#; stacking preg

[otter-pup]

you’ve been fucking me for so long by now that ive lost track of the time. I know it’s dark outside now, but that’s all ive got. that, and the growing number of rapidly gestating babies inside me.

“fuck, so good for me… such a good incubator, taking my babies so well… god, fuck, im gonna cum again, gonna knock you up again…”

I groan as you do just that, eyes rolling back in my head as I feel you spill inside me, your seed seeping into my womb and quickly finding another egg to fertilize. the babies already inside me squirm as another sibling joins them, growing to catch up, forcing them to make space.

my body rises as my belly grows beneath me. you had to move me off the bed a while ago to be able to reach my cunt comfortably, and my legs have long been left hanging in the air, supported by the curve of my lower belly. im starting to wonder if you’ll be unable to reach before you can sate your need.

im starting to wonder if you even can sate either of our needs before I get too big for it.

[constantnbpreg]

Aw I’m so so sorry you had such a stressful day! I hope it cheers you up to know that you and all these anons got me HOOKED on that unnamed college boy!!! I need him bigger immediately! Like he’s just so desperate to round out that cute little four month bump he’s been carrying around since his first month into the semester, so desperate at the club he got himself knocked up within the first few weeks of his first semester. It should be terrifying but it’s not. He found out almost immediately that he LOVES to feel the weight of his belly, knowing what’s inside. He was even more excited the night he hooked up with an upperclassman, some varsity rower whose strong arms picked him up and effortlessly slammed him on the kitchen countertop, whose strong hands gripped his waist, his thighs, thumb stroking over the soft swell of his stomach as it grew just ever so slightly bigger when the rower finished inside him

It had kind of scared him at first, but then he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He couldn’t stop remembering the way the weight suddenly pressed down on his hips, how his stomach filled out just ever so slightly underneath the rower’s thumb, just subtle enough to go unnoticed during all the movement. His back had bent more, pulling forward to support this new added weight. And when he walked home that night he couldn’t stop his hands from dancing over his belly through his shirt, swearing it was just slightly bigger. When it was confirmed during the ultrasound a week later he spent the next month thinking, scheming, plotting. He buys himself a few third trimester maternity clothes, telling himself he’ll grow into them in the next few months. Then he buys a few more, stretchier, just in case. He sees them every day in his closet and his hands flutter over his swelling stomach and he thinks they could fit now, and that’s it

He waits until winter break, to at least be somewhat responsible. His roommate is gone, most of his classmates are gone, so he goes out to experiment. At first he promises himself just one, just one more, he just wants that cute round belly now and he doesn’t want to wait another few months for the twins to round him out! One more won’t hurt! But it’s all over when he’s on his hands and knees and feels a third baby beginning to stretch him out. Like this he can really feel his back arch in more, his belly hanging off of him, and when he pulls his shirt back on in the moments after it’s tighter, pulling at the sides of his belly and oh god like this he can finally put his hands on the underside of it and that’s how he knows it’s all over for him

Wonder how his roommate and all his friends will react when they come home from winter break to find him so big he has to press two hands into the small of his back for support as he waddles around, his belly swaying with each step, so pregnant that even at five months his stomach wobbles and shifts on its own just from how many are in there. Good thing he bought those stretchier maternity clothes

i want you to know sweet anon, i did in fact read this yesterday before i went to sleep and oh my gooooodddd

he’s just so impatient. he never knew just how perfect it feels to become so fucking round, to feel the weight of his growing offspring sit so heavily on his quickly widening hips. this strange ability like the perfect cheat code to something he never knew he desperately wanted and needed until he saw his tummy first develop that sweet little bump!!!

it’s not a sweet little bump anymore, and when he’s grinning and moaning as he strokes the side of his huge swollen middle, his friends will gawk and inform him that he IS going to get bigger that he shouldn’t have rushed into it!!! what is going to happen in a month or when he’s full term? and he’s pressing his thicken thighs together because the thought of getting even bigger doesn’t terrify him like his friends think it will, no it makes him so fucking horny

maybe his brood need a couple more siblings afterall…

[let-me-fill-you]

Someone who's ungodly pregnant, yet begs for more because they're an incorrigible breeder 💕

[cherrycherish]

Can we all agree how great hucows are? 💕 They're just so great for so many different kinks, it's like a kink salad. Personally I'm a big fan of preg stacking with hucows, they're baby making machines after all, they demand more even when they're already so full. I'm so in love with the thought of a plump heifer waddling around, constantly thinking of food and sex, you have to provide one or the other, or maybe distract them with a milking. Though the appeal of an immobile cow at your mercy isn't lost on me, I like the mental image of them struggling to get around even more, and squeezing through doors as they swell but still not satisfied with the number of multiples they have inside them, carrying all that around and still wanting more. Maybe immobility is the only way to satiate them, until then they pursue more and more like the blob.

