I slipped on flip-flops, grabbed the towel, and walked out.
The pool deck was bright, chlorine-sharp, echoes bouncing off tile. Karen waved from the shallow end, already in the water with three other women—bellies at various stages, all buoyant and laughing. I waddled over, feeling every eye on the swell, the suit, the glow. Strangers smiled; one touched her own belly in unconscious solidarity.
"Emily! You made it!" Karen called. "Look at you—glowing. Ready to float?"
I smiled with Emily's mouth, easing down the steps into the warm water. The change was immediate, obscene pleasure: buoyancy lifted the belly's weight off her spine, breasts floating, hips freed from gravity. The water lapped at the suit, pressing the fabric tighter against every sensitive inch. I submerged to my shoulders, sighing aloud in her voice as the warmth enveloped the swollen folds, the seam now soaked and sliding with every tiny movement.
We started with warm-ups: gentle arm circles, leg swings underwater. Each motion sent ripples across the belly, the baby tumbling lazily inside like he was swimming too. Kicks answered every stretch—firm thumps against my ribs when I raised arms overhead, rolling pressure when I did side bends. The instructor called for "jellyfish floats"—leaning back, legs dangling, arms out. I let Emily's body drift, belly breaking the surface like a small island. Water sluiced over stretch marks, teased the linea nigra, lapped at the popped navel. The suit's crotch seam rubbed rhythmically with the gentle rocking—clit swollen, folds parted slightly by the pressure. I clenched her inner muscles once—testing—and felt the answering flutter deep inside, walls tightening around nothing, pleasure spiking sharp and dirty. The baby kicked hard in response, as if startled by the pulse. I bit her lip to keep from moaning.
Next: "pool jogging" in place. High knees underwater—each lift sent the belly bouncing softly, breasts jiggling in the supportive cups, nipples scraping fabric with delicious friction. The motion created tiny currents that swirled between her thighs, teasing the exposed skin around the high-cut legs. Arousal built slow, relentless—hormones turning every sensation into foreplay. I imagined someone watching from the deck, seeing the pregnant woman flushed, breathing harder than the exercise required, suit clinging wet and obscene.
By the end of the hour, I was soaked inside and out. The women chatted in the shallow end, hands on bellies, comparing kicks and cravings. I floated on my back one last time—belly buoyed high, baby doing slow somersaults under my palms—letting the water cradle us both.
The pleasure wasn't just physical. It was possessive. This body—round, fertile, aching—was mine for now. And every kick, every throb, every dirty ripple reminded me how thoroughly I'd claimed it.
I climbed out slowly—water streaming off the suit, darkening the fabric between her thighs where arousal had soaked through—already planning the next time I'd make her come in front of strangers who had no idea.
The locker room air clung heavy and damp as I stepped out of the pool, Emily's body still buzzing from the water's embrace. The swimsuit—black, clinging like a second skin—dripped rivulets down her thighs, the fabric sodden and molded to every curve. The post-swim arousal hit like a slow-building wave, amplified by the pregnancy hormones that turned her nervous system into a filthy playground. I felt it everywhere: the belly's weight shifting with each waddling step, the baby kicking in rhythmic protest or excitement, thumping against my ribs like he knew the dirty thoughts swirling in my borrowed mind. Her breasts, heavy and full, bounced slightly in the supportive cups, nipples chafed raw from the water's friction, hard as pebbles and leaking faint colostrum that soaked through the top, creating dark spots that made me smirk inwardly. Between her legs, the seam had ridden up during the floats and kicks, pressing insistently against her swollen clit—now throbbing with need, folds slick not just from pool water but from the constant low-grade wetness pregnancy demanded. Every movement sent a jolt: thighs rubbing together, the suit's material teasing her entrance, pelvic pressure building like a promise of release I wasn't ready to grant yet.
