ripe globe of her stomach into the crook of his arm. He didn't pull away.

"Sorry," she whispered.

"Don't be."

There was something in his voice now -- thick. Barely contained.

Klara slid carefully into the seat, moving like a goddess settling into a throne -- slow, wide-legged, careful. The belly took space. She let it.

Mark walked around the car in silence, but his pulse was visible in his throat.

Inside the car, the air was still. Warm. Private.

He started the engine.

The hum was low, and everything else fell away.

Klara shifted, adjusting the seatbelt awkwardly, pulling it across the top curve of her belly. It pressed tight -- not uncomfortably, but clearly outlining her form. The belt bisected the swell of her breasts, making them rise even higher.

Mark glanced.

Not discreetly.

Not even trying to.

"You okay?" he asked, but his voice was low. Rough.

"Mm," she answered, then looked sideways. "It's tight. I've gotten... bigger this month."

She said it like a confession.

Mark exhaled slowly through his nose. "I noticed."

The drive started slow. Smooth. Suburban streets slipping past in late-afternoon light. But inside the car, something was boiling.

Klara sat with her hands on her belly, gently rubbing. The way her fingers moved -- slow, circular -- wasn't even conscious. She was soothing herself. Or the baby. Or maybe neither.

Mark's eyes kept drifting.

To her thighs, pressed wide apart by the sheer presence of her bump. To the soft outline of her pussy mound under the dress -- where the fabric had pulled snug, revealing the swell of her wet heat hidden just beyond.

To the way her lips were parted now, slightly, as if the arousal had crawled up her throat.

"You really are beautiful like this," he said.

Klara didn't look at him.

But she smiled.

"You don't have to keep saying that."

"I'm not saying it for you," he said.

There was a beat of silence.

And then her voice dropped a note lower. "No?"

He shook his head. "I'm saying it because I can't stop thinking it."

She looked over then.

His grip on the steering wheel was tight. His jaw flexed. His knuckles pale.

The front of his jeans visibly tented.

It wasn't subtle.

Klara swallowed.

The power of it -- of being seen, not just as a pregnant woman, but as a thing of want -- hit her like a wave. She pressed her thighs together, barely. Not enough to look like anything. Just... enough to feel it.

Mark shifted in his seat.

His voice was strained now. "Sorry. I didn't mean to stare."

"You're not staring," she said. "You're..." She trailed off.

But he finished it for her.

"Worshipping."

God.

Her pulse throbbed in her cunt. She could feel the slickness -- a slow, sticky pressure between her folds. The way her body responded to that word...

She turned toward him more fully, letting the angle of her seat shift her belly even higher -- the full dome of it pushing up, stretching the knit tight over her navel, which pressed outward like a little wet button.

"Do you want to touch it again?" she asked.

Mark didn't answer with words.

At the next red light, his hand left the gearshift and slid slowly across the center console. His palm hovered over her belly -- reverent -- and then landed.

Hot.

Firm.

Klara moaned, barely audible. Not theatrical. Just real.

She bit her lip, looked straight ahead.

His hand began to rub.

Gentle at first, then deeper -- fingers splayed, massaging the weight, cupping the underside where she was roundest, most sensitive. She could feel it all. Every inch. Every nerve ending was awake now, alive and aching for more.

"You're so full," he whispered. "Like your body was made to carry and be... touched like this."

Her pussy twitched.

She closed her eyes.

His hand didn't leave her belly. If anything, it pressed harder -- thumb stroking the upper slope, fingers cradling low, dangerously close to the ridge of her mound.

She was panting now. Quietly. Embarrassed, but desperate.

Mark's voice was darker now. Velvet over gravel.

"You're wet, aren't you?"

She nodded.

He smiled.

And the light turned green.

But he didn't take his hand away.

Not yet.

They were still in the car. Parked now.

Klara's apartment building loomed quiet behind them, muted by the soundproof hush of the interior. The engine had gone silent, but her breath hadn't. It came in slow, shaky waves, her belly rising and falling -- vast, undeniable -- straining the dress tight across her body. Every inch of her looked ripe. Ripe and ready.

Mark's hand still rested low on her bump.

She turned to him. Her voice was soft. But cracked with something deeper.

"I've been..." She hesitated. Her fingers tightened on the hem of her dress. "So horny."

His breath caught.

"I mean it," she whispered. "Since I started showing. Like... insatiable. It's embarrassing."

He didn't speak.

She shook her head. Her cheeks flushed. "I feel like I shouldn't. Like my body's not... mine anymore. Like being turned on when I look like this is some kind of--" She didn't finish.

