The Origin of a Kink [Breeding/Impregnation/Pregnancy] [Long]

**The following is a long story that leads to a recent discovery. It’s all true, it’s very honest, it starts very sexy and ends very not sexy. I wrote it because I do my best thinking through reflective writing. I shared it because I value sharing the human experience in all of its unique forms.**

I want to be pregnant again.

So bad.

I loved being pregnant. For the most part, at least.

Sure, for the first 15 weeks the weirdest things could nauseate me to the point of running for the nearest trash can at any time of day. And yes, I have never experienced exhaustion quite like first trimester exhaustion (except for newborn exhaustion, that’s next level). And of course there were aches and pains that made some days pretty hard to get through…

But even with all that, pregnancy was fucking magical.

*I* felt fucking magical. I thought I was the world’s most womanly woman. I was a goddess of creation! I was participating in the most ancient act of maternal instinct. I had joined a sacred club. I was *making someone*. Someone that I was already so fucking in love with.

I would walk by the mirror naked and stop just to appreciate all the wild things my body was doing. My areolas got so big and very dark. My breasts grew and grew and *grew*, getting prepared to produce and provide. My hips got wider, I got a little extra curvy everywhere, my skin flushed with the increased blood flow, and my belly… Oh, my belly. I loved, loved, loved my belly. It was bliss to watch that belly grow, knowing it was the perfect home for the person I was making. Knowing that I was providing literally everything to sustain that life. What a trip. What a gift. What an incredible experience.

The moment I got a bump, I wore clothes specifically to accentuate it. I was so, so proud. Everything I wore was stretchy and form fitting. Maternity leggings (oh my god, so comfy), clingy dresses, too-small shirts that would strain over the curve. I wanted that belly to be appreciated by anyone who cared to look. At the grocery store, out with friends, hell, I could be at Home Depot and enjoy every moment that I was out and about with that bump. Ever the show-off.

Let’s back up, though. The making of said bump was its own barrel of fun.

I am a planner when it comes to big life events. So I tracked my cycle, took note of signs of being in my “fertile window”, peed on ovulation tests to confirm it was a good time to try…I did everything in my power to be sure we were doing it at the right time for the best chances. That wasn’t the fun part, exactly (though, I’m a nerd, so I thought it was fascinating data).

The fun part was telling my husband to cum in me without any protection for the Very. First. Time. Ever. And his reaction…fucking wow. I was pinned down on my back faster than I could have possibly imagined. His full weight held me firmly in place, he wrapped an arm underneath me and held me to his chest so tight. His face buried into the crook of my neck, biting my skin and grunting into the pillow. I was in heaven as I felt him fuck me hard and fast and with so much purpose. And when he came he gave the most animalistic, long groan of pleasure as his cock shot out what would be the first of several unprotected loads deep inside me.

Jesus fucking Christ it felt so good. He dripped out of me for hours afterwards. I changed my underwear three or four times that day. And for the next three days, we repeated the act while I was in that “fertile window”. It was good every time. It was so fucking sexy every time. It was deliciously primal every. single. time. Each time, I would come away with bite marks on my shoulders, fingerprints on my hips, sweat slicked over my whole body. And he would be smiling at me, so incredibly satisfied. More satisfied than I had ever seen before.

I was drunk on baby-making sex. I was a full-on, free-use, baby hungry, good little wifey.

We were the lucky ones. My body didn’t play any mean tricks on us and make us wait through months (or even years) of trying to see those two pink lines. Instead, I got pregnant on the first try and we were off to the races. I am forever grateful that we didn’t experience the heart ache of fertility trouble. We are obscenely fortunate.

So I was pregnant. How did I know? I peed on so many goddamn test strips as soon as it was possible to measure the hormone. (Amazon sells bags of 50-100 test strips for pennies compared to buying a brand name test at the drugstore. Highly recommend. Even doctors say there’s no difference between the tests.)

