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As I awaited my turn in the barber’s chair, I couldn’t take my eyes off one of the barber’s tremendous third trimester pregnant bump, protruding so markedly under her smock. My big sexual kink was all about pregnancy, of course. I hoped beyond hope that it’d be her chair (of the three possibilities in the barbershop) in which I’d have the pleasure to sit when it was my turn: I was next in line and the timing just had to work out to my advantage. A one-in-three chance wasn’t so bad, right?
The pregnant barber (hairdresser? not sure what her preferred title was) finished with her customer first, letting me know that she’d be with me just as soon as she cleaned up. Fuck yes! I could hardly contain my excitement for the two or three minutes it took her to sweep up the last guy’s hair. Finally, I was in the chair. I placed my hands in my lap, rather than their usual position on the arms of the chair: this way, I’d be able to physically hold down any erections that may occur.
Based on the feelings that rushed through me the first time her bump brushed against my shoulder, I was correct to have an erection contingency plan in place. Most of the time she was behind me, her bump was firmly against one of my shoulders. Most of the time she was in front of me, she had to lean over, her bump squished against my torso. Near-constant bump contact, in other words. And the resultant near-constant hard-on, of course.
I guided it down my right pant leg to keep the erection from shooting conspicuously straight up. As she continued to push that firm round belly into me, I got harder and harder, more and more aroused. It felt like I might shoot without needing a single stroke. Soon my dick was throbbing to the point of producing some pain, and I didn’t think the contactless orgasm was likely to come.
Without taking it out of my pants, and with very gentle and subtle movements, I started stroking myself right there under the barber’s tarp. I was horny enough that it only took 30-45 seconds of soft contact to shoot. Focusing all my energy on not making any giveaway facial expressions or sounds, I came in my pants. It didn’t seem that I’d given myself away at all, and the black dress pants I was wearing were just about the best possible article of clothing I could’ve been wearing to largely hide the cum stain. Unnoticed altogether.
The haircut ended, and I went to the counter where the barber handed me the bill. “Hope you had lots of fun cumming here!” she had written in the margin. I tipped her 150% and got the fuck out of there.
I found myself on a small stage, a pregnant woman clad only in lingerie. Based on the relatively high-class look of the place and the brassy music being played by a live band, I guessed I was participating in a burlesque show in this particular dream. My lingerie was fancy, frilly and black, translucent gauze strips hanging from each breast that largely obscured my belly. Speaking of which, I was modestly sized (compared to my usual hugeness, anyway), probably 5 or 6 months along.
I knew burlesque was distinct from stripping, but didn’t really know exactly what was expected of me in my present situation. Based on the constant roar of approval from the audience (which I couldn’t even make out through the bright lights), I was performing at least satisfactorily. I moved my hips back and forth to the music, running my hands along different parts of my body. Occasionally, a strap on my bra or panties would be seductively stretched out, suggesting their eventual removal.
I brushed aside the gauze over my belly one side at a time, giving a glimpse of one hemisphere of the bump at a time. Louder roars came from the unseeable crowd. After slipping the bra’s shoulder straps off my shoulders, I started very carefully and slowly undoing the garment from its front clasp. After a tantalizing minute or so of loosening the bra ever so slowly, I finally let my tits flop down to thunderous applause. My nipples were covered by black, star-shaped bahis firmaları pasties.
My shaved pubic region had a similar pasty, I learned a few minutes later when I finished shimmying out of my panties. Basically nude by this point, I continued to gyrate and rub on myself, receiving especially boisterous response when I’d push my tits together or two-handed grasp my belly. This went on for another five minutes or so before I woke up with one hell of an erection.
Burlesque is fun.
You’ve gotta separate the bloat from the belly, at first. That’s what I told myself as I looked at my midsection from the side via my full-length mirror. I was a woman (nice tits, FYI), and I knew I was pregnant despite the fact that I wasn’t yet showing. Or, might not have been showing yet. I wasn’t convinced either way at the moment. I wished I had taken a photo of my relatively-flat pre-pregnancy stomach for reference, but no such luck.
Not to give TMI or anything, but I’d moved my bowels a few minutes prior to this visual inspection, hoping to remove any added food-related size from my gut. Finally, with one lucky slight turn of my body, I was sure: I was showing! Ever-so-slightly and certainly not detectable to anyone else yet, but I had the baby bump I’d been so yearning for. Hooray!
