The grocery store smelled like wet cardboard and overripe bananas, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like tired insects. It was just after 7 p.m., the pre-holiday slump still clinging to the aisles—half-empty shelves, carts abandoned mid-row, the occasional exhausted parent dragging a screaming toddler toward the registers. I'd come for basics: ramen, frozen burritos, protein bars, the usual college-senior survival kit. My cart rattled over the tile as I paused in front of the soup aisle, debating between chicken noodle and the suspiciously expensive organic vegetable blend.
A soft clatter beside me—something heavy hitting the floor.
I turned.
She was maybe late twenties, dark hair pulled into a messy bun, wearing an oversized gray coat that still couldn't hide the pronounced swell of her belly—seven, maybe eight months along. One hand braced on the shelf edge, the other clutching her lower back. A can of tomato soup had rolled under the next aisle; a box of saltines lay split open at her feet, crackers scattered like pale confetti.
"Shit," she muttered, voice low and frayed. She started to bend—then winced, hand flying to her side.
I dropped to a knee without thinking.
"Here—let me."
I scooped up the crackers, the can, stacked them neatly back into her cart. She straightened slowly, breathing through her nose, one hand cradling the underside of her belly like it might fall if she let go.
"Thanks," she said, managing a tired smile. "Baby's been kicking like he's training for soccer. Balance is shot."
"No problem." I stood, handing her the last of the spilled crackers. "You okay? Need anything else?"
She shook her head, but the motion was sluggish. Dark circles under her eyes, skin pale under the harsh lights. "Just trying to get through the list before I pass out in the parking lot. Husband's working late again. Story of my life."
I nodded toward her cart—half full, mostly canned goods, prenatal vitamins, a small pack of diapers already open like she'd been too impatient to wait. "You live close? I can help you to your car at least."
She hesitated, then gave a small, grateful laugh. "Sweet of you, but I'm good. I've got the whole weekend to recover once I get home. Thanks, though. Really."
She pushed her cart forward—slow, deliberate steps—and disappeared around the corner toward the registers.
I watched her go.
Then I made a decision.
Pregnant bodies were new territory. Uncharted. The bond with Lena had taught me that deeper possession—longer stays—came from shared extremes: exhaustion, emotion, physical overload. A woman carrying a child? Hormones in flux, body working overtime, sleep fractured by kicks and heartburn. If anything could stretch my range further, anchor me longer without snap-back, it would be that.
I finished shopping fast. Paid. Drove home.
Back at the apartment, the living room was lit only by the TV glow. Sarah and Jake sat on opposite ends of the couch—awkward distance that hadn't been there before Christmas break. The fight Sarah had cried about in the coffee shop had apparently escalated over the holidays, then imploded tonight in a long, teary conversation I'd pretended not to overhear from the kitchen.
I walked in with grocery bags, set them on the counter.
They both looked up—relieved, almost.
"Hey," Sarah said softly. "We… talked. Like, really talked. We're okay. Or we're going to be."
Jake rubbed the back of his neck. "Yeah. Sorry if we've been weird lately. Just… stuff."
I gave them a tired smile—genuine enough. "Glad you're good. Seriously."
Sarah stood, crossed the room, hugged me quick and fierce. "Thanks for listening to me ramble the other week. You didn't have to."
"Anytime."
They headed to their room soon after—door clicking shut, low voices murmuring, the kind of quiet that meant reconciliation more than argument.
I waited until the apartment was silent.
Then I went to my room, locked the door, and opened every single bag I'd bought.
I ate like I was preparing for hibernation.
Two full cans of soup—chicken noodle, scalding, gulped down standing at the counter. A family-size bag of tortilla chips with an entire jar of salsa. Three frozen burritos nuked and devoured in quick succession. A pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream straight from the carton, spoon scraping the bottom. I forced it all down, stomach stretching uncomfortably, the weight settling heavy and low.
Why?
Because digestion took time. Fullness delayed sleep. Exhaustion would hit harder in the morning—mine and hers. If I went to bed stuffed, I'd wake groggy, slow. Perfect cover to drift early, before she stirred.
I crashed around 11 p.m., belly distended, already regretting the ice cream.
But the plan was set.
Saturday morning—January 4, 2026.
I woke at 6:17 a.m., mouth dry, bladder protesting, but mind sharp. The apartment was still dark. I didn't move. Just focused.