But I think I actually knew I was pregnant before those lines showed up, because my breasts *hurt*. Like, really bad. So tender. So, so sore. It started just a day after my fertile window ended. I woke up that morning and my nipples did not want to brush against my robe without a dull pain. I put a bra on immediately to shield them from more irritation. Throughout the day they got worse and worse. I would soon find out that for the entire first trimester, my breasts would be incredibly tender. It was the hormones, they were sending more blood and a complicated set of instructions to my breast tissue. One of the first things a pregnant woman’s body does that doesn’t involve the womb is begin to set up the mammary glands for production, especially if she has never been pregnant before. So like I said, I was suspicious about my breasts hurting suddenly and tucked away that knowledge as I waited for the appropriate time to test.

Ten long days passed and I tested. The lines appeared. I crept into my husband’s home office as he worked and set the strip on his desk. He turned around with a huge grin and I squealed with delight.

It wasn’t until the second trimester that I began to feel truly sexy. First of all, I finally felt better after three and a half months of nausea and exhaustion. Second of all, my breasts had grown considerably already and I could actually see a tiny bump forming. I was doing the thing! I was really, truly growing a life! I was going to be a *momma*. Cue the strutting around like Mother Nature herself, I was absolutely full of myself. And I felt *hot*. I felt *desireable*. I felt *undeniable*. I was a fucking *pregnant bombshell*.

Hubby thought so, too. His hands found my curves anytime we passed by each other. Anytime I was busy in the kitchen. Anytime I was lounging on the couch. He would slide his hands over my belly and down between my legs. I’d grind my ass into him, one of his hands would slide under my shirt and play with a nipple as his other fingers toyed with my clit. Before we knew it, I’d be leaning against the counter with my leggings around my knees and his cock balls-deep in my drippy, achey, needy, extra puffy pussy. This happened all the time. As long as I felt good that day (pregnancy has its challenges), I needed his attention. I needed to orgasm. I needed to put my extra wet, hormonal pussy to use.

On so many ocassions I would interrupt his work day to ask, pretty please, if I could straddle his face for a few minutes. And he would oblige. And I would orgasm so fast it was almost unbelievable. And my body would produce sooo much moisture. Glistening strings of wetness. I did so much extra laundry to keep dry panties coming.

As I got bigger, I only got more needy. I spent minutes at a time admiring my naked body in the morning when I got up. The pale morning light looked best on my milky white belly and breasts, it gave them a glow. I couldn’t help but smile at myself in the mirror. One of my hands almost always rested on my bump, or stroked it, or patted it.

I got bigger and I took photos to commemorate every little change. I got bigger and I got more and more excited about producing milk soon. That was a mysterious biological function I could not wait to enjoy. I got bigger and I kept my husband very busy filling me up multiple times a week as he would watch my much bigger breasts bounce when I laid on my back or hold my belly as he fucked me from behind. We had the most fun we have ever had together in the late second trimester and early third.

And if that’s where you would like to imagine this story ends, stop reading here. Because everything was perfect up until that point. You can walk away having read a nice story about a lady who really enjoyed being pregnant and how her husband saw a lot of action and how she’d really like to experience that again because it was so much fun. And that’s a fine place to stop. Because after this point this story is going to become a little more reflective and a lot more serious. It’s going to lose the sexy appeal. It’s going to lose the erotic nature. It’s going to get painfully honest.

At my 24 week checkup, baby was growing slower than expected. He was very small for his gestational age. But, everything else checked out. So no one said anything.
At my next check up two weeks later, baby boy hadn’t grown much at all. His heartbeat was still fine and he was still very active and I felt fine, too, so no one said anything. At 30 weeks gestation I was sitting at home and looked up from my phone and I realized I couldn’t see some of the family photos on the living room wall. There were empty spaces in my vision. I looked down at my phone screen and I couldn’t see my fingers typing all the time, they would show up in some spaces in my vision and not others. I knew immediately that I needed to take my blood pressure. I knew that vision changes of any kind were a possible sign of preeclampsia, a sign of *severe* preeclampsia.