[infinitegest]

a boy like this, if he got knocked up with a new baby each month, would reach the third trimester just looking like he was carrying healthy twins. big, but within reason. then he’d start growing faster, until he reaches his due date looking ready to pop with triplets, waddling around with ~20lbs-worth of babies weighing him down.

after giving birth for the first time, his belly would still hold ~13lbs of baby, looking full term with twins. but he keeps his belly, gaining more than a pound every week, until the next month when he gives birth again (he likely gets knocked up with his newest passenger a couple days before then, while his belly is at its biggest).

this is, of course, assuming he only gets pregnant with singletons each time he has a charitable donor add to his belly. odds are, with how fertile this boy is, he’ll start adding sets of three or four to his womb each month, no problem— in which case, there’s not a chart currently in existence that could track how fast and how big that boy is going to swell.

I for one strongly support Pregnant boys Ovulating and conceiving.

Abolish the downtime between pregnancy. Boys should birth their babies Monthly, with their bellies never getting any less full.

YOU GET IT! every month the egg(s) his ovaries release get fertilized no matter how many babies are already growing in his womb because his ovulation hormones are just that hard to resist. his body's need to reproduce is stronger than his willpower to not add more babies to his crowded belly. after only a few years of this process he'd have enough pregnancies inside him to last the rest of his lifetime, destined to be perpetually pregnant no matter what, never knowing the feeling of an empty boywomb again

[constantnbpreg]

College Boy looking himself over in the mirror, belly jutting out of frame. Contemplating his size, his fingers drum against the taut sphere, which hasn't yet dropped. "I can probably squeeze in a few more..."

truly spoiling me tonight and this slutty little (well not so little anymore) College Boy.

he’s only five months along, halfway through this pregnancy but he’s measuring so much bigger. the bump that’s completely ruined and dominates his figure completely out in the open because his crop tops can’t cover it’s wide expanse. short shorts completely unbutton and fly down as there’s no hope for getting it done up

he drums his fingers before rubbing its delicious curve, humming.

“I can probably squeeze a few more…” He looks so good this round anyway, a few more wouldn’t hurt at all. Not even thinking how these babies already in his womb are only going to keep and keep getting bigger and therefore making him more gravid. No no he wants to add more to his brood. That thought in mind, he’s cupping the bottom curve, thumb grazing against his sensitive stretch marked skin as he hits up another potential hookup.

maybe he could fit more than just a few~

[drpeppertummy]

finallyyyyy dave as prommy'd

[stuffing/post-stuffing tummyache, scary alien preg but only in a dream]

Dave reached into the chip bag to find it empty. He looked down, surprised. He would've sworn he'd only opened it earlier that day. His stomach growled, and he wandered into the kitchen to dispose of the bag and find a new snack. After rooting around in the fridge for a minute, he returned to his task with a Dr. Thunder and three slices of cold pizza, stacked on top of each other like a congealed layer cake.

Despite being skinny as a rail, Dave had a reputation among his friends for being a bottomless pit. It never seemed to be intentional; he simply had a constant and enormous appetite. He would often still be hungry after a large meal, and mindless snacking was an inescapable habit. He was particularly guilty of snacking while he worked. Carrie often joked that he could go through the entire kitchen if he was really involved with a project. His mind, occupied by the task at hand, would simply check out, leaving his stomach to do the thinking.

Today's work was one such project. Wendy had asked him to make a prop for their next experimental film, some sort of horrific mass of viscera. Dave, a lifelong fan of practical effects and old science fiction movies, loved nothing more than such tasks. He'd been working on it all afternoon, and snacking all the while. He hadn't been keeping track, of course, but the spider on the ceiling might have been able to tell you that he had two bags of chips, several Tastykakes, a cold chicken leg, going on four bottles of soda, a large blueberry muffin, half a leftover Big Mac, a bowl of ramen, six Pop-Tarts, and several cold slices of pizza churning away in his skinny belly. All of that in the span of a few hours was a bit much even for Dave, and had he not been occupied, he might've realized he was full several snacks ago. When his mind was distracted, however, even Dave was capable of going overboard.

If it weren't for his pants, Dave might've gone on snacking until he popped, and the prop guts would no longer be necessary. Fortunately for him, the button on his jeans popped first. Looking down, he was surprised to see that his distended belly had forced the button open. He hadn't even noticed the waist of his pants getting tighter, nor had he noticed the pressure building in his overstuffed stomach. Now, however, his mind had finally been pulled away from his work, and he was agonizingly aware of how tightly stretched his stomach was. He sat down on the couch, feeling a little disoriented. He couldn't even remember what he'd eaten to make himself so full.