I found the bench again, lowered Emily's body with a hand braced on the locker for balance—posture changed forever by the forward pull, back aching faintly from the class's gentle strains. The arousal deepened as I peeled the straps down her shoulders, exposing the glowing skin, stretch marks glistening with moisture. The suit clung stubbornly to the belly, ruched panel sticking to the linea nigra like it was painted on. I tugged it lower, feeling the fabric drag across hypersensitive nipples—sharp intake of breath in her voice, a dirty moan I stifled by biting her lip. Down over the swell, the release of pressure made the baby shift position, a full-body roll that pressed low against her bladder and cervix, adding to the pelvic heaviness that bordered on erotic ache. The crotch panel came away last—peeling from slick, swollen folds with a wet sound that echoed in the empty space. I stood her naked, one hand cupping the belly as the baby hiccupped inside, tiny rhythmic jolts that vibrated through her core like internal vibrations. My dirty mind raced: strangers in the class had seen her flush, seen the way her breaths came short during floats, oblivious to the orgasm building just under the surface. Revenge flickered briefly—not on Emily, sweet oblivious Emily, but on Gina, that cocky bitch who'd taken my gifts and thrown them back. Imagine possessing her like this, bloated and horny, forcing her to edge in public until she begged. But Emily's body pulled me back—the increased libido demanding attention, hormones surging like a filthy tide.
I dressed her quickly but deliberately: fresh maternity panties first, the soft cotton hugging wet skin, seam nestling right where it could tease on the drive. Leggings next, sliding up thighs that quivered from the arousal, fabric tight against the ass I'd come to appreciate in its fuller, pregnancy-rounded glory. The sundress over top, loose but brushing nipples with every sway. Feet swelling slightly from the water and standing, I slipped on comfortable flats, feeling the balance shift—walking now a deliberate waddle, posture arched to counter the belly's pull. The need to pee hit midway through dressing—frequent urination a constant companion, bladder compressed by the growing baby. I hurried her to a stall, pulling down the leggings just in time, the relief mingling with the lingering throb between her legs. As the stream hit, a woman at the sink—mid-thirties, curly hair, towel over shoulder—glanced over with a knowing smile. "How far along? You look ready to pop!"
"Thirty-four weeks," I replied in Emily's soft voice, drawing from memories: polite but brief, the social interactions of pregnancy always laced with unsolicited advice. "Boy. Kicking like crazy today."
She laughed. "Mine did that too. Just wait for the heartburn at night. Take care, hon."
I nodded, wiping and pulling up the clothes, feeling the touch changes—skin more sensitive, every brush of fabric like foreplay. The conversation stirred a small mood swing: irritation at the intrusion, then sudden contentment from the shared camaraderie. Hormones—wild, unpredictable, turning anger to joy in seconds.
Outside, I drove Emily's SUV to a small drive-thru burger joint on the way home—cravings hitting hard, taste buds altered by pregnancy to demand salty, greasy perfection. I ordered a double cheeseburger with extra pickles (her usual go-to, from memory), fries, and a chocolate shake, plus a takeout grilled chicken wrap for Daniel—healthy, thoughtful, to keep the husband happy. The aroma filled the car, sense of smell heightened to the point where the fries alone made her mouth water and stomach growl. I ate in the parking lot, one hand on the belly as the baby positioned himself head-down, pressing on the cervix with pelvic pressure that bordered on erotic discomfort. Each bite was a revelation—taste changes making the salt explode, the sweet shake coating her tongue like sin. Shortness of breath kicked in midway, the belly compressing lungs, but I savored it, feeling the food settle heavy, cravings sated but libido stirring again from the fullness.
Home by evening, the sun dipping low, casting long shadows across the driveway. Tiredness hit like a wave—body weary from the pool, feet swollen, back pain flaring from the drive's posture. I waddled inside, bag and takeout in hand, feeling the nesting instinct tug faintly: a sudden urge to tidy the counter before Daniel saw. He greeted me at the door with a kiss, hand on the belly. "How was it? You look beat."