That night I rode in an ambulance to another city an hour and a half away. I needed to be transferred to a hospital with a higher level NICU that could take a 30 weeks gestation baby. It was just a precaution. My blood pressure had mostly stabilized and I wasn’t showing signs of liver distress in my labs. I was on a magnesium drip to prevent a stroke. I was having my blood pressure taken every half hour. I was being asked if I had a headache, if I could see, if I had pain in my abdomen where my liver is, if I was swelling in my hands or feet. It seemed like I was being asked by someone new every 15 minutes. And for good reason. Preeclampsia kills. It kills fast if it isn’t caught. It kills babies and it kills mothers. It killed my mom’s first baby at 40 weeks gestation. My mom was in the ICU for two weeks afterwards with a severe infection.

I was sent home four days later and was told to monitor my blood pressure three times a day and immediately go to labor and delivery at the nearest hospital if something was amiss. The goal was to monitor baby and me closely and try to stay pregnant to 34 weeks. That’s when babies have a lot fewer issues as far prematurity goes. For reference, if you didn’t know, a typical pregnancy is 40 weeks.

A week later I was back in an ambulance because my blood pressure was high at a regular ultrasound. The next day I was wheeled into the operating room to give birth to a 2 lb 10 oz tiny, red screamer. Thank god he was screaming. Thank god he was wriggling. Thank god his heart rate was just as steady and strong as it had ever been. Thank god today I am wiping spit up off my shirt, my shorts, my foot for the umpteenth time.

The next month was the most challenging experience of my life. I don’t wish a NICU stay of any length on my worst enemy. I don’t wish for anyone to experience not bringing their baby home with them from the hospital for any reason. Heaven forbid, for the worst reason.

And I don’t wish on any pregnant person the feeling of failure that comes from having a pregnancy with complications. Even if the feeling of failure is misplaced, even if it’s something completely out of your control, the feeling of failure creeps in. Especially as you’re watching a too-small baby breathe with the help of a CPAP mask, their body covered in stickers and sprouting wires everywhere. And even as I get further and further away from the experience, I can feel that sense of failure right on the edge of my more practical mind.

Wanting to be pregnant again is complicated for me. It’s probably a little complicated for most women for their own reasons.

The uncomplicated stuff is that I’ve always wanted two kids,
I loved the experience of being pregnant,
I think my husband and I are really fucking good parents, an amazing team, and I’m really enjoying being a mom.

The complicated stuff is that I really want to experience a pregnancy without so much heartache. I want to get impossibly round. I want to waddle. I want to have a normal baby shower. I want to have a family betting pool for due date/weight. I want to take maternity photos in a pretty dress with a giant belly. I want to be uncomfortable, isn’t that wild? Like it’s a right of passage. I want to toss and turn with a cumbersome tummy at night because nothing is working for sleep. I want to wonder in amazement that the baby can still kick and wriggle even though it’s getting so cramped. I want to go into labor and feel the rush of excitement. I want the doctors to say the baby is perfectly healthy. I want to bring home my baby a day later, having never left their side. I want to spend the magical newborn days with my baby *in our home*.

It has dawned on me recently that the reason I have a breeding/impregnation kink is because it’s a way to cope with the feelings that linger from my first experience. It’s a way to imagine everything going right. And fantasizing about everything going right in great detail gives me a feeling of control that I so desperately wanted the first time. It’s a bizarre form of therapy that I’ve invented for myself.

I am familiar with various forms of BDSM being therapeutic for the participants. Some people find great healing through experiencing a painful, scary, helpless situation in which they are in complete control of how far it goes and when it stops and how they are treated afterward. I think I may have some kinship with those people through this discovery.

Anyway. This was probably an unexpected read, as true stories tend to go.
I kept it on my profile for a long time, choosing not to share it widely to any subreddits, it isn’t *purely* erotic after all. But today I’m taking the chance and letting it go out into the void where maybe it will be enlightening for someone else. Who knows. Thanks for reading. ❤️

Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/pfzo2w/the_origin_of_a_kink