Baby Shower
Last night, I was a pregnant woman once again, deep into my third trimester. I was in a large, upper-middle class living room decorated in pastel colours and overflowing with women and gift boxes. It was a baby shower if I'd ever seen one. One of what I guessed were my friends pulled out a tape measure.
"Write down your guesses, ladies!" Everyone jotted down their name and a number of centimeters estimating my belly's girth, placing their tiny pieces of paper in a glass bowl. My friend came to me with the tape measure; I stood up and she carefully wrapped it around my belly to take the measurement, the bump contact exciting me ever so slightly. "42 inches! Anyone write down 42?!" Four guests raised their hands: not the most difficult game, evidently. And I don't really understand what purpose the bowl had served, but whatever: my dreams are far from perfectly logical.
"Let's get painting!" the same friend shouted (she seemed to be running this thing). I was wearing a dress and quickly realized it probably wasn't appropriate to pull it up over my panties to bare my bump. I excused myself and donned a tight short-sleeved maternity top and khakis. All the ladies seemed ready with their paint and paintbrushes, so I rolled up my shirt to rest just below my bosom and expose my entire belly. They took turns painting, one contributing a peace sign, one the symbol for female (guess I'm having a girl in this one!), a pink heart, etc.
I delighted in them firmly holding my bump to keep it still as they painted. Delighted enough that I was glad for the bathroom break I needed just afterwards: I peed as I so frequently had to, of course, but I also quickly rubbed one out. A baby shower was quite the turn-on for this secret pregnancy fetishist. I was way into the amount of attention my belly (and pregnancy in general) was receiving. There was an ongoing game of guessing how many times I'd pee during the party, and I think someone with a higher guess was going to win that: I'd be jerking off frequently. It was MY dream after all, and there were sure to be many more bump-focused activities, even if they didn't conform to real baby shower practices at all. My dream, my party, my bump to be worshipped.
The next activity, and probably all those that followed, were completely my own mind's inventions, having little basis in any reality I knew of. First, everyone lifted my bump up in their hands and guessed its weight. Every single person got their hands on me, and I was in heaven. I don't really know how one weighs their bump as such, but the lady in charge somehow knew the weight and was thus able to crown a winner. She said it was 25 pounds, I believe, which seemed a bit heavy to me (in a sexy way, over-encumbered way).
"Find the baby!" my friend yelled, and again every pair of hands in the place got a turn. They first examined my bare bump visually, then pressed on me where they thought the baby was currently positioned. A few nailed it, more didn't, but every one of them gawked at and pushed in on my bump, two forms of attention I found highly arousing. Another trip to the bathroom followed, of course.
They guessed my areolas' widths, nipples' lengths, and the colors of them all for the next game. Obviously my own invention: far too awkward for a real-life baby shower. Once they'd all registered their guesses, I pulled my top off entirely and removed my bra without giving it a second thought. My friend-in-charge measured and examined my breasts thoroughly, manhandling them extensively. Magnificent. I had to rub two out after this activity.
Finally we got to gifts, and I woke myself up on purpose rather than undergo that particular form of boredom. Why couldn't we have just done more with my tits?
The Registry
A pregnant woman again, this time probably midway into my second trimester, last night's dream had me in a Babies-R-Us-type store. I was there to make a gift registry, complete with one of those scanning guns in my hand. Wandering around their various baby-centric departments, I found myself rather bored. I didn't want baby seats, baby toys, baby accessories of any kind: selfish or not, I wanted some things just for me. Finally, I found the maternity lingerie and sex toys section. I knew this was an invention of my dreaming mind, but I was just happy this dream was doing right by my horny self.
There was a strap-on the harness of which placed the dildo right at your navel, exactly where my bump protruded most. Added to registry, obviously. Lingerie that covered breasts and crotch while completely baring and somehow drawing the eye to the belly? Added. Bumpjob lubricant, whatever that was? Added. Crotchless maternity leggings? Added. Crotchless maternity formal dress? Added. Electric nipple clamps that automatically shoot your milk out for you? Added.
I couldn't wait for this baby shower; I'd definitely stay for the gifts this time.
The Toy
I rushed home once I found it, eager to show my wife and try it out with her. It sounded too good to be true, sort of analogous to spending one's cow on magic beans. A mysterious man had sold me a dildo that would purportedly create temporary pregnancies when inserted, usable on both women and men. Too good to be true, I knew, but I just had to try. I'd always wanted to be pregnant but was, of course, disqualified by my maleness. And, since her three pregnancies ended several years ago and we'd greatly enjoyed those times, my wife would be able to experience pregnancy just for sexy little periods and without the usual result of another mouth to feed. A far-fetched proposition, but what if it worked?!
My wife was dubious, and I could hardly blame her. She wouldn't put it in herself, nervous that it would not only fail to do what the seller had promised but might do something harmful. I was just too curious not to try it, though, so I stripped, we lubed it up really thoroughly and got it in my ass. We got it three inches or so in, and BAM: full-term baby bump on me. Both my wife and I were utterly speechless, rubbing my hairy bare belly in disbelief. It was firm and heavy, better than I'd ever even fantasized. The wife was extremely turned on, getting to her knees and blowing me after rubbing for about a minute. I kept my hands on my bump during the whole blowjob, enjoying the hell out of this incredible development.
Once she swallowed my load, she was ready for her turn. We thoroughly cleaned the toy, then got it in her. BAM: it was just like her full-term look during her biologically-realistic pregnancies, which, of course, turned me on once more in a major way. We both rubbed away, and I ate her out (damned refractory period keeping my dick out of her!).
We spent about six straight hours alternating pregnancies between us, cumming who knows how many times each. This dildo was instantly my most prized possession. There's a lesson here: buy those magic beans. Sure, they probably won't work, but if they do? Goddamn.
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