"Jeez," he groaned, rubbing his face. His glasses tumbled off as he did, and he set them on the table. His belly, so bloated that his ratty old paint-stained shirt had begun to ride up, bubbled and gurgled softly with each breath, straining to digest the onslaught of junk food he'd stuffed into it. He leaned back, dropping his head against the couch cushion, and rested his hands on his belly. It was unbelievably tight. He tried to suck it in and found that he couldn't. With a queasy sigh, he laid down and closed his eyes. There was no way he could get back to work in the state he was in; his stomach ached horribly, and now that he was aware of it, he could hardly move. A nap, he hoped, might give him some time to digest. Stomach gurgling away, he lay still until he managed to drift out of consciousness.

Dave woke with a deep sense of unease. He didn't feel any less stuffed. In fact, he felt more bloated than ever. Groggily, he started to sit up, but froze propped up on his elbows as he felt a strange movement inside his belly. Slowly, his eyes dropped down to his stomach. He felt the movement again, stronger this time, and he would swear he could see his belly shift. His breath caught in his throat. With a nervous gulp, he lifted a trembling hand to his stomach. Something inside kicked hard. He tore his hand away with a sharp gasp as though he'd touched a hot stove. All of a sudden, whatever was inside him began thrashing, and he could feel slimy tentacles writhing against the strained walls of his stomach as the creature began to grow, pushing out against his stretching skin--

Dave jolted awake with a terrified yelp as Carrie gave him a gentle shake. He looked up at her, gasping to catch his breath. She raised her eyebrows, surprised.

"Christ, Dave, that must've been some nightmare," she said, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You alright?"

"Yeah," he said shakily. He sat up, still trembling.

"Looks like you've been raiding the fridge again," she remarked, eyeing his bulging belly. His stomach was still bloated, but the pain had faded into a dull queasiness, and the unbearable tightness had eased up a little. He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. Carrie chuckled and handed him his glasses.

"When'd you get here?"

"Couple minutes ago. I was gonna let you sleep and just fuck around with all your stuff while you weren't looking, but you seemed pretty distressed."

"Yeah," he admitted. "Thanks." Realizing his pants were still unbuttoned, he attempted to pull them back together, but to no avail. Carrie laughed.

"Jeez, Dave." She patted his belly, shaking her head in amusement. "I will never understand how a skinny guy like you can eat so much. You look about ready to blow." Dave shrugged.

"I was hungry."

[preggybunnyboy]

💙 Pinned Post 🐇

Heyo! I'm Bunny, I'm 21 and use he/they pronouns. This is where I post my horny things! I also have a twitter and bluesky under the same name but I don't really use them, as well as a carrd for various other bits.

I have a sideblog @bonnybunnyboy for things outside of preg/breeding! General horny posting and a lot of pet play.

Still feeling out how I feel about involving myself personally in these things, but my asks are open if anyone wants to treat your local subby preggy bunny boy~ Would prefer no horny dms unless I know you, though!

If you know/recognise me, no you don't! Or be chill about it at least.

Age must be readily available! Minors will be blocked!

Content: ❥ Belly-focused kinks, mostly preg. I really can't overstate how like 95% of this blog is preg seriously ❥ Terato, monsters, aliens, etc ❥ Hyper and a general lack of realism ❥ Full list of my usual kinks/tags at the end!

Tag list under the cut!

General Tags: ❥ bun.png : my art! Old stuff is signed as PervPebble as that's my old username ❥ bun.txt : my text/ask posts ❥ long post : posts that are Too Damn Long, meant for filtering ❥ bunny : is this a pet name, pet play, or furry thing? wouldn't you like to know weatherboy

Kink tags and subtags, more to be added as I use them! ❥ preg ❥ ❥ rapid preg, egg preg ❥ ❥ perma preg, chain preg, stack preg ❥ ❥ birth, birth denial ❥ irl, squirming (irl photos/gifs/etc, moving pregnant bellies) ❥ breeding ❥ dub con (⚠ consent issues) ❥ monsters (demons/dragons/aliens/etc) ❥ ovipos (breeding counterpart of egg preg) ❥ tentacles

[Heart divider, DNI divider]

[let-me-fill-you]

Please consider: brat who is only tamed by being hugely pregnant + hyper preg, if they decide they aren't big enough they start acting out until they get filled with more and more, until they're a massive broodmare who can't even get up without help. Now that they're huge they're docile, and supremely spoiled, needing lots of attention on their giant overactive belly and huge milk heavy breasts. Their cravings are weird and they need so much food to feed that small army inside them but they've never been happier, of course, why wouldn't they be? It's the perfect set up for a greedy, bratty sow.