Suddenly, I turned into a man. Whether I had a belly was not in question, now: I was a pretty substantially overweight man. How much of this gut was beer belly, and how much (if any) was due to a baby bump? I had no idea how large I’d been prior to getting knocked up, so it became more of a challenge of finding a relatively firm spot on my torso that might indicate a fetus growing in there. I still looked in the mirror as I pushed in all around the central point of my navel, though the visual aspect really wasn’t all that important anymore. Eventually, I’m pretty sure I found a firmer spot. Not positively, but probably.
I guess the lesson is that it’d be a bit easier to be visibly pregnant as a thin woman than as a fat man? That’s rather obvious, and not such a helpful lesson. I definitely felt the excitement of just beginning to show as a woman, though, which was quite substantial. So that was cool, anyway.
It was a warm day at the local zoo, which tends to be a pretty great time and place for spotting pregnant women in public. I’d spotted a very attractive one, and she and her family were on roughly the same path/timeline of roaming the zoo that I was on myself. So, I saw her again at again, at nearly every exhibit I stopped to observe.
She was with her husband, a man taller and more handsome than me, and her two small children, both in a carriage her husband pushed along. Probably 6 or 7 months along, she was showing substantially in her tight t-shirt, bump looking very firm and round. My eyes were glued to it, and I can’t imagine she didn’t catch me staring at one point or another.
Eventually, we all happened to come to a small playground area, where her husband took the kids out of the carriage and started playing with them. The pregnant mom went to sit on a bench nearby. Luckily for me, I’d overheard her saying she wanted to get off her feet for a few minutes, and I managed to predict her intended destination and sit there before she arrived. A lot less awkward then trying to take a seat next to her after she’d already sat down, anyway. I looked at my phone, trying not to pay any obvious attention to her. She leaned back on the bench as much as she could and sighed loudly, landing both palms on her bump with an audible slap.
“Boy howdy, will one of these get you tired!” She wasn’t necessarily talking to anyone in particular, but I was right there, and felt well within polite boundaries to respond. “Pregnancy and exhaustion, huh? I never would’ve guessed.” She laughed, then gripped her belly and made a face of faux-embarrassment. “Wait, you can tell I’m pregnant?! I thought it was still so subtle!” I laughed now, and we introduced ourselves. “Stephen,” kaçak iddaa I said. “Rose,” she replied.
She continued to rub her bump throughout our conversation, to the delight of my not-so-subtle glances. “Hard to walk so much in the sun, I’ll tell you. Glad to have a break.” Her smile was infectious. “I can only imagine. Good place to bring the kids though, huh?” She nodded vigorously. “Oh, they LOVE animals. It’s cheaper here than a children’s museum or theme park, but they love watching all the animals and being outside all day really tires them out. Not as much as it tires me out at this point, but it’s still pretty helpful, overall.” I nodded, trying to maintain eye contact instead of staring incessantly as she rubbed her bump.
“Just need an occasional rest, huh?” She nodded. “And the occasional friendly ear to complain to,” she winked. I blushed. “It’s cute, right? The bump? I do get self-conscious about it in public sometimes, even with my third.” I nodded vigorously, feeling myself getting even redder in the face. “Oh yeah, it’s cute,” I tried to modulate my enthusiasm. She laughed. “I do find that guys tend to like it, surprisingly enough. I feel fat a lot of the time, but I definitely don’t feel like I get treated like crap the way people tend to treat actual fat people. Everyone does seem to love a preggo, even if the preggo has some trouble loving herself.”
We sat in quiet for a few minutes, my eyes finally resting on her constantly-rubbed bump unabashedly as I became less embarrassed in our situation. Her husband finally headed over to the bench with the kids in the carriage; she heaved herself up with a groan, holding her bump with one arm the whole time. It was pretty damn sexy. “See you at the tigers, Stephen,” she said as they started to walk away. Her husband smiled at me, completely unaware of how desperately I wanted to fuck his wife.
I was my non-preggo self at a Motherhood maternity clothing store, accompanying my substantially pregnant partner. She needed to buy a dress for a wedding we’d be attending over the weekend. Beginning with a loose floral empire-waisted maxi number, she modeled each dress she tried on for me.
This first one was far too loose, not nearly revealing enough of her wonderfully gravid figure. Next, she tried a sleeveless gray midi dress that showed just a touch of bosom at the neckline. No cleavage, no deal; she seemed to be taking her cues from my reactions. A black bodycon midi dress with spaghetti straps and a plunging neckline was next. It was pretty tight and showed a decent amount of cleavage, but I thought we could probably do better.