Mark's voice came quiet. Gentle. But thick. "It's not shameful."

Her eyes lifted.

"It's fucking beautiful, Klara."

His hand moved. Slowly.

He started rubbing her belly again -- slow circles at first, palm wide, as if claiming the fullness of her. And she arched into it.

His touch firm, reverent, fingertips brushing over her dress where her skin was thinnest -- taut across the high ridge of her bump, softer underneath, where the slope dipped and pressed into her thighs. He massaged her there -- deep, knowing.

Klara moaned.

It came unbidden. A low, breathy sound from the back of her throat.

Mark looked at her. Heat in his gaze. "You like that?"

She nodded. Her cheeks were crimson now.

"I feel... full everywhere," she said. Her voice wavered. "Heavy. My tits, my belly, even my clit... it's like I'm always... swollen."

He moved his hand higher.

His knuckles dragged across the curve of her breast.

She inhaled sharply.

"Can I?" he asked, already reaching.

She whispered: "Yes."

His hand slid up, under the curve of her breast -- not groping. Lifting. His palm molded to the underside, warm through the thin fabric. Her breast was huge now. Full and weighty, veins visible beneath her skin. No bra. Just the stretch of cotton knit and her own aching nipples, pressing outward with a heat that had become unbearable.

Mark cupped her breast fully, slowly kneading it. Testing its shape. Squeezing with just enough pressure to make her gasp.

"Ohh--fuck--Mark..."

She didn't mean to moan like that.

But the relief of touch was overwhelming.

She leaned back in the seat, legs spread slightly, belly framed between them like an altar. Her nipples were throbbing. Her breath hitched as Mark's thumb grazed one -- lightly, experimentally -- through the fabric.

It was soaked. He hadn't noticed it at first. But now the dark patch was spreading.

"Is that..." he began.

She nodded, flushed. "Yeah. They leak. Sometimes. When I get... worked up."

He didn't recoil.

He didn't flinch.

He groaned.

"You're fucking perfect."

He leaned in closer.

His fingers found the edge of her neckline. Pushed it down. The fabric stretched. Caught. And then -- suddenly -- released.

Her breast spilled free into his hand.

Soft. Pale. Massive. The nipple swollen and dark, flush with blood and milk. Her areola had grown wider -- the texture rough and tight, her skin flushed pink from heat and need.

He stared for a moment. Then brought his thumb to it.

Klara whimpered.

Her hips twitched.

Her other hand flew down to her belly, gripping it, grounding herself as pleasure bloomed between her legs -- wet, hot, uncontrollable.

Mark began to rub her nipple slowly. Thumb and finger. Pinching, tugging, rolling it as her breath dissolved into moans, her thighs pressing together uselessly. Her belly moved with every breath. With every pulse of arousal, the baby stirred -- gentle, rhythmic shifts against her skin that only made her more aware of herself. Of how pregnant she was. Of how wanted.

Mark bent down.

Brought his mouth to her breast.

Kissed the nipple.

Just once.

Soft. Deliberate. Wet.

Klara cried out.

"God--Mark--"

He sucked then. Just enough. Lips soft around the tip. Tongue flicking once. Her milk beaded onto his tongue, hot and sweet and alive.

Her entire body jerked.

Her clit pulsed hard enough it hurt.

She bucked her hips forward -- helpless -- her belly rocking between them like an ocean wave. Her thighs spread wider now, leaking heat.

"Touch me," she whispered, broken.

"Where?" he asked, voice low, voice dark.

Her breath hitched.

"My pussy," she said. "Please... just touch me. I can't-- I need to come."

Mark pulled back, licking his lips slowly.

His eyes moved down.

To her swollen mound, barely hidden by her dress.

To the slick soaking the fabric between her thighs.

To the impossibly gorgeous glow of her.

He reached for her.

And she opened her legs.

Mark's hand was still on her breast.

His thumb resting just beneath the nipple -- still wet, still firm, still trembling from his mouth.

Klara's head tipped back against the seat. Her body was hot all over. Her pulse was loud in her ears. Her thighs were slick and parted. She didn't want it to stop. She didn't know if she could stop.

But she was also wide open.

Literally.

Her belly loomed massive between them -- round, full, alive -- rising with every ragged breath, the skin taut and glowing under the strained fabric of her dress. It wasn't subtle. None of this was. Her arousal, her desire, her sheer, aching body.

Mark looked at her with that same reverent hunger. His voice came rough.

"Klara..."

She opened her eyes.