Yes, hello, I would like to meet this brat and start them on the path of fulfillment 👀💕💦 They whine and they beg for more, enough that would agitate even me, which makes the breeding all the more intense, until they're bloated and satisfied (for the moment). Ironically, I only find peace and quiet when their belly is so large, it sounds like they have an ocean of amniotic fluid sloshing about inside, accompanied by the constant grumbling of their hungry stomach, and the creaking of their turgid skin as our babies squirm around. They don't say a peep, they're so blessed out being ridiculously pregnant~

[alittleghostwhoeatsbread]

Eggy-Preg

Michael got back well after Terry had gone to bed- so late the sky was caught in a state of embarrassed indecision, holding the pinkish purple colour of a pigeon’s breast across its expanse like a blush to the cheeks- and, after hanging up his clothes and stretching, followed suit, falling straight into bed himself with the same form he’d had since the age of twenty-two, which was the tall and tubular one of a cardio-centric green bean. The following day, waking up around two in the afternoon as wet with sweat as a horse in lather, upon his first attempt at sitting up, he found to his surprise that he couldn’t with his usual ease because his usual form had been replaced by one with a belly as bloated as a hot air balloon filled with too much fire and at the point of popping, the pain of it when attempting to bend like a fire had been lit inside him too.

He could hear Terry in the kitchen humming to himself, the tuneless buzzing of a bumblepheliac drawing a colony to him for the purpose of honey themed sex, signifying that he hadn’t noticed upon waking the extended belly of Michael, this signification being made more apparent when, after getting up from the bed as gently and painlessly as he could, each lurch making him feel off balance, as if he could fall onto his lump at any moment, Michael walked into the kitchen and revealed it to him, the humming immediately becoming the strangled half-whistle of a mockingbird being throttled, Terry immediately running over and clasping the lump of his belly in his hands, lifting it slightly as he did and causing an unconscious moan of relief to come from Michael's mouth.

“Michael, what the hell is this? You look pregnant.”

“Don't be stupid. Pregnant. I’m just swollen. But it hurts.”

Terry lifted the extended pyjama shirt of Michael and gazed at the belly that when exposed had the look of a particularly angry acne spot on the verge of doing a Vesuvius, little purple lines running down the sides of it like static images of lightning minimised, his face when gazing the face of an astronaut after getting completely and utterly untethered in the depths of space, his mouth coiling like a snake waiting to strike while, hit by a sudden wave of emotion, his eyes becoming as wet as they would if waves of emotion were actually waves on the ocean, Michael started weeping and wailing of his pain.

The nearest hospital was tiled on the outside, the white and grey combination of new and old false teeth all jumbled up together, and they had to wait in a waiting room made up of stray church hall chairs surrounded by people with a variety of wacky ailments- fake udders superglued to chests, eye balls being held, nails and forks stuck through or into various body parts, etcetera- for a long ol’ time before finally being called in by a small doctor whose nametag said Stephanie. Stephanie was around 5 foot tall, but her white coat trailed on the ground as if it’d been stolen from a much taller doctor by two children who’d decided to play hospital and stacked themselves on top of each other beneath its buttoned up buttons, her face not suggesting otherwise, having the appearance of a ruddy and privately educated twelve tear old on the verge of divorcing their nanny.

She led the two, Michael, whose new weight made him shuffle like a mummy adrift without bandages, trying to lean on Terry but getting nowhere because Terry was too busy patting his own belly to make sure it hadn’t grown, into a small office made of cloth partitions rather than walls and containing just a dusty chest of drawers, a bed, and two rose red chairs that had the scent of many an ass hovering above them and exuding.

“What seems to be the problem?” she asked after waving Michael to sit on the side of the bed, as blank faced as a plate until that plate met a Greek wedding and broke. “I'm joking! You're clearly pregnant. What a surprise that is. You're male, biologically, am I right?... Just as I suspected. One doesn't like to assume such things though. Now, how long has your stomach been like this?”

“Since this morning. I woke up and it was like this, swollen, large. I was fine yesterday. I went for a run, drank a bottle of wine out with colleagues. I was everything but pregnant.”

“He can’t be pregnant,” Terry interrupted with a stamp of the foot. “I mean, where the hell is a baby going to come out of?”

