There's a certain power in having a body that's so obviously, undeniably fertile. Every swollen curve, every kick, every stretch mark feels like a live wire of raw, primal energy. It's not just about being horny—though, fuck, the hormones make me feel like I could come just from the breeze on my skin. It's about the absolute, unassailable logic of it. You can't get more pregnant. There is no 'risk' left. It strips away all the bullshit and leaves only the most honest, animal want.

I've spent years building a fantasy, polishing it in my head until it shone. Now, with this belly as my shield and my bait, fantasy is ready to become fact. I can see the hunger in his eyes when he thinks I'm not looking. That specific, flickering curiosity about what's happening under my clothes, about the weight and the warmth. I'm done with 'accidental' brushes and low-cut tops. The next move won't be an accident. It'll be an invitation. I want to feel his hands, tentative at first, then greedy, exploring every new inch of me. I want to use this belly, these heavy tits, this wide-open, dripping-wet cunt as the ultimate proof that nothing is off-limits anymore. The taboo is the point. The consequence-free zone is my playground. And I am so fucking ready to play.