TRIGGER WARNING: This story will definitely not be to everyone's tastes. The author does NOT in any way condone the actions or attitudes featured in this story. If you are offended by stories featuring rape and/or raceplay (or are squeamish about childbirth), READ NO FURTHER.
If not, please enjoy.
***
I felt the contraction as a steadily building wave in my belly and I rolled back my head in response. Taking a deep breath, I exhaled sharply as the contraction peaked, pushing in sync with my uterine movements as it rippled through my gut and into my crotch. It wasn't quite excruciating, but it was pretty intense all the same. It felt like the sensation of throwing up oriented downwards - throwing down, I guess - and each one lasted up to a minute. The contractions came every few minutes or so, as they had been doing for the past few hours.
I was lying naked in my Jacuzzi tub filled with water, with my doula kneeling by the side, holding my hand and encouraging me every step of the way. As a single mother-to-be, I had no intention of having to commute back and forth to a hospital when I could have my baby in the comfort of my own home. Another contraction came and I closed my eyes, moaning in pain through gritted teeth and squeezing my doula's hand as I pushed.
I really didn't want to, but I just couldn't help thinking back to how this all began. Lying on my back, exposed and vulnerable with an intense pain between my spread legs was an all too familiar experience for me. His overpowering strength and frenzied urges had gotten me pregnant against my will, and here I was nine months later delivering the result.
The next contraction arrived and I breathed and pushed in response. I could hear my doula urging me on, speaking words of encouragement into my ear. But my mind, lost in labor-land and addled with ever more intense birth pains, conjured up my rapist in my doula's place. I knew he wasn't there - the front door was triple-bolted shut - but he continued to intrude into my mind just as he had my body.
Every rhythmic ripple of downward pain reminded me of his penis inside me - even though the baby was far bigger than he was - stretching the walls of my poor pussy with each intrusive, uncomfortable thrust. That was a pretty perverse thought to have during labor, to be sure, but a hard one to dispel given the context.
One humiliating difference was the fact that I'd orgasmed pretty intensely both times he'd forced himself on me, the first time no doubt helping to get me pregnant in the first place. There was nothing orgasmic about this, though; this was an ordeal of pure pain and strain, an ordeal my rapist had imposed on me by force.
Unbidden and unwanted, I also imagined him speaking to me, my doula's words uttered in my rapist's voice. I pictured him looking down at me, naked and vulnerable, my belly swollen with his child. I even visualized the look of triumphant smugness on his face as I sweated and strained to deliver his offspring into the world.
"You're doing great, sweetheart," I heard his voice in my head, dripping with mocking encouragement, "Keep pushing. Breathe deep and squeeze my hapa baby out of your sweet little Asian snatch."
The new life that had been growing in my belly was a wonderful thing, but it was also a constant reminder of the father's sick case of yellow fever. His racist fantasies of sexually dominating cutesy Asian girls had borne fruit, literally; and I was the one bearing it. I couldn't keep that thought out of my head, or his imaginary sexual taunts, because I knew they were the sorts of things he would say if he could see me now.
"Keep pushing, my little chink whore," I imagined my rapist taunting me, "Keep pushing your White master's baby into the world."
I obeyed as another contraction coursed through my body, stronger than before, pushing his baby another inch or so closer to being born. There wasn't much I could do to silence the mental sound of my rapist's racially-tinged gloating or dispel the mental picture of his arrogant smile as he observed me enduring the pain and indignity of squeezing the living, breathing proof of his virility out of my cunt. I would just have to deal with it.
Something clicked in my head. No. Why should I just have to deal with it? This was MY baby. MINE. Why the fuck should I allow the hallucination of him to claim victory and ownership over my body? True, I couldn't exactly deny his role in all this; but I had grown this baby inside me for nine long months without any help from its creepy, racist father. There was no reason why I should let his imaginary taunts get to me now.
Yet another contraction came, stronger still than the last, and I pushed even harder in response. The baby was almost out. Through the mental fog of labor, I could vaguely hear my doula excitedly telling me that the head was visible, even though I could scarcely feel any difference down there. Just one more push, one last god-awful roiling down through my gut and my baby would be born.
In the final, excruciating minutes of labor, even the imaginary representation of the man who had made me this way was silent. Good. He should damn well keep his smug mouth shut. This wasn't his moment of triumph, it was mine. This was the final stretch of the most important event in my life, and I was damn well going to own it.
The last and strongest contraction arrived. I pushed with all the strength I could still muster, my efforts aligning perfectly with the immense and excruciating tidal wave of internal muscle movement that rippled down through my intestines. The pain and effort were so intense I cried out to the heavens, roaring like a lioness without giving a damn if I woke the entire floor. My efforts paid off as the last thing I remembered clearly was feeling the mass lodged in my vagina slide out of me into the bath water.
*
I came to, feeling like I'd awoken hours later with an awful hangover, when in fact it had only been about 30 seconds. My doula had scooped the baby out of the water and expertly handled the rest of the birth process. I awoke to the sound of my newborn crying, a sound that made me want to cry with unrestrained joy. It was a girl, too.
Fresh from the womb, her skin was a ruddy, pinkish color, and her eyes were scrunched shut as she wailed; but my doula assured me she looked perfectly healthy as she wrapped my little girl in a towel and handed her to me with the utmost care. I accepted her gingerly and cradled her in my arms, rocking her gently to soothe her crying.
Physically, I was exhausted. My whole body felt as though I'd just run a 12-mile marathon non-stop; and my crotch was unbelievably sore, having been put through the most intense workout a woman could endure. Mentally, however, I was overcome with joy. The nine long months of being burdened with an ever-growing belly, and all the discomfort that it had caused me - even the indecent assault that had caused it in the first place - had all been worth it.
Eventually, the beautiful little bundle in my arms calmed down and settled into a contented sleep. I wanted to fall asleep with her after what we'd both just been through, but I had to stay awake a little longer as my doula checked my nether regions for tears. None were found, but she recommended no sex for the next 6-8 weeks all the same.