"I want to come inside."

She stared at him for a moment -- heart beating so loud it felt like it pressed from her chest.

Then she nodded.

She didn't say yes. She just... moved.

He helped her out of the car -- hand at her back, his palm brushing the slope of her ass as she stood, adjusting to the weight of her belly. The stretch of her dress lifted as she walked, clinging over her roundness like liquid fabric. Her nipples still poked stiff through the now-shifted neckline, the wet spot still visible on one side.

They walked together in silence.

Each step made her thighs rub, the soaked heat between them smearing slick. She felt it with every shift of her hips. Her panties were drenched. Her womb was heavy. Her breasts ached. And Mark walked beside her like a man following a goddess into fire.

She fumbled with her keys.

He took them gently from her hand.

Opened the door.

The apartment was quiet. Dim. Sunlight slanting through the blinds onto the wood floor. The air was still. Domestic. But changed -- charged with something electric.

She stepped inside first.

Her belly cleared the doorframe before her feet did.

Mark followed.

He shut the door.

Turned.

Looked at her.

She stood in the center of the living room. Breathless. Flushed. The stretch fabric of her dress still clung to her belly like a drumskin -- every curve of her massive bump visible, the navel round and proud at the peak.

Her breasts shifted as she moved -- soft, bare, heavy. One still out. Leaked milk glistened on her skin.

Mark swallowed hard.

And Klara said quietly:

"Sit down."

He obeyed.

The door clicked behind them.

The world narrowed.

And the silence thickened.

Something is about to happen.

But not yet.

Mark sat on the couch, legs apart, breath held.

Klara stood a few feet away -- framed by the soft afternoon light that bled through the blinds in slanted ribbons. It carved golden lines across her massive belly, the underside of her breasts, the shadowed slope of her thighs.

Her chest rose.

And then -- without a word -- she reached for the hem of her dress.

She didn't rush.

She pulled it slowly up, inch by inch, revealing thick, pale thighs that shimmered with sweat and slick. The cotton clung to her belly as it rose, dragging against the underside where her bump was heaviest. She had to stretch it high, above the swell of her stomach, to lift it any further.

Mark watched in silence.

As her belly came free -- full, glowing, tight with life -- it seemed to reverberate. Alive and heavy, streaked faintly with red lines, her skin taut and flushed and ripe.

Then her breasts.

She wasn't wearing anything underneath. They spilled out as the fabric lifted -- soft, obscene, fucking huge. Veins tracing pale rivers under her skin. Nipples like ripe fruit: dark, stiff, wet. Her left breast dripped. It actually dripped.

A single thread of milk ran down the curve of her stomach.

Mark groaned.

She tugged the dress over her shoulders, down her arms, and let it fall behind her.

And then she just stood there.

Naked.

Not nude.

Naked.

Filthy.

Her cunt was soaked. Puffy. Red. Lips swollen with blood and need, parting softly with every breath she took. A glistening string of arousal hung between her thighs, stretched from one lip to the other -- already broken once, then reformed. Her clit peeked out, throbbing, angry, desperate. Her entire sex looked used already -- like it had been edged for hours and left open.

Her belly stood between them like a monument. A dome of flesh, stretched and trembling, her navel popped and pink at the very center. Her skin was hot. Damp. She smelled like sweat and milk and pussy -- rich and raw and unmistakable.

She watched him watching her.

And she spread her legs.

Wider.

Her thighs opened with a wet sound, her slit catching the light.

She reached down, both hands moving over the vast curve of her belly -- not to cover it. To frame it. She pressed her palms against her skin, then slid them downward, dragging over the arc until they cupped the bottom -- lifting slightly, as if offering it to him.

Then she spoke.

"I want you to look at me."

Mark was already panting.

Klara moved one hand between her legs -- shamelessly -- and dragged two fingers through her slit. The sound was filthy. A wet, needy squelch as her fingertips parted her lips and slipped through the mess of arousal already gathered there.

She held those fingers up.

They glistened in the light.

She licked them. Slowly. Her eyes never left his.

Her other hand moved up, palming her dripping tit. She squeezed it -- hard. Milk beaded at the tip, her nipple swelling under pressure.

"Do you like this?" she asked. "You like watching me leak while I finger my pregnant cunt?"

Mark choked on a sound.

She didn't stop.

Two fingers sank into her. Right there, in the living room, standing naked before him like a swollen whore. She opened her legs wide, bracing herself, her belly moving with every thrust of her hand.

Her tits bounced.

Her thighs quivered.