Holding up a medically trained finger, Stephanie gestured for Terry to shut up and help her help Michael, who began sweating excessively again from a hot flush while desperately rubbing his stomach like it was a lamp a genie had recently vacated, off the edge of and onto the centre of the bed, their hands collectively laying him back but only Stephanie’s remaining to fondle and caress the extended belly. She did this fondlement for a while, feeling the skin of the belly in different areas as if trying to find the exact spot she wanted, until, with an, ‘aha!’, cry, she picked up her scalpel and a nearby syringe- already loaded with a sky blue liquid- and, without word or question of permission, injected Michael with it, him falling deeper into the bed and pulling the face of no pain, and her immediately setting about slicing straight down the centre of his stomach with the scalpel.

“Hey!” Terry screamed, reaching for the doctor and the scalpel before being stopped in his tracks by the appearance of not guts and giblets, but a bloody but otherwise very white and large egg- the size really of a bigger than average newborn- which lay in the split skin folds with the innocence eggs always have.

Even though feeling no pain, Michael felt a little something else at the moment of release, a groan of relief bigger than any groan he'd ever groaned before emanating from him and stretching around like elastic as the skin that'd been containing the egg receded back to its normal place, sewing itself back together as if nothing had happened.

“I knew it!” Stephanie whooped. “There are only a few male based pregnancies known and this, an eggy-preg as we called it off the cuff in medical school, is the rarest. There we have it. Your egg.”

“What’s in the egg?” Michael slurred, Terry shouting the same simultaneously.

“In there? What is? Oh, just something. You'll see. Maybe,” with this, she span and gathered a pamphlet that was strung to the chest of drawers with oddly thick cobwebs, blowing dust from it that flew off in a cartoonish grey cloud and floated several metres through the air before gathering like a rain cloud over Terry’s face until he dissipated it with a wave of the hands; the pamphlet was a perfect square rather than the usual rectangle with a green background and a single image as the foreground of an eggshell white egg with one long lightning shaped crack running down its front, the side of a yellow smiley face sticking out that crack like a slowly emerging, oddly coloured- not to mention shaped- piece of caca. “Read this. It’ll explain everything I can tell you and more.”

With that, Stephanie, with a doctorly flick of the hair, vanished, moving between the curtain partitions separating offices with the ease of a ghost lacking a sheet, losing them, and possibly herself, easily, the them, Michael-the-still-groaning-in-relief and Terry-the-what-the-hell-is-going-on, looking around as if they could find her again and also possibly a way to escape the cage of worry that’d been constructed around themselves. After ten minutes of them looking in a circle without a word, an orderly, who spied them through a crack in the partition, waved a hand at them and, rather forcibly considering the egg in their possession, removed them from the hospital, the egg lying in Michael’s arms as they left but never kept still, being jostled back and forth for comfort purposes as it’d begun growing at a steady pace since its removal from the belly. The egg was the size of a medium sized dog by the time they began their short walk home, though much lighter, and Michael held had to hold it sideways, hands clutching top and bottom, the curve of it blocking most of his forward vision and forcing him to trust Terry, who kept looking at the egg and shaking his head with sighs of annoyance, to direct him in the right direction.

“We’re going to be parents, Terry,” Michael said after a while, the happiness growing in his recently vacated stomach coming out in his voice, making it breathy and wispy as if attempting to vocally impersonate a feather duster. “Parents!”

“Parents. Parents,” Terry repeated every few steps, his face the face of someone doing their best not to impersonate an egg cracker but failing miserably.

Their house had a living room and that living room was large and oval with a slight dip right in the centre of it where a below foundation sink hole the council didn’t want to fix had pulled the pine flooring down from beneath, the egg, which Michael placed to the floor as gently as you would imagine a swan plants their keister on their own eggs, fitting in that slight dip with the perfection of a penis/testicle set in a groin protection cup of a regulation cricketer. Standing back and sitting heavily on the settee, Michael- while Terry ventured to the kitchen with clenched fists – watched the egg continue to expand and began to read the pamphlet, which had only two pages covered in bold text.

YOUR EGG AND YOU: a guide

Page 1 (Introduction): Congratulations, it looks like it’s happened, you’re a proud parent of what at the moment is still just an egg. Am I right to guess you’re worried? That you have no familial attachment to this thing that sprouted in your belly overnight and was then cut from you/emerged naturally from your behind/ vagina?

Here Michael shook his head at the pamphlet and clutched his heart, which had become swollen and choked with love and familial attachment as he walked with his egg home.