I told her she might want to go down a size, as none of these options thus far seemed to be particularly form-fitting in the way one usually wants from a formal dress. I was very much making this shit up as I went along, just wanting to see her in ever tighter clothing. Another bodycon dress followed, this one semi-ludicrous in its tightness. Ignoring store policy, she’d had to remove her bra to even fit her breasts into it.
It just barely reached down past her panties, sure to hike up enough to see her underwear (or pussy…) should she participate in any physical activity: say, dancing at a wedding, for instance. When she turned around to show me how fantastically tightly and distinctly it hugged both of her ass cheeks, her left tit popped out of the dress completely.
We clearly had a winner.
Cleaning Her Up
We were at a crowded dairy farm/ice cream shop on a hot summer afternoon. It was our first date, mine and this heavily pregnant brunette woman that was sitting across from me at the picnic table. She was due any day, but willing to make time for me and some ice cream. “I always spill all over my shirt; I’m just taking it off to start,” she said as she bared her belly and bra. It was quite the sight to behold as far as I was concerned, but somehow didn’t turn the many heads closely surrounding us at the dairy farm. Weird dream logic, I suppose.
She kaçak bahis was right to take her shirt off, as her belly was completely dripping with chocolate ice cream within two minutes. My next move garnered a lot more attention from the crowd than her partial nudity and messiness had. Once she’d finished her ice cream cone, I got to my knees and started licking her bump clean. The crowd cheered me on loudly, many fists pumping in celebration of my action, for whatever reason.
It took longer to accomplish cleaning her off than she had spent with the cone, and made my tongue sore from the exertion. It was divine, though, to feel every contour, softer part, firmer part, and tiny strip of thin hair via my sensitive tongue. As soon as I had her nice and clean, I went and bought her a second cone.
In this one, my wife and I were going through concurrent pregnancies, both 5 months along at the moment. She really wanted our growth to be a sort of contest, and was disappointed that thus far we were growing at extremely similar sizes. We were measuring identically as of our most recent OB/GYN appointments, and she was ready to take steps to make this competition more active. And in the world of lucid dreams, we were able to create growth out of nothing. So we did. One whole hell of a lot.
My wife didn’t tell me when we were starting: she just woke up one day 50% bigger than she had been the night before, going from 5 months along to 7 or 8, gravid overnight. Game on, sweetheart. I was overdue the morning after that, struggling to get out of bed with a bump that probably weighed three times as much as the night before. 10 months along, probably. Neither of us were even able to get around the house easily at this point, but we were clearly not stopping. We were enjoying the alternating days of growth, though, eager to see how much the other would up the ante with each successive turn.
My wife’s second move brought her to a full-term with twins physique, pretty much instantly rendering her bedridden. I played up the fact that I could at least move around, downplaying the necessity to constantly haul my drooping bump around with both arms. She seemed bemused by my act, but smug in the knowledge that my next move would surely knock me on my ass. She was right. The morning after, I had to have a wheelchair delivered to the house. I actually went ahead and ordered two, knowing she’d require one the day after I did.
I was full-term quadruplets pregnant, an amorphous mass of a gut taking over my entire body. In the wheelchair, the belly obscured all of my legs and extended a foot beyond my knees. It was all still remarkably solid, though. It seemed that no matter how big we got, we retained the firmness of the preggo bump, not the fatty mass you might’ve expected just looking at us.
I thought the wife would require her wheelchair, but she was too big with her full-term septuplets belly to even maneuver herself into the chair, and I was too big to help. Oh well, she’d have to remain bedridden for the remainder of our contest. I was, of course, right there next to her the next day, though the bed could hardly hold both of us, both width- and weight-wise. I believe I was measuring as carrying 10 fetuses for my first bedridden day.
She was at 12; I was at 14; she was at 16. We each needed a California king-size bed to ourselves by the end, and we took them up quite thoroughly. I decided not to top my wife’s 16-baby record, as discomfort was getting the best of me, and she was just generally more competitive and less likely to stop than I was.
I’m glad this was all a dream, as the birthing process didn’t have to be addressed. That would’ve turned it from a fun dream to a hellish nightmare. Hooray for dreams’ lack of accountability!
My girlfriend’s pregnancy is going very smoothly; everyone’s health is great. I thought about writing about our adventures through her pregnancy, but I’ve decided that I’m not comfortable putting that sort of personal information out there. So, I’ll be sticking to dreams. They’re almost certainly more entertaining, anyway, so you’re really not missing out on much. Anyway, I need to keep a little something private for myself, you know?
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