Her cunt was soaking the floor.

"I've been touching myself every night," she whispered. "But I can't come. Not properly. I just rub and rub until I feel like I'm going to burst, and I still can't--"

She moaned -- high, trembling, desperate.

Mark was speechless.

His cock was visibly straining against his jeans, twitching violently.

Klara brought her fingers out again -- dripping -- and rubbed her clit with the heel of her palm. Hard. Fast. She was panting now, belly rocking, tits shaking as she chased the edge.

"I need it," she gasped. "I need to be fucked. Like a bitch. Like I'm not pregnant. Or maybe because I am."

She looked at him like a dare.

"Tell me you want to use me."

Mark stood.

Unzipped his pants.

And let his cock fall heavy into his hand.

She smiled.

And dropped to her knees.

Klara's knees pressed into the carpet, thick thighs spread, cunt glistening, her belly round and flushed and sacred. Her nipples dripped in slow, steady droplets, milk beading from one, smearing down the curve of her breast, caught in the underhang of the other. Her hand gripped the underside of her belly like she was holding herself together, like it was too much -- her own weight, her own need.

Mark was kneeling now. Eyes wide. Mouth open. He looked up at her like a man on his knees before a swollen goddess.

She grabbed his hair.

"Worship it," she whispered. "Worship my pregnant cunt."

And he did.

His mouth sank between her thighs, tongue sliding through the soaked folds of her sex. Her lips were puffy, swollen, parted and pulsing. She gasped as he licked from bottom to top -- slowly, then again. His tongue flicked her clit, thick and fat and too sensitive, and she shuddered violently.

"Fuck--yes," she moaned, squeezing her tit, her palm slick with milk. "Lick it. It's leaking for you. I'm soaked down to my fucking knees."

Mark buried his face in it.

His nose pressed against the bottom of her bump as he tongued her deeply, slowly, letting her juices coat his mouth. She tasted ripe, fermented with need, with sweat and milk and the rich, slutty heat of a woman in full bloom. His hands slid up her thighs, squeezing her, gripping her, pulling her open like he wanted to crawl inside her.

Klara leaned back, one hand behind her on the carpet, the other sliding across the massive curve of her belly. Her fingers dragged her leaking milk up from the underside of her tit and smeared it in slow circles around her navel.

"You feel that belly on your face?" she gasped. "That's full. That's yours to serve. You eat my pregnant pussy like it owns you."

Mark moaned into her cunt.

And she felt it -- the vibration through her core, through the swollen folds of her sex, up into her aching womb.

Her legs started to shake.

Then he moved lower.

She felt his tongue trail down -- from clit to cunt to the very edge of her slit, and then lower still. Her asshole clenched.

She gasped. "Mark--what are you--"

But he didn't stop.

He spat once on his fingers and spread her cheeks wide, and then his tongue found her tight little hole -- wrinkled, untouched, aching without knowing it.

She screamed.

"Oh my god--yes!"

His tongue worked her hole slowly, wetly, filthily -- licking in soft, messy circles, then pointed strokes, then a firm push that made her shudder all the way through her womb.

Her cunt gushed. Milk ran freely now.

She gripped her tits in both hands, squeezing, smearing the warm sweetness across her chest like she was marking herself.

"I'm gonna come," she sobbed. "From you licking my fucking ass while I'm pregnant--what the fuck is wrong with me?"

But she didn't stop.

She spread her legs wider, belly hanging, ass open.

"Deeper."

He obeyed.

Licked harder. Sloppier. One hand still gripped her thigh, the other reached between her legs to rub her clit while he tongue-fucked her ass.

Klara was a mess.

A dripping, swollen, leaking, moaning mess.

"Use me," she whispered, shaking. "Make me your pregnant fuckhole. Your leaking whore. I'm not a mom. I'm not sacred. I'm just yours to lick and ruin."

And then she came.

Her body seized. Her belly shivered. Her pussy exploded -- thick gushes of slick pouring down over his chin as she shook and wailed, thighs clamping, tits spurting.

And Mark stayed there.

Face buried in her cunt and ass.

Worshipping.

Until she collapsed back on the floor -- soaked, used, trembling -- her hands resting over the belly he'd just knelt beneath.

Her eyes fluttered open.

She looked at him.

And smiled.

"Now get me on my hands and knees."

Klara was still on her knees, thighs wide, belly huge between them -- a vast, trembling dome of flushed flesh. Her chest heaved, her nipples slick with milk, her mouth still wet with her own moans.