I pictured her: the pregnant woman from the store. Dark hair, tired eyes, hand always on her belly. I didn't know her name, her address—didn't need to. The bond with Lena had stretched my range; this felt even farther, but the power answered anyway. No resistance. Just reach.
Snap.
I opened her eyes.
Dark bedroom. Heavy curtains. A nightlight shaped like a crescent moon glowing faintly in the corner. She—I—was lying on my left side, pregnancy pillow wedged between knees, one arm draped protectively over the swell of her belly. The skin there felt tight, warm, alive with faint movement—little kicks, rolls, a quiet internal conversation only she (we) could feel.
I exhaled slowly through her nose.
No snap-back. No pain. Just presence.
Her body was heavier than any I'd worn before—center of gravity shifted forward, breasts fuller and tender, lower back already aching from the night's position. I shifted carefully—rolled onto my back. The belly rose like a dome, skin stretched taut, faint linea nigra running down the center. I laid both hands on it. Felt a firm kick against my palm. A tiny foot—or elbow—pushing back.
Wonder filled me. Not lust this time. Curiosity. Awe.
I stayed still, letting her body settle, listening to the slow double heartbeat—hers steady, the baby's faster, like a hummingbird trapped inside.
The weekend had just begun.
And I had no intention of leaving anytime soon.
Saturday morning light filtered through the heavy curtains in slivers, casting soft glows across the queen-sized bed where her body—my body now—lay cocooned in the pregnancy pillow and rumpled sheets. The clock on the nightstand read 6:25 a.m., digital numbers harsh in the dimness. Beside me, her husband—tall, bearded, snoring softly in plaid boxers—stirred once, mumbled something about "five more minutes," and rolled over, pulling the comforter higher. He was out cold again, the kind of deep sleep that came from a late-night shift and no baby duties yet. Perfect. I didn't want interruptions. Not for this.
I let her body settle for a moment, breathing slow and deliberate through her nose. The possession felt seamless—no tug, no time limit nagging at the edges. Just immersion. And god, the sensations were immediate, overwhelming in their novelty. This wasn't like Lena's athletic frame or Sarah's youthful curves. This was... amplified. Heavy. Alive in ways I'd never imagined.
First, the weight. Her belly—our belly—dominated everything. I placed both hands on it, palms flat against the taut skin stretched over the curve. It was warm, firm but yielding slightly under pressure, like a balloon filled just to the edge of bursting. The linea nigra ran straight down the center, a faint dark line I traced with one finger, feeling the subtle texture change. Inside, the baby shifted—a slow, rolling wave that pushed against my palm from within. Not painful, but insistent. A flutter here, a jab there. I gasped softly in her voice—husky, feminine, edged with surprise. It was like carrying a secret world inside: the constant awareness of another life, tugging at my center of gravity, making every breath feel fuller, every movement deliberate. Sitting up took effort—muscles in her lower back protesting with a dull ache, hips widening instinctively to accommodate the load. I swung her legs over the bed's edge, feet flat on the cool hardwood, and stood slowly. The sway was automatic: a gentle waddle to balance the forward pull. Breasts—swollen, heavy C-cups turning to Ds from the hormones—shifted with each step, tender and full, nipples already sensitive against the soft cotton of her nightshirt.
I padded to the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom, careful not to wake him. The reflection stared back: her face softer with pregnancy glow, cheeks flushed, eyes wide with my borrowed curiosity. The nightshirt rode up over the belly; I lifted it higher, exposing everything. Stretch marks faint silver lines along the sides—battle scars, I thought, running her fingers over them. They tingled slightly, sensitive in a way bare skin wasn't. The belly button had popped out like a button, protruding just enough to brush against fabric and send small shivers up her spine. I pressed gently around the navel, feeling the firmness give way to the amniotic cushion beneath. Another kick—stronger this time, right under my hand. I laughed low in her throat, the sound vibrating through her chest. It was intimate, alien, powerful. The constant hum of life inside made every sensation deeper: heartbeats syncing faintly, a shared rhythm that pulled at something primal in me.
But curiosity shifted. Darkened. I'd come to explore, after all. And erotic stimulation? In this body? The thought sent a dirty thrill through me—taboo layered on taboo.
I glanced back at the bed. Husband still snoring, face buried in the pillow. He'd sleep longer; I could make sure of it. I dimmed the nightlight further, just in case, and guided her body to the en-suite bathroom. Closed the door softly. Locked it. The tile was cold under her feet; I leaned her against the sink counter, facing the mirror again.