Well, you will do, and soon! Your egg produces a pheromone that will make you and your partner (If you have one, eggs can just as easily be made from masturbation alone) fall slowly but deeply into parental love for it. Isn’t that neat? Now I’m going to guess something else. I’m going to guess that you’re probably also scared. Scared that you won’t be up to scratch or that you’ll do something wrong. But I’m a pamphlet, a trustworthy one at that, and I’m here to reassure you and tell you that it’s all going to be okay. Looking after your egg until it hatches will be as easy as pie. Once you’ve laid, or had your egg removed (a recommended method painwise regardless of gender), and taken it home, settle it somewhere comfortable and warm and wait for it reach approximately twice the height of the hatcher. Before it’s the right height, your egg will simply not respond to the following steps.

Page 2 (Steps):

Step 1: Once your egg is precisely twice the height at the hatcher, wait until the sun goes down. And I mean down! Then wrap a blanket- checkered preferably- around its body. Sit next to it and do the same to your own.

Step 2: Begin to tell your egg a story, any story will do. Existing or made up, make up your own mind! Eventually, provided you tell it right, your egg’s shell will begin to glow with a golden light from within. At this point, continuing to talk, remove the blanket.

Step 3: Once your blanket is removed and your egg glowing, you should be able to see the form growing within it. At this point the form should be the same size as you and floating in or around the centre of the egg. Still telling your story, you should begin rubbing the egg with the palm of your hand until the sun comes up.

Step 4: Continue this process night after night after night until your egg hatches!

Disclaimer: The Eggy-Preg Information (EPI) company is NOT responsible for the time frame in which your egg hatches. Nor any deformations, grotesque natures, or personal growths that may happen to you, the egg, or what comes from it. The information provided is for general informational purposes only. All information is provided in good faith; however, we make no representation or warranty of any kind, express or implied, regarding the accuracy, adequacy, validity, reliability, availability, or completeness of any information.

With no pause for consideration, the pamphlet going flying from the hand of Michael and to some dark corner of the room, the mouth of Michael screamed hoarsely, “Terry, tape measure, blankets, checkered, now, get them, two! The pamphlet said.”

Terry, who’d been watching Michael’s reading from the door of the kitchen, a bottle of wine already half drunk in hand and a head filled with thoughts and wonderings about just why exactly he felt so angry and disgusted by the sight of the egg and, by extension, Michael, who before the egg had appeared, he’d loved more than anything and had only felt unconditional feelings for- such as lust and calmness- put his wine bottle down with theatrical slowness once the scream came his way and got the blankets and measure, tossing them at Michael before picking the bottle back up. Not noticing anything wrong with Terry, Not seeing the grinding of the teeth of Terry, the pulsing veins of Terry, barely noticing Terry at all, Michael immediately measured himself- five foot five exactly- and then measured the egg, the expansion of it having seemingly stopped during his reading, with the aid of a nearby armchair which he stood on - exactly 11 feet. Giggling with the glee of a giant baby coming upon a giant mobile in a giant desert, Michael wrapped the larger checkered blanket tight around the bottom half of the eggs width, noting as he did the thick feeling of its shell and the new warmth emanating from it which was akin not to a wide spread fire but the concentrated flame of a match stick, so cosy but intense that when he wrapped his own blanket around his body and huddled close, sweat immediately beaded on his forehead, chest, and groin, and gave himself the feeling of being tucked back in the womb.

“What are you doing? Why did you need them?” Terry finally asked, a two percent fraction of his rage dimming, being replaced by a single percentage of curiosity, a half percent of exclusion, and a final half percent of exclusion induced sadness, the exclusion ad sadness aspects infuriating him so much immediately that they also increased his rage, making his feelings go above 100 percent if you can believe it.

“I have to read it a story now is what the pamphlet says. Now shush, come and sit with us if you’re curious. Try and bond with eggy.”

“I don’t want to bond with any eggy,” Terry muttered around the rim of his wine bottle while going to sit on the settee regardless. “What are you going to tell it.”

“I don’t think it matters. Just something. I’ll make something up.”

Settling, rubbing his behind on the floor like a bear scratching up against a tree, coughing to clear his throat, Michael gazed directly at the egg, sitting so close his vision was a sea of white so white it resembled the teeth in the prize selection part of the tooth fairy’s tooth collection, and began to speak.

“There was a time when floorboards weren’t just floorboards. When floorboards weren’t just dead planks of wood. When floorboards were… ALIVE! Living breathing planks that had eyes, three of them, and large mouths with even larger tongues. Red or purple tongues that spilled out across their bodies moistly and made it so every footstep on them had the sound of a wet sponge being wrung. Humans lived peacefully with the floorboards. We coexisted. They gave us flooring for our houses and in return we cared for them. Rubbed linseed oil on them, sanded them so they didn’t get splintered, and fed their tongues water every day so they didn’t dry out. It was a perfect arrangement… until it wasn’t! Until the time came when a floorboard appeared that wasn’t the same as the other floorboards. When a floorboard appeared that was strange.”