Mark knelt back, chest heaving, his chin soaked in her juices. His eyes were wild with it. Worshipful.

She looked up at him. Her face flushed, shining. Her lips were parted, tongue wet against the roof of her mouth.

"Come here," she whispered. "Bring me your cock."

His hands were shaking as he stood. He stepped forward, his thick shaft already dark and pulsing, slick from his own dripping pre-cum. She reached out for it -- slowly -- her hand tiny against the weight of it.

She licked her lips.

"Put it in my mouth," she whispered. "Face fuck me. I want to feel your balls slap my fucking milk tits."

Mark groaned, deep from his chest.

He stepped closer.

Her face tilted up to meet him -- chin high, eyes locked on his, her heavy belly pushing into her own thighs, tits swaying slightly with every breath. She let her hands drop to her sides. Completely open. Mouth wide. Ready.

He held the base of his cock, and she leaned forward, letting the tip press wetly against her lips -- smearing precum across them before her mouth opened wide and took him in.

The stretch was instant.

Klara gagged on the first push -- saliva bubbling from her lips as his cock pressed in, thick and full and invasive. She moaned around him, the sound wet and obscene. Her eyes watered. Her tits jiggled with every push of his hips.

And Mark... fucked her face.

He gripped the back of her head, not cruel, but firm, guiding her to take every inch. He thrust slowly at first -- letting her adjust, feel the rhythm -- and then harder. His balls slapped up under her chin, and with every push, they smacked against her tits.

Wet.

Sticky.

Heavy.

She loved it.

She moaned louder -- drool pouring from her mouth, down her chin, soaking into the shelf of her belly. Her tits bounced, milk spraying with every slap of his skin. Her face was a mess, but her eyes never closed. She looked up at him -- full of cock, full of power, full of surrender.

"Fuck," he growled. "You want it like this?"

She nodded, gagging on the next thrust.

He sped up.

The sound was filthy -- slap, slap, slap -- balls meeting tits, wet breath, moans through thick throat.

Klara's nipples squirted.

Her cunt gushed.

And she just kept taking it.

She used her hands to squeeze her own breasts together, tightening the cleavage beneath his cock, catching his sac each time it bounced off her chest.

She pulled back once -- gasping, eyes streaming.

"Use my throat," she whispered, voice ruined. "Choke me. Fuck my face like I'm your pregnant cum dump."

And he did.

He buried himself deeper -- cock stretching her mouth wide, sliding over her tongue, down into her throat -- and held there.

She choked.

Moaned.

And came again, without even touching herself.

Her pregnant belly twitched. Her pussy spilled a new gush onto the floor beneath her. Her whole body shook -- mouth stuffed, tits bouncing, spit and milk and slick dripping from every part of her.

Mark groaned -- low, brutal -- and pulled back just before the edge.

His cock slapped against her cheek.

Her tongue hung out.

"Please," she panted. "Come on my face. Cover your pregnant slut."

He gripped the base, jerked once, twice--

And then exploded.

Hot, thick jets of cum splattered her face -- across her lips, her cheeks, her forehead, even the curve of her belly and the top swell of her tits. He kept groaning, stroking, painting her -- and she opened wider, tongue out, eyes closed, grateful.

When it was over, she licked a slow streak from her lips.

Then whispered:

"Now get behind me. I want you to fuck me. I want to feel this belly swing while you make me yours."

Klara was on all fours.

The carpet pressed into her knees. Her hands sank into the soaked fabric beneath her, still warm with the mess she'd made. Her massive pregnant belly hung low between her thighs, full and swaying -- a pendulum of stretched, glistening flesh. Her skin shimmered, streaked with sweat, milk, and spit. Her tits dangled beneath her like ripe fruit, red and heavy and leaking, milk streaming in thin rivulets to the floor.

Her pussy? Open.

Soaked.

Swollen.

Red and parted, lips puffy and twitching, her clit a pulsing, needy button of raw nerve. The folds were glossy with slick, cum and drool smeared down her inner thighs. Her asshole twitched beneath her cunt, still wet from being tongue-fucked, and she couldn't stop panting.

She looked back at him.

"Fuck my belly."

Mark's cock twitched in his hand.

Klara's voice dropped, thick and cracked with want. "You hear me? Not just my pussy. I want your cock slapping this fat, swollen fucking belly. I want to feel it shake with every thrust. I want to be used like a breeding bitch."

Mark knelt behind her.

His eyes devoured her -- the spread of her thighs, the drool of her cunt, the heavy, hypnotic sway of her belly as she rocked gently with every breath.