Started slow. Hands back on the belly—circling wide, massaging the taut skin. The touch was soothing at first, but as I pressed firmer, it awakened nerves I didn't know existed. Pregnancy had heightened everything: skin more sensitive, blood flow increased, hormones turning her body into a live wire. I slid one hand lower, over the swell, dipping between her thighs. She was already warm there—wetter than expected, the natural lubrication amplified by the changes. Fingers parted her folds gently; she gasped—breath fogging the mirror. The clit was swollen, engorged from extra blood volume, responding to the lightest brush with a jolt that radiated up through the belly. I circled slow, deliberate, feeling the baby shift in response—as if the pleasure echoed inward.
God, it was intense. Different from non-pregnant bodies I'd worn. The sensations built slower but deeper, waves starting low and rippling outward, tugging at the uterus with faint contractions that weren't painful but... erotic. Braxton Hicks? Whatever—they added pressure, a fullness that made every stroke feel amplified. I dipped two fingers inside—tight, warm, walls clenching greedily. The angle was awkward with the belly in the way; I had to spread her legs wider, lean back against the counter. Thrusting shallow at first, then deeper. Her free hand cupped a breast—tender, yes, but the nipples... jesus. Darker now, areolas widened, they hardened into peaks at the slightest pinch. I rolled one between thumb and forefinger, tugging gently. Milk beaded at the tip—colostrum, early and unexpected. I smeared it across the nipple, the slickness making it slide easier. The dual stimulation—fingers inside, hand on breast—built fast. Her body arched, belly pressing forward, breaths coming in pants. The mirror showed it all: flushed face, parted lips, the swell heaving with each gasp.
I pushed further. Turned on the sink faucet low—white noise to mask sounds—and let myself moan in her voice. Low, throaty. Fingers curled inside, hitting that spot while my thumb worked her clit in tight circles. The orgasm crept up slow, then crashed: waves contracting through her core, the baby kicking in rhythm as if sensing the pulses. I came hard—shuddering, knees buckling, one hand gripping the counter to stay upright. Wetness slicked her thighs; I felt it drip, warm and obscene. But it didn't stop there. Pregnancy multiples? I kept going—fingers relentless. The second peak hit minutes later, sharper, with a gush that soaked her hand. I bit her lip to stifle the cry, tasting salt.
Exhausted now. Satisfied. I cleaned her up—warm washcloth between legs, fresh nightshirt from the hook. Slipped back into bed beside the still-sleeping husband. He mumbled, rolled closer, one arm draping over her belly unconsciously. I let him—felt the warmth of his hand, the faint stir of the baby under it.
I could stay all weekend like this. Exploring every sensation: the waddle-walk to the kitchen for breakfast, the way clothes hugged the curves differently, the random hormone surges that made her cry at commercials or crave touch out of nowhere. And more stimulation—later, when he was at work, or asleep again. Toys from the nightstand drawer? A long bath with wandering hands?
The power hummed, content.
No rush to leave.
Not yet.
The bathroom door clicked shut behind me with a soft finality. The husband's snores continued undisturbed from the bedroom—deep, even, oblivious. I turned on the faucet, letting hot water thunder into the oversized tub, steam rising in lazy curls that fogged the mirror within seconds. Pregnancy baths were apparently a ritual; the shelf held a bottle of unscented Epsom salts and a lavender oil she usually avoided because it made her nauseous. I added both anyway—generous pours—watching the water turn milky and fragrant.
I stripped her nightshirt over her head, letting it pool on the tile. Naked now, I studied the reflection one last time before stepping in: the pronounced curve of her belly dominating the frame, breasts resting heavily atop it, nipples dark and slightly chapped from the constant friction of clothing. Stretch marks gleamed silver in the low light. I eased down slowly—careful, because the weight distribution made every movement feel precarious. Water enveloped me inch by inch, hot enough to sting pleasantly against skin that had grown hypersensitive. The buoyancy lifted the belly slightly, easing the constant pull on her lower back. A small, involuntary sigh escaped her lips.
I leaned back against the sloped end of the tub, legs spreading naturally as the water lapped at the undersides of my breasts. One hand stayed on the dome of her belly—feeling the subtle shifts beneath, the baby's slow rolls like a creature dreaming in its private ocean. The other hand wandered.
