Swollen

"Uuuh! Huhhhng! Haaah-!" You gag her again with the well-worn ball of black leather, appreciating the stream of drool that now frames it. The vibrating pink egg taped to her crotch, deformed by her eighth month of pregnancy as it was, probably hurt by now... but her orgasms have long associated pain with pleasure. You tap your syringe with the expertise that only daily injections can provide, and stab it once, then again, into her hideously distended breasts, each one spilling over her massive stomach and drooling milk perpetually. You don't bother with cup sizes (you don't intend to ever buy her a bra again), but you know she's blowing past the L-cup by now. You had upped her caloric intake to nearly triple what she should be at for her age and her body mass before you began these injections, but it's paid off with gains in weight where you wanted it and a constant supply of that sweet, irreplaceable beverage. Licking your lips, you lean down over her spread-eagle-bound body and take her engorged right nipple into your mouth for a proper breakfast, enjoying the sweet flavor and nutrients that only an expectant mother could provide. With your hormone injections and constant feeding, it was a promise that she'd lactate for the rest of her days.

With breakfast sloshing in your stomach, you take a moment to rest your ear against her swollen belly, shiny with sweat in the conditions you keep her down here in the basement. You spread your fingers on the other half of it, smiling at the sensation of the writhing baby within. "You're going to deliver soon, honey... aren't you excited?" She moans incoherently from the gag. Your smile falters slightly as you worry over the needs this delivery would bring: not merely in feeding and maintaining a baby (nevermind not being arrested for making it), but also in everything that could go wrong for your lovely ****. "I suppose I should ask Nathan if he wants to help us down here, sweetie... just to be sure." Panicked groans. "Don't worry honey, he has a rare condition: he's one of the few humans, one of only like five, who is immune to and won't trigger the brain cancer from telling someone else about how you got pregnant! Still, you should disregard everything he says when I bring him down here: everything he says is a joke, and none of it is serious unless I repeat it." She barely nods in acknowledgement of your new instruction set. Perhaps out of compliance, perhaps because she's getting used to it, but you've found Isabella to be more compliant with you, getting herself wet before you spray her full of another dose. Hopefully she'd get some of her spirit back once the baby became a factor.

"Holy shit."

Nathan's reaction to Isabella entering the room was natural. You had laid out tarps like you were going to drag a bloody body from the basement to the living room, where Nathan and you now shared beers, but in truth it was to keep the floor clean: Isabella crawled on her hands and knees, her distended belly almost touching the tarp while her tits, with the help of gravity, balled up at their respective ends and sprayed generous doses with every slide of her knees, covering her legs in her own milk as she sullied the plastic film. "So now you've got the whole story, Nathan... think you can help me deliver the baby?"

"Deliver-... holy shit, dude, you're... you're not seriously going to try and raise this kid, right?" You shrug. Truth be told, it's been a question for awhile now... but what choice did you have? You tell him this much. "No no no, this is-... look, there are options here, Leonard. Yeah, you've got... I mean sure, you could take this kid as your own, try to bribe some clerk to make it all legal... but what if you just... didn't?"

"I'm... I'm not going to terminate-"

"No way! I'm just saying... I know somebody, let's say... I know somebody who can help you with your paperwork, and I also know somebody who is certainly in the market for babies with the gene for AGS."

You take a moment to process your shady doctor friend's information...

"Wait, what the fuc-"

"Hear me out! I mean it's not like this insurance money-"

"I'm not a goddamn **** trader, Nathan! Do you even realize-"

"-over $200,000!" The shouting match ends. You stare at him, bewildered. "Yeah," he repeats, "over $200,000. I don't even need much of a finder's fee... maybe a few rounds of Isabella here, maybe grow a kid of my own? Give me that, and I'll hook you up with fertility meds, weekly care, ****, all the works to keep her in good, working condition. By the time that insurance money runs out you'll be sitting on a clean million, my brother." It was heinous, his alternative proposition. As you expected, he'd help you deliver the baby (for quite the cost, of course) and he even knew a guy for illicit paperwork... but a bonafide, modern **** trader... are you willing to surrender your young, now and later, for simple, material wealth?