He lined his cock up -- fat, soaked, still throbbing from the last orgasm -- and grabbed her belly from underneath.

Full-handed.

He gripped the weight of it -- lifted it slightly, just enough to watch it drop when he let go. The sound it made, the slapping flesh -- it drove him fucking wild.

"You want this belly fucked?" he growled, his voice savage now, no longer gentle. "You want to feel me pound it like it's a filthy fucktoy?"

Klara moaned. Loud. Desperate.

"Yes. Yes--Mark, please--fuck this belly--use it--make me your disgusting little womb dump--"

And he did.

He slammed his cock deep into her cunt.

She screamed.

Her whole body jerked, tits swinging, belly bouncing under her like a living thing. Her pussy stretched wide around his shaft -- soaking, twitching, desperate -- and the slap of his hips against her ass echoed off the walls.

"Fuck--yes--yes--just like that--" she moaned, arching her back deeper, presenting everything. "Make it bounce. Make my baby belly bounce for your cock."

Mark grunted -- teeth bared -- as he pounded into her, his cock bottoming out with every brutal thrust. The underside of her belly bounced back into his stomach with every slam. He grabbed it again, used it as a handle, pulled it toward him while he fucked her from behind like an animal.

Her tits sprayed milk with every thrust.

Her cunt gushed.

Her moans turned into sobs -- needy, breathless, ecstatic.

"Harder," she begged. "Come on--harder. I want to feel your cock in my fucking womb. Stretch me. Fill me. Ruin this leaking little slut body--"

He reached around her belly, cupped it from beneath again, and slammed into her.

The weight of it hit him, jiggling, soft but taut -- and it made his balls ache.

"Fucking look at you," he groaned. "You're nothing but a fuckhole. A pregnant little whore with a belly full of baby and a cunt that needs to be destroyed."

She moaned -- high and helpless.

"Yes. That's all I am. Just your pregnant bitch. Your sloppy, milk-dripping, pussy-stretching fuckhole. Fill me. Fuck this belly."

And he did.

He fucked her so hard the slap of their bodies echoed like thunder. Her belly swung wildly beneath her, bouncing, taut skin rippling with every thrust. Her pussy was soaking -- loud, obscene, stretched so wide it swallowed him whole.

And then--

She screamed.

One long, broken, feral scream as her orgasm tore through her.

Milk sprayed from both tits.

Her pussy clamped and gushed around his cock.

And Mark lost it.

He gripped her hips and buried himself deep -- all the way, tip pressed to her cervix -- and came with a shout, flooding her pregnant cunt with thick, hot rope after rope of cum.

Klara sobbed.

She felt it.

Felt the heat.

Felt it leak out as he pulled back -- a slow, wet slide of cum and slick dripping from her ruined hole.

She collapsed onto her side.

Belly huge.

Tits leaking.

Pussy open.

Used.

Exactly how she wanted.

And smiling.

Klara lay on her back, one leg bent, her massive belly tilted slightly to the side like a pregnant monument. Her skin was flushed, shining, covered in a mixture of sweat, spit, and his cum still dripping from her used pussy.

Her tits -- red, swollen, overflowing -- had leaked milk the entire time he'd fucked her. Streams clung to the curves, gathering beneath her arms, soaking into the carpet under her. Her nipples stood thick and soaked, aching from stimulation, from pressure, from being needed.

She looked at him.

Mark was panting, spent, cock soft, eyes dazed.

And she smiled.

Then -- slow, deliberate -- she slid her hands up to her breasts and squeezed.

Milk sprayed.

It shot in twin arcs across her belly, over the underside of one breast, and onto her throat.

"Get hard again," she whispered. "I want to feel your cock between my tits."

Mark stared.

She smirked. "What's wrong? Never tit-fucked a pregnant milk cow before?"

That was all it took.

His cock twitched -- visibly -- and began to rise.

She watched it thicken as she played with her tits, squeezing them together, letting the milk run down into her cleavage.

"Look how full they are," she murmured. "You gonna fuck this? These fat, leaking tits you've been staring at all day? Huh?"

Mark groaned.

He crawled forward on his knees.

She scooted her body slightly, lifted her head so she could look down the curve of her own belly -- it rose like a mountain between them -- and then cupped her tits together beneath it.

"Fuck them," she whispered. "Slide that cock between my milk bags. Use me."

Mark positioned himself above her, straddling her chest just under the slope of her belly. He placed the head of his cock right in her cleavage -- slick with sweat, milk, and leftover cum -- and thrust.