Started innocently enough: tracing the linea nigra downward, circling the popped-out navel until it puckered under the touch. Then lower. Between thighs already parted by the position. The heat of the bath amplified everything—blood flow rushing, skin flushed pink. Fingers parted slick folds (the pregnancy hormones kept her perpetually ready, it seemed) and found the clit already swollen, peeking from its hood. I circled slow—lazy figure-eights—letting the pleasure build in languid waves rather than chasing it. Each stroke sent faint echoes through the uterus: tiny, rhythmic tightenings that weren't quite contractions but felt deliciously close. The baby kicked once—firm, right under my palm—as if protesting or joining in. I laughed softly in her throat, the sound echoing off the tiles.
I dipped two fingers inside—easy glide, walls clenching greedily. Thrust shallow, then deeper, curling against that spongy front wall while my thumb kept steady pressure on the clit. The other hand cupped a breast, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger until a bead of colostrum welled up again. I smeared it across the areola, the slickness making every pinch slide smoother, sharper. Pleasure coiled low and heavy—different from before. Slower to crest because of the fullness everywhere, but when it broke, it broke wide: a rolling, full-body wave that made her back arch, water sloshing over the tub edge, belly lifting out of the water for a second as muscles clenched and released. The baby kicked hard—three quick jabs—as if startled awake. I rode the aftershocks with gentle circles until the sensitivity became too much, then simply rested both hands on the belly, breathing through her open mouth, steam curling around us like smoke.
Eventually I drained the tub, dried off with one of the thick towels, and dressed her in soft maternity leggings and an oversized sweater that draped over the curve without clinging. The husband was still asleep when I slipped back into bed for another half-hour—just long enough to let the bath's warmth linger.
Breakfast came next.
I padded to the kitchen in bare feet, the cool floor tiles a contrast to the lingering heat in my skin. The fridge was stocked with the kind of food a tired pregnant woman craves: Greek yogurt, fresh berries, a loaf of sourdough, almond butter, decaf coffee pods. I toasted thick slices, slathered them with almond butter and sliced banana, then added a generous bowl of yogurt topped with granola and strawberries. The coffee machine gurgled; I inhaled the nutty aroma deeply while it brewed.
Sitting at the small kitchen table, I ate slowly—savoring the way her body responded to food now. Every bite felt more satisfying, more necessary. The belly rested against the table edge; I felt every swallow travel down, the faint pressure of digestion starting. And then—the movement.
A slow roll first, like something turning over in deep water. Then a kick—sharp, right under my ribs. Another. I set the spoon down, placed both hands on the swell, and waited. The baby was awake, clearly. Little flutters, then a proper thump—heel or elbow, I couldn't tell. The sensation was intimate beyond sex: a private conversation happening inside me, insistent and alive. I pressed gently back, coaxing more movement. A ripple answered—wave after wave of motion that made the skin dance under my palms. I smiled—her smile—wide and private, feeling strangely content in a way that had nothing to do with orgasm.
After breakfast I decided to walk.
The neighborhood was quiet on a Saturday morning in early January—frost still clinging to lawns, breath fogging the air. I bundled her into a long wool coat that barely closed over the belly, scarf wrapped high, gloves on. The waddle was pronounced now that I was moving; hips swaying wider to compensate, each step a gentle rock. But she'd slept deeply last night—uninterrupted for once—and I could feel her mind in the background, submerged in profound, dreamless rest. No stirring. No resistance. The body was mine for the day, maybe longer. I felt strong, rested, strangely energized by the dual heartbeat.
Halfway down the block a woman in a puffy jacket waved from her driveway—mid-forties, blonde bob, friendly smile that said "neighbor" more than "stranger."
"Morning, Emily! You're out early. Feeling good today?"
Emily. Her name was Emily.
I smiled back—warm, automatic. "Morning, Karen. Yeah, surprisingly good. Slept like a rock for once."
She laughed. "Miracle. Listen—the Saturday prenatal aqua aerobics group is meeting at noon at the community center pool. We've got three newbies this week and could use your smiling face to show them the ropes. You in?"
The idea hit instantly: warm water, buoyancy lifting the belly, gentle movement in a room full of other pregnant women, all of them blissfully unaware that one of them was wearing someone else's mind.
I nodded without hesitation. "Absolutely. I'll be there."
Karen beamed. "Perfect. See you at noon. Don't forget your suit!"
She waved again and headed inside.
I kept walking—slow, deliberate—feeling Emily's body settle into the rhythm. The baby kicked again, as if approving the plan.