"Good, but exhausting," I said, voice edged with real fatigue—hormones swinging to a low, emotional changes making tears prick unexpectedly at his concern. "Brought you dinner. I'm wiped—think I'll crash early. Big week ahead."
He took the wrap gratefully, rubbing her feet later on the couch—a ritual from memory, his strong hands kneading swollen arches, sending pleasure-pain ripples up her legs that pooled low and dirty. I let him, feeling the intimacy changes: touch now more profound, arousal simmering under tiredness. But the body demanded rest. I guided Emily to bed, pregnancy pillow wedged between knees, maternity clothes folded neatly (dressing changes: always loose, supportive). As she drifted, I felt her mind still deep in that comatose sleep—weakened by pregnancy, no stirrings for another day at least. Vivid dreams flickered at the edges—mine or hers?—of labor, sex, revenge on Gina (that laughing bitch, her thin body mine to bloat again, to binge and break). I lingered in the quiet, bonding with the baby through gentle strokes on the belly, his movements lulling me.
Night fell. Knowing Emily wouldn't wake soon, I focused—gentle fade, no snap. Back in my own body, the apartment dark, Jake and Sarah's voices murmuring from the living room. Energy surged through me—lessons from Emily's possession embedded deep: the weight of life, the filthy depths of hormonal lust, the quiet power in vulnerability. Revenge thoughts swirled: Gina first, that manipulative slut—possess her chunky form, make her binge until she's bloated and begging, laugh in her face as she loses it all. Then Annie, Mom, Dad, the roommate, the hot barista (her perky tits mine to explore), the neighbor girl, the TA, the ex, even the finance bro or Gina's rich boyfriend. The thin Gina, the cocky Gina, the cheating Gina—I'd shift into her at night, tear her dresses, shove Twinkies down her throat until she kept nothing slender. The deciding Gina, the focusing Gina, the waking Gina—I'd be there, ruining it all with malicious grins. No rush. The power was mine, limitless now.<|control12|>The community center's pool echoed with soft splashes and chatter as I stepped onto the deck in Emily's body, the maternity swimsuit hugging every swollen curve like a lover's grip. The arousal from changing lingered—nipples chafed and leaking faint colostrum, folds slick under the seam, belly taut and kicking with life. Karen spotted me first, waving from the shallow end where five other women floated, their bellies bobbing like buoys in the warm water. "Emily! Over here— you look radiant today!"
I waddled closer, feeling the posture changes: back arched, hips swaying wide to balance the weight, feet already swelling from the morning walk. The baby positioned low, pressing on the pelvis with that filthy, constant pressure that made every step a tease. "Hey, Karen. Lisa, Monica—good to see you all. Newbies, right?" I greeted the three fresh faces—early twenties to mid-thirties, bellies at various stages, all smiling with that shared glow. Social interactions as a pregnant woman were always this: instant camaraderie, strangers touching the belly (one newbie did, hand lingering too long, sending a dirty thrill through the stretch marks), advice flowing like water ("Drink raspberry leaf tea for labor!").
We started with floats—leaning back, legs dangling, arms out. The buoyancy was erotic bliss: belly lifting high, breasts floating free in the cups, nipples scraping fabric with each wave. The baby kicked hard—three sharp thumps against my ribs—as if protesting the weightlessness, his movements amplified by the water's resistance. Hormones surged, libido spiking; I clenched her inner muscles once, feeling the walls tighten around nothing, arousal building dirty and slow. Braxton Hicks fluttered—faint contractions that squeezed the uterus like a promise of pain-pleasure, making the clit throb under the suit's seam.
Jogging in place next: high knees sending the belly bouncing, breasts jiggling with heavy fullness, colostrum leaking more, darkening the top. The water swirled between thighs, teasing the high-cut legs, sense of touch heightened to the point where every current felt like fingers brushing her folds. The baby hiccupped—tiny rhythmic jolts vibrating through the core, mixing with the pelvic pressure that bordered on orgasmic ache. Mood swing hit mid-exercise: sudden irritation at Monica's complaints ("My twins are killing me!"), then joy at Karen's laugh, hormones whipping emotions like a filthy game. Cravings whispered—salt from the pool water on her lips, taste changes making it crave fries.