The sound was wet. Slap, slap, slap -- thick shaft sliding between the two heavy globes of leaking titflesh, his balls bouncing gently off the curve of her belly as he moved.

Klara moaned.

She squeezed tighter, pressing her tits around him, milking herself with each thrust. Milk bubbled out around his cock, mixing with pre-cum and sweat, creating a filthy, wet sheen that coated his shaft.

"Fuck yes," she gasped. "That's it. Use my tits. Fuck them like you'd fuck a hole."

He did.

He thrust harder, faster, his cock slapping against her flushed skin, veins throbbing along the shaft. She leaned up slightly and spit between her tits -- adding to the slick, letting him glide faster, rougher.

Her tits bounced violently with every motion. Milk splashed.

"You're gonna cum again, aren't you?" she moaned. "You're gonna cum all over my pregnant fucking tits. My face. You're gonna paint me, mark me--"

"Fuck--yes--" he grunted. "You're perfect. Look at you. Huge. Ruined."

And then he came.

Again.

Hot ropes of cum erupted from the head of his cock -- splattering across her chin, her lips, both tits, into the pool of milk that had gathered in the valley between them. Her body was soaked, shining with his seed.

Klara lay there, tongue out, breathing hard.

She looked up at him.

Then dipped her fingers between her tits -- scooping a mixture of milk and cum from her cleavage -- and brought it to her lips.

She sucked them clean.

"Mmm," she moaned. "Almost tastes like milk."

Mark was frozen. Staring. Dripping sweat.

She smiled wickedly, dragging more from her chest and holding it up.

"Now be a good boy," she whispered. "Lick it off. All of it. Clean your mess from Mommy's tits."

Mark didn't say a word.

He just moved.

Dropped to his knees beside her -- his cock still twitching, spent but not soft -- and stared down at her chest. Her tits were a wreck. Gorgeous. Covered in a mess of spit, milk, and thick white cum that had splattered across her nipples, her collarbone, down the valley of her cleavage. One drop clung to the soft underside of her breast, trembling, about to fall.

Klara tilted her chin toward him, still panting, still flushed.

"Clean it," she whispered. "Every drop. With your tongue."

And he did.

He leaned in, slowly -- reverent now, breath hot -- and licked.

His tongue dragged across the curve of her left tit, catching a long smear of cum and milk, warm and salty and hers. He lapped it into his mouth and groaned softly -- not from pleasure, but from need. From submission.

She moaned.

His tongue slid over her nipple next -- now dark, bloated, the milk still gently leaking. He wrapped his lips around it and sucked.

Klara gasped.

"Ohhh fuck--yes--milk it, baby--lick up your mess and drink from Mommy's tits..."

Her hand came up, cradling the back of his head as he suckled, his tongue swirling around the base of the nipple, lapping every drop of cum that had mixed into the milk. He moved lower, mouth open wide, dragging across the underside of her breast, where a fat dollop had settled into the crease of her tit.

He slurped it.

Klara shivered.

"That's it," she breathed. "You're my little cleaner now. That's your cum. Your milk. You made this mess. So lick it."

Mark obeyed.

He moved to the right breast, mouth hot and wet, tongue tracing every line of splatter. He licked her like he was starving -- mouth open, breathing hard, sucking thick globs of creamy mess from between the soft folds of her tits, moaning into her skin.

Her tits were so full, so heavy, the skin flushed red with arousal. They bounced slightly as he worshipped them, trembling under her fingers as she held them together.

He buried his face between them.

Licked the pool of warm milk and cum from her cleavage.

Groaned into her flesh as it soaked his cheeks.

She pressed them together, trapping his face there.

"Drink it," she growled. "You want to be my good boy? Drink every filthy drop."

And he did.

He suckled and licked and drank, his hands wrapped around her belly now -- gripping it, pulling her closer, loving every inch of her obscene, glorious, dripping form.

By the time he was finished, her tits were wet, glistening -- but clean. Her chest heaved. Her nipples still leaked. And her smile was wicked.

She cupped his face in both hands.

Held him there.

Then smeared the last string of milk from her nipple across his cheek with her thumb.

"You taste like a slut," she whispered. "My little cum-drunk, milk-hungry slut."

He looked up at her.

And nodded.

Helpless.

Owned.

Mark's face hovered over her breasts -- flushed, wet, breathless. His lips parted. And Klara, still sprawled across the floor with her belly swollen and twitching, looked up at him with fire in her eyes.

She cupped one tit in both hands, lifted the swollen globe toward his mouth, her fingers squeezing gently around the base of her nipple.