Noon couldn't come fast enough.
Lunch lingered at the kitchen table, bowls pushed aside, the steam from the stew fading into the air. Daniel leaned back in his chair, one hand absently drumming fingers on the wood, the other reaching across to trace slow circles on the back of Emily's—my—hand. The touch was familiar to her body, sparking a quiet warmth that spread up her arm and settled low in her chest. I let it happen, leaning into the role with the memories I'd pulled earlier guiding every nuance.
"You really do seem different today," he said again, voice low and intimate, eyes searching hers. "Like... lighter. No shadows under your eyes. It's hot."
I smiled with Emily's lips—soft, teasing, drawing from a memory of their early dating days when she'd flirt over coffee. "Maybe it's the hormones finally giving me a break. Or that stew of yours. You know what they say about a man who can cook..."
He chuckled, leaning forward to kiss her knuckles. "Flattery will get you everywhere." His thumb brushed her palm, sending a small shiver through the body. The baby kicked once—firm, as if joining the conversation—and Daniel's eyes lit up. "See? Luca agrees. Daddy's stew is magic."
We talked like that for another twenty minutes—easy, wandering dialogue about baby names (Luca was set, but middle name still up for debate: James after her dad or Michael after his brother?), nursery colors (soft blue with star decals), and the quiet fears neither usually voiced. "What if I'm not ready?" he admitted, voice dropping. "What if I screw this up?"
I squeezed his hand with Emily's fingers, channeling her steady reassurance from a memory of their wedding vows. "You won't. We're in this together. And look at you—already the best partner. Working those long shifts so I can rest. You're going to be an amazing dad."
He pulled her hand to his lips again, kissing the wrist where her pulse thrummed. The gesture stirred something deeper—hormonal heat flaring low, making her thighs clench subtly under the table. I felt it all: the faint ache from the bath earlier, the constant fullness, the way intimacy now carried an undercurrent of urgency. But noon was approaching. I eased back, breaking the moment gently.
"Speaking of rest... I should get ready for the pool. Don't want to keep Karen waiting."
Daniel nodded, standing to clear the dishes. "Want me to drive you? I can push my next call back."
I shook Emily's head, standing slowly—hand under the belly for support. "No way. You've been working hard enough. I got this. Go conquer the world from your home office."
He hesitated, then pulled her into a hug—careful around the swell, his chest warm against hers. "Fine. But text me when you get there. And when you leave. Love you."
"Love you too."
Upstairs, I rummaged through her closet with the memories as my guide: the black one-piece maternity swimsuit tucked in the bottom drawer, tags still on from when she'd bought it last month but never used. I stripped her again—enjoying the ritual of it—and stepped into the suit. It hugged every curve: high-cut legs that elongated her thighs, supportive cups that cradled the heavy breasts without pinching, a ruched front panel that smoothed over the belly while leaving room for movement. I adjusted the straps, feeling the fabric pull taut against sensitive skin—nipples peaking from the cool air and the friction. A quick twist in front of the mirror: the suit accentuated the pregnancy glow, making her look powerful, fertile, erotic in a way that stirred my borrowed arousal again.
I threw a loose sundress over it—easy to slip off at the pool—grabbed a towel, water bottle, and her gym bag. Daniel kissed her goodbye at the door, hand lingering on the belly one last time. "Have fun. Kick some water ass."
The car was a silver SUV in the driveway—keys on the hook by the door. I slid into the driver's seat, adjusting for the belly (seat back, belt low under the swell). The engine purred to life; I backed out slowly, navigating the quiet streets toward the community center. Driving in her body was a new thrill: the way the seat pressed against her ass, the belt crossing between swollen breasts, every bump in the road sending small jolts through the core where the baby nestled.
The parking lot was half-full when I arrived—mostly minivans and sedans, a few women waddling toward the entrance with bags slung over shoulders. I found a spot near the front, killed the engine, grabbed the bag.
As I swung the door open—left leg out, hand on the frame for leverage—disaster struck.
A sharp knock echoed—not here, not in the parking lot.
Back there. In my real body.
The apartment. My bedroom door.
The bond—no, the possession—split my focus like a lightning fork. Emily's body froze mid-motion, door half-open, while awareness yanked backward across miles.
Jake's voice, muffled through wood: "Dude? You alive in there? You've been out cold all morning. Sarah made brunch—pancakes. You coming?"
