The next moon comes, and the next, and your blood does not. I will be torn to pieces, you think, either by them or by the long-delayed birth, and trembling, you reach down past the enormity of your belly. Your lover gasps and jerks his hips, coming in your ass on and your back. You worry, always, that this will be the night the villagers come for you, with pitchforks and fire- but they never do. The woods are full of long stretches of silence, the night peepers and singing insects having long since gone to bed themselves. The babes leap inside you as you kneel, praying fervently and hoping, so desperately hoping, that you are heard. You shudder and lean against him, panting, flush and exhausted but so happy.
Lilian. Age: 23.
You throw on your cloak again and hurry home, your path unmolested by man nor beast.
Kylie. Age: 20.
Your Casually Suicidal Futa
The priest seems satisfied. You get down on your knees, settle into the grass with your thighs spread, and howl. You want their help, you cry out, unafraid that they might hear you- but they will come no closer.