By the end, tiredness crept in—shortness of breath from compressed lungs, back pain flaring, but the arousal peaked dirty: vivid fantasy of Gina in this suit, bloated and humiliated, me possessing her to make her come in public until she begged. A bit revengeful, not too much—just enough to fuel the throb between Emily's legs.
I changed back in the locker room, peeling the wet suit off with deliberate slowness—the fabric dragging across stretch marks, linea nigra, popped navel. Naked, I cupped the breasts, thumbs circling leaking nipples, feeling the increased libido demand more. But the need to pee hit hard—frequent urination a curse, bladder squeezed by the baby. In the stall, as the stream flowed, a woman at the sink—fifties, short hair, towel-wrapped—glanced over. "Emily! Haven't seen you in weeks. How's Daniel? And the little one?"
"Fine, thanks, Mrs. Hayes," I replied from memory—neighbor from two doors down, chatty but kind. "He's kicking up a storm. Week's been busy—prenatal vitamins making me glow, or so they say."
She laughed. "You do! Take care—don't overdo the swimming."
I nodded, wiping, feeling the hygiene changes: more careful now with the swollen vulva, skin care routine including gentle wipes to avoid irritation. Dressed in the sundress, maternity clothes loose but brushing sensitive spots, I drove to a nearby diner—cravings demanding a greasy burger, senses of smell and taste altered to make the aroma intoxicating. I ate at a booth, one hand on the belly as the baby positioned head-down, pressing hard on the cervix with pelvic pressure that made me squirm. Ordered a takeout steak sandwich for Daniel—thoughtful, to keep the husband content. Strangers stared, one touching the belly ("Boy or girl?"), social interactions turning me on with their intrusion.
Home by evening, tiredness hit full: feet swollen, balance off, posture aching. Daniel greeted me with a hug, his hands on the belly feeling the baby's movements. "Pool good?"
"Yeah, but I'm beat," I said, voice edged with real fatigue—hormones swinging to sadness, then contentment at his concern. "Brought you dinner. Think I'll crash early—week ahead."
He rubbed her feet on the couch—strong hands kneading arches, sending pleasure-pain up legs, libido flaring dirty despite exhaustion. We talked intimately: his work stress, my (her) fears of labor, the relationship changes deepening our bond. But the body demanded rest. I guided Emily to bed, pregnancy pillow cradling the swell, maternity pajamas soft against glowing skin, hair thicker and shinier from changes, nails stronger. As she drifted, vivid dreams flickered—mine: possessing Gina, making her binge until chunky again, laughing as she lost her slender body, shoving Twinkies down her throat with malicious grins, tearing her dresses, focusing on her humiliation over the cheating, the leaving, the heartbreak. Dirty revenge thoughts: the cocky Gina mine to manipulate, the beautiful Gina bloated, the lazy Gina forced to exercise until thin then fat again. Thinking of Annie's teenage breasts, Mom's mature curves, Dad's bulk, the roommate's pranks, the hot barista's perky tits, the neighbor girl's yoga ass, the TA's authority, the ex's familiarity, even the finance bro or Gina's rich boyfriend. The deciding Gina, the shifting Gina, the waking Gina—I'd be there, ruining it all.
Emily's mind stayed deep asleep—weakened by pregnancy, no stirrings for another day. Night fell; I faded gently, back in my own body, apartment dark. Energy surged—lessons from the possession: the fulfillment of purpose in carrying life, the dirty intensity of orgasm changes, the growth in empathy. Revenge on Gina simmered—not too much, just enough. The power was limitless now.
I returned to my body, which was relaxing in bed. I returned to where I had left it. My body felt heavy, as I rarely moved during sleep. I felt a little more pain than usual, but otherwise I was completely well rested. I felt the energy I had gathered by taking possession of Emily's body. I felt rested and ready for the next day.