Here the egg began to glow with the golden light the pamphlet had promised- a blinding light that radiated outwards and got weaker the further it stretched from the egg, like a candle a child was supposed to follow but that moved much faster than their little legs could do- a glow that made Michael squeal before remembering he wasn’t supposed to stop speaking, and a glow that had Terry throw his hands up at the ridiculousness of the entire situation with the result of the top of his head getting splattered with grape blood.

“Ummm, yes, strange! A strange floorboard appeared,” Michael continued, beginning the unwinding of the blanket from around the egg with the gentle movements of someone who’d abandoned childhood emotions unwrapping a surprise gift, revealing the form within before it was fully unwrapped, Michael swiftly tearing the rest of the blanket off as those childhood feelings came roaring back with no memory of abandonment.

The form exposed was a shadowy outlineish thing that looked as if sketched with charcoal floating in the centre of the egg, bobbing slightly up and down and vaguely resembling a giant featherless chicken from waist down, with thin bony legs that ended in three large claw tipped toes, and from the waist up looking more like a standard human with the exception being similar claws at the ends of its fingers and an elephantal shape of the head, a giant trunkish thing stretching out past its chin.

“What the fuck,” Terry spat into his lap while Michael began step 3, rubbing the egg gently with the palm of his hand. “That’s not like us. What is that. It’s disgusting.”

“-unlike the other floorboards with hair covering it and teeth in its mouth too. Sharp teeth, fangs really,” Michael turned and glared at Terry, shushing him with his spare hand. “People suggested that the reason for this floorboard’s odd appearance was the result of it being born rather than made, the result of an inter-species relationship between human and board. This suggested hybrid wasn’t peaceful like the other floorboards. It didn’t want to work with humans. It was angry. Aggressive. It bit feet when they stepped on it and each foot bit made it grow larger. Made it grow different features. Like arms and legs. Like more hair. With these features there was no stopping it from rising from the floor and becoming a moveableboard, one that proceeded, for no reason at all, to start killing humans but not floorboards. How did the humans know it was this moveableboard doing the killing, I bet you’re wondering? Well, I’ll tell you. It left calling cards so that there would be no confusion. Bits of its hair, teeth marks, written notes saying, ‘It was meeeeee, the moveableboard!’ and ‘I hate humans. Boards unite!’. It didn’t take long before the human race decided that they had to do something about this and do something about it fast.”

With the story continuing, Terry, wanting no part in what he was witnessing, not even a small observer one, after standing up with his mouth agape, backed out of the room with unconscious dump truck reversal noises stumbling out of his mouth like drops of dripping water, hands no longer clenching but agape also and wiggling as if signing him off a stage.

“-the hero who’d been chosen, that young bald girl, clutched the plastic spear she’d been given with both hands. She knew that killing the moveableboard would kill all the floorboards too but having lost everything in her journey to reach the spot the moveable board lay sleeping in, she didn’t hesitate. She brought it down. Hitting the sleeping moveableboard right in the middle. Piercing the hair covering the wood and then the wood itself. Splintering the bits that resisted. Sending its acquired arms and legs wild and drying the wet wet eyes of it. Killing not just it, but all floor objects forever. Making them all as they are now, inanimate.”

The glow of the egg faded when the story finished with the finality of a baby’s eyes closing and Michael, tiptoeing like a ballerina on the verge of being kicked out of the most famed ballet school around if she doesn’t find the strength in her heart to stay on en pointe for longer than forty eight hours, crept from the room with a tired but contented sigh.

The night was filled with the peaceful snores of Michael- who’d kissed the air in the general direction of Terry’s cheek before undressing and going straight to sleep without a glance at or a word direct toward the open mouthed horror held upon, and within, his face- and with the hurried packing sounds of Terry doing just that, tossing all and whatever he could find in the dark into a bag. Followed by the sounds of fleeing, of running away, the front door shutting, the cat flap that’d never been used except for the one time Michael had, for a joke, attempted to crawl through it and gotten stuck, flapping once as the would be father disappear around a bend. Michael dreamt strange dreams whilst this fleeing was taking place, as if he was being gifted new stories to tell, strange dreams of bright colours and moving kitchen appliances that wanted to remove the skin off him and replace it with puff pastry, and when he woke up, early in the morning before the sun had risen but after the moon had vanished, he was cold but had no urge to turn and rub Terry for warmth for he somehow knew without really thinking about it that he was gone, instead he just went to the living room to embrace the egg.

