I’m Robin Goodfellow. I write stories for people based on their fantasies. Sometimes those fantasies are strange or funny, sometimes they are dark and disturbing. This one is in the latter category. If you’re not interested in reading a graphic description of the rape of a pregnant woman, then you should go read something else.
———————————
The photograph is fading now, but the image is burned forever in my mind’s eye. I run my thumb over your face. You are frozen by the flash, caught in a moment of despair. Your skin is paper white under the harsh light. You’re looking up to the camera with desperation in your puffy red eyes. Your mascara has run, overlaying the contours of your face with a map of your tears. You have wept so much that drool runs from one corner of your mouth which is painted lopsidedly up one cheek by the smear of your lipstick. Half of your hair is neatly atop your head, and the other half is matted with tears and paint, stuck to the side of your face. Your tits are on display, your T-shirt is rolled up to expose your gorgeous soft flesh. Your nipples are a burning bright red and stand out obscenely from the soft mounds and puckered areolae. Your chest and the giant swell of your belly are glazed with my cum and your milk, shining wetly. Your cunt is open to me, drooling with my semen and a trace of your blood. The carpet all around you is wet. You are sat on the floor with your legs apart and your knees drawn up, your arms are raised high above your head so that your tits are pushed out for me. Your wrists are fastened by cable ties to the rail of the cot. You’re begging me to let you go. You are drooling, leaking, utterly ruined.
I didn’t mean for that to happen, not that you would care. The house was supposed to be empty. Your gardener and cleaner were both away, and I knew that you and your husband both worked in the city. The modern house on the side of the hill should have been an easy target. I vaulted your iron fence and made my way across the lawn in silence. I was surprised, but pleased, to find that the French patio door was unlocked. It glided open without a sound and I slipped inside, moving confidently to the hallway and the alarm system. I knew, from careful study, that I could enter the house through the back garden and reach the control panel without triggering the motion detectors, so long as I hugged the wall of your dining room.
I was further surprised to find that your alarm was turned off. How dumb could you be?
I reiterate that you weren’t supposed to be there. You were just unlucky. We saw each other at the same moment, through the wooden door frame of the nursery. I wore a ski mask but I froze, terrified that you’d recognised me somehow. You were as beautiful as I remembered. You had your dirty blonde hair swept up into a bun, held by chopsticks. Your makeup, as always, was perfect. Dark eyeliner framed your chocolate brown eyes. Your lips were painted a bitten red, the deep red of blood and pain. Absurdly you wore tiny denim shorts and a tube top. Your distended belly, swollen with child, hung obscenely over your waistband and your enormous saggy tits were spilling from the bottom of your top, which pressed tightly on your puffy nipples. In your right hand you held a paintbrush dipped in pale pink. In your left, you held your iPhone.
We stood there frozen in our tableau – I, the dark intruder creeping through your unlocked home; you the beautiful primigravida, dressed like a teenage slut to decorate the nursery. I remember your scream and I remember my panic. We struggled, you pressed up against the wet paint of the nursery wall, my hand around your throat. I felt your flesh hot and swollen against me and something bestial awoke inside me. I kissed your neck and groped the little valley between your legs while you cried and pleaded with me to stop. I remember how soft your mound was, how hot it felt under my fingers when I tore your shorts open. Your public hairs were soft and fine and your vagina felt plump and full. I wanted to sink my teeth into that flesh, my cock, my fist. I pushed my hand up under your top and squeezed one enormous pale breast. My fingers sought out your nipple and when I squeezed it squirted a thin dribble of milk over my fingers. I almost came in my pants right then.
“I’m pregnant” you sobbed, as though I hadn’t noticed. “Please, no, I’m pregnant” and my cock twitched harder and harder. I fastened you to the cot with three cable ties from a packet lying on the floor: one around each wrist, one around the rail looping through the others. I gagged you with a baby’s bib from a nearby drawer. I balled it up, shoved it into your mouth and tied the strings at the back of your head. Once I’d taken your shorts and panties off, I stood back to admire you. Your big milky tits were the first thing to catch my attention. Each swollen mammary was large enough to fill two hands, and I kneaded the flesh, fascinated by the beading of white liquid around your big nipples. I twisted those brown nipples cruelly and you screamed through the gag with tears rolling down your face. Every time I squeezed, you squirted milk over yourself. I bent my mouth to your breasts and spent a few minutes suckling at your fat udders. You were sweeter than I expected, and thinner. The taste of your milk mixed with your tears made my cock jerk and twitch with excitement.
“No”, I say, handing the photograph back to the prosecutor. “I’ve never seen it before”.
“You didn’t take this photograph on the night of the fourteenth of September?”
“I did not.”
There’s video, too. I remember seeing the nanny cam on my way out. I’ve dreamed of that footage so many times. Did you ever watch it, Nicki? Did you ever load it up for good time’s sake? In that footage you’re bent over the cot, standing on the colourful rug, in a pool of your own piss from where your terror and sensitive bladder overcame you. I’m stood behind you, slamming my cock into you over and over, thrilled by the jiggle of your tits and your belly. You were beautiful, toned, bloated and disgusting: my gorgeous, filthy preggo whore. I remember smacking your perfect backside – your arse and your legs were incredible, even in late pregnancy – slapping you until the skin was glowing red. I remember burying myself, balls deep, in your hairy pussy and shooting my cum up your cunt. I loved the thought of your womb spattered with my semen. Afterwards, I wiped myself clean with the sheets you chose for the cot. My cum dribbled down your leg and I remember smearing it over your face, wiping red lip stain up your cheek.
After I had recovered a little, I fucked your tits, squeezing those enormous jugs around my hard cock. Your milk dribbled out as I used your cleavage, soaking my dick and acting as a lubricant. My second orgasm was barely a dribble of cum, but it spurted up and over your mouth and chin. I wished it were possible to fuck your throat, but I was afraid you would bite me, and so I left you there, abused and ruined. I took a picture with your Polaroid camera, which you’d left standing on the changing table ready to picture your perfect nursery, and I vanished from your house.
They can take everything away, and they will, but they can never take away that image. They can never undo your ruin.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/7nfp2t/the_finishing_touches_pregnclac