Panic surged. My real body lay in bed, tangled in sheets, unresponsive as always during deep possession. If Jake opened the door... if he shook me too hard...
I focused—hard—splitting control like I'd done with Lena that once, but this was farther, deeper, the pregnancy body heavier to hold. Emily's hand gripped the car door tighter; her heart raced, the baby kicking in protest. My real mouth moved—slow, groggy, voice thick with feigned sleep.
"Yeah... 'm fine. Just... really tired. Late night studying. Skip brunch—need more sleep."
Jake paused. "You sure? You sound wrecked. Want coffee or something?"
"Nah. Good. Thanks, man."
Footsteps retreated. Door stayed closed.
Relief washed through both bodies—Emily's knees buckling slightly, forcing me to lean against the car; my real one sinking back into the pillows.
It was hard—god, so hard—to contain both. Like juggling fire while walking a tightrope. The pregnancy sensations amplified everything: the belly's weight pulling me down here, the apartment's distant quiet tugging there. But I held it. Stabilized.
Jake left me alone—my body back in bed, safe, unresponsive.
I could continue.
I slammed the car door shut—Emily's hand shaking just a fraction—and headed inside, bag over her shoulder, the baby's kicks settling as if nothing had happened.
The pool waited.
The community center's locker room smelled of chlorine and coconut body wash, the air thick and humid even before stepping near the pool. I pushed through the swinging door with Emily's gym bag slung over one shoulder, the maternity swimsuit already itching faintly against her skin from the drive. The changing area was mostly empty—Saturday noon meant most women were already in the water or still arriving—but a few voices echoed from the showers: soft laughter, the slap of flip-flops on wet tile.
I found an empty bench near the back wall and lowered Emily's body carefully. The pregnancy made every transition deliberate: knees bending first, one hand always bracing the lower back or cupping the underside of the belly so the weight didn't pull too suddenly. I sat, legs spreading wide to make room for the swell, and exhaled through her nose. The baby gave a slow, rolling shift—like a fish turning in deep water—pressing outward against my palm when I rested it there instinctively. A tiny foot or elbow. I pressed back gently, feeling the answering nudge. The bond between us (me, her, the child) hummed warmer, almost affectionate now after three days of constant cohabitation.
Time to change.
I peeled the sundress up over her head in one smooth motion, the fabric dragging across sensitive nipples and making them tighten into hard peaks. No bra underneath—just the black maternity one-piece waiting in the bag. I stood again—slow, rocking forward to counterbalance the forward pull—and hooked thumbs into the waistband of the leggings. Pushed them down over wide hips, stepping out carefully so the belly didn't throw me off. Panties next: soft cotton maternity briefs, already damp at the crotch from the constant low-grade arousal pregnancy had gifted her (and me). I slid them down, feeling the cool air kiss the newly exposed skin between her thighs. The folds were plump, slightly swollen from increased blood flow, glistening faintly even without stimulation. I resisted the urge to touch—save it for the water.
The swimsuit waited folded on the bench. Black, high-cut legs, supportive shelf bra built into the top, ruched panel over the belly that stretched to accommodate growth. I stepped into the leg holes one at a time, pulling the fabric up slowly, savoring every inch. The material glided over calves, thighs, then caught briefly on the widest part of her hips before sliding up. As it rose higher, the crotch panel pressed snug against her vulva—seam nestling right along the slit, rubbing the clit with every tiny shift. I tugged it higher, feeling the fabric cup her ass cheeks firmly, the high-cut legs exposing the smooth curve where thigh met groin. Up over the belly now—the ruched front stretched taut, hugging the dome like a second skin, outlining every stretch mark and the faint linea nigra in relief. The shelf bra caught her breasts last: heavy, full, nipples already dark and prominent. I adjusted the straps, settling the cups so they lifted and supported without pinching. The underwire pressed just under the swell, creating cleavage that pregnancy had deepened into something obscene—soft, spilling slightly over the top edge.
I twisted left, then right in front of the small mirror bolted to the lockers. The suit clung everywhere: outlining the popped belly button, accentuating the flare of hips, the way her breasts sat higher and fuller than before. I ran Emily's hands down the sides—over ribs, waist (what was left of it), then wide over the curve. The baby kicked twice in quick succession, as if approving the snug fit. A low throb started between her legs—the friction of the suit seam against her clit with every breath, every shift. Dirty, filthy thrill: standing here in a public locker room, heavily pregnant, body betraying me with arousal I hadn't even touched yet.