A single drop beaded at the tip.

"Drink," she whispered.

And he did.

He wrapped his mouth around her nipple -- hot, wide, hungry -- and sucked.

Klara moaned instantly, arching her back as the pressure released. Milk flowed into his mouth in slow, hot bursts, her nipple pulsing, soft and slick against his tongue. He suckled deeply, tongue swirling, lips tugging, moaning around her tit as her milk filled him.

She gasped.

"Fuck--Mark--yes--take it."

He switched to the other breast without needing to be told.

Clamped his mouth over it with a groan -- one hand squeezing the base, fingers warm against her flushed, milk-slick skin. Milk spurted into his mouth in gentle waves, sweet and warm, the taste hers.

Klara was panting, squirming, her massive belly quivering with each pull.

"I can feel it," she moaned. "I can feel my tits emptying into you..."

Mark didn't stop. He suckled greedily, like he'd been starved for it. His face was a mess of spit and milk, lips swollen, tongue flicking, jaw working to keep up with the gush of her body feeding him.

Klara cupped his face.

And pulled him up.

He kissed her.

Hard.

Their mouths collided, open and soaked -- milk and spit shared between them. The kiss was messy, hot, wet -- his tongue still slick from her nipples, hers greedy, desperate, needy. She moaned into his mouth, her hands gripping his jaw, pulling him closer, her swollen belly pressing up into his chest between them like a burning sun.

She broke the kiss only to pant:

"I've never... I've never been this horny in my entire life."

Mark just stared at her -- milk on his lips, lust in his eyes.

And Klara smiled.

Wild.

Glowing.

Then whispered:

"Let's go to the bedroom."

He carried her.

One arm cradled under her knees, the other supporting the full curve of her back -- and her belly, heavy, tight, resting against his chest like the warmest, most intimate weight in the world. Klara let her head fall into his shoulder, eyes half-lidded, milk still clinging to her flushed skin, her thighs still slick, her breath still trembling.

The bedroom was dim.

The sheets cool.

He laid her down gently, like she was breakable -- though they both knew she wasn't.

She was strong.

Feral.

Used.

Glowing.

Her belly shifted as she lay on her side, one knee drawn up slightly, her tits resting against the edge of the mattress, full and damp and sore. She reached for him without speaking.

Mark stripped -- slowly now -- letting his shirt fall, his jeans kicked away. His cock had softened, for now. But his eyes hadn't. They were dark, reverent. He climbed in beside her, wrapped himself around her from behind, one arm draped over the curve of her waist, his palm landing instinctively on the underside of her belly.

She moaned -- softly -- at the pressure.

"Touch me," she whispered.

And he did.

Slow strokes. Feather-light.

His hand moved from the base of her stomach, across the taut skin, then up -- gliding over the fine texture of stretch marks, the faint swell of her navel. He kissed the back of her neck. Her shoulder. The slope of her hip. His cock nestled between her thighs, warm, not needing to be hard. Not yet.

"I didn't know," he said softly, "that you could be this..."

He didn't finish.

She turned her head slightly. Her voice was raw.

"This what?"

He nuzzled the back of her ear. Whispered: "Everything."

Klara exhaled. Her hand reached up to cup her own breast, massaging it slowly, easing the ache from the pressure.

He took over.

Guided her hand away and replaced it with his own -- soft, slow kneading. He kissed the curve of her neck while his thumb brushed her nipple. Milk beaded. He didn't suck. Not now. He just touched. Gentle. Worshipful.

Her thighs parted slightly.

His hand drifted lower -- over the slope of her mound, down the soft lips of her sex. She was still wet. Not just from him. From her.

He slipped a finger between the folds.

No thrusting.

No pounding.

Just slow, rhythmic motion -- circular strokes over her clit, lazy and luxurious, like there was nothing else in the world but this swollen, wrecked, beautiful body beneath his hand.

Klara whimpered.

"God..."

She wasn't chasing an orgasm.

It came to her.

Like a tide.

It bloomed in her belly, behind her breasts, under her skin. She trembled, her cunt clenching weakly around nothing, her milk flowing freely again -- soaking into the sheets, dripping from both nipples as she gasped into the pillow.

She didn't scream this time.

She breathed it.

Soft.

Relieved.

Loved.

Mark didn't stop touching her. Not until her breath slowed. Not until the aftershocks had passed.

He kissed her shoulder again.

Wrapped himself around her.

And whispered into the hush of the room:

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Klara didn't speak.

But her smile -- slow, exhausted, satisfied -- said everything.