Claiming maternity leave from his work was easy- he simply emailed and sent them a photo of him and his egg in an embrace and they sent back a thumbs up and two heart emojis with a detailed description of his new pay schedule- and the following free from outside obligations days and weeks past in the parental bliss of him sitting before the egg all day every day, thinking up stories for the night, rubbing its shell like it was a mackerel and he a mackerel enthusiast, and staring blank eyed out the window, waiting for the sun do its thing. The need for food or drink had seemingly left him, instead he got his nourishment from the tales he told in the same manner the egg seemed to, the form within the shell, when the golden glow revealed it, growing outwards with each passing day and each passing story until it reached the sides of the egg and then beginning its growing decent downwards towards the base.

The stories flowed from Michael like ripe grapes budding on the vine, being plucked off and dropped onto grassy floors to bounce into the mouths of babes, hitting the ground running and taking with them narratives including flower buds, embers from fires, elephant whispers, karate chop calls, frozen dormice, on fire post officers, little girls with no ears, little girls with too many ears, cassette tapes, sausage rolls, mushrooms with tentacles, potatoes being boiled and mashed and stuck in a stew, afro wearing unicorns, dogs smoking weed, cats injecting heroin, the queen of Arabia doing the fandango, happy endings, no endings, sad endings, bad endings, wicked plants, the stabbing pain of being stabbed, and a centaur being milked. After a while, the form in the egg began to respond to the stories, audibly as well as visually that is, going further than what the pamphlet had said it would do when it said it would simply glow, making a high pitched whining sound when it glowed and growed that was a cross between an electronic buzz and a dog whining for food. The sound, which began small at first, so that for a while Michael thought it was nothing but wind squeezing its way, like a leg into trousers much too small for them or a condom over a hand, through a gap in a window, got louder and changed from night to night, keeping the same base sound but adding buzzes or meeps or beeps depending on what story was being told, and would have been incomprehensible if it hadn’t been for Michael’s acute maternal instincts which swiftly picked up a pattern within them. Sometimes when telling a story, he would slip one of the sounds he’d heard the egg make into it as if it had always meant to be there, like a piece of pie slotting itself back into the whole, and enjoy the way the egg would sort of shake in response, rocking on its base without fear of falling, which Michael noted as a good thing, ‘It’ll be brave!’, went his thoughts, ‘God, I’m proud.’

The form in the egg stopped growing just before its feet touched the bottom of the shell and there wasn’t enough room for it at all, it didn’t matter that the stories kept coming or that the rubbing didn’t stop, it stayed just as it was, still eating the tales, still making its noises as it heard them- the sounds growing louder even, resounding as they echoed and bounced off the surface of the shell and then the surface of its body- but hearing them, digesting them, as if no longer hungry at all. Michael, as peaceful in heart as an anteater face to face with all the ants it could eat anteater style, didn’t worry and continued to spin his tales, weaving a thread through each night, throwing in more and more of the eggs own noises from his own mouth and just trying to enjoy the extra time he got to spend with the child when it was still just an egg, the nourishment of tales he was receiving from what he gave out giving his skin a shiny milky glow, like a recently waxed surface.

While this was all happening, though not right at any specific moment and rather just in a similar time frame, Terry was sitting on a plastic bench eating a carton of scrambled eggs in front of a petrol station advertising advent calendars in June and beginning to weep, his left hand stretching out towards the empty space to the left of him as if there was someone there to hold it and comfort him, scrambling with it, hitting nothing but net over and over until it finally promoted him to toss the scrambled egg in the manner of a cricketing bowler-hat, where it landed on concrete with the hiss and splatter of whitish lava. Terry had been alone since he’d left Michael and the egg, spending his days, and then weeks, on various benches and in public toilets masturbating over the thought of Michael’s personality before he’d held the egg inside and hating the egg violently for appearing, for getting in the way of things, for being around,, for not having something inside it that looked normal, until the point when the egg flashed through his mind during the climax of one of his masturbation sessions and that hate became for himself. It was that moment of self-hatred that brought Terry to buy scrambled eggs to eat, but it was the pangs of it, like the pangs the sight of a premature rose would prick a fully bloomed rose with, that also made him decide to go back home, deciding that if eating eggs in spite of his hatred for the egg waiting for him at home was enough to bring him to tears then perhaps he could be a parent to whatever the hell kind of creature that was growing in it and, maybe, if he told Michael about his tears and how they’d flowed- probably leaving the part where he’d had to eat egg to find it out- he would forgive him for leaving too.

It took Terry over two days to get home, not because he’d travelled very far at all, having not even left the city, just taking the local bus routes as far they would take him before removing him, but because he was a coward and despite his resolution, he was still afraid that the music he assumed he was bound to face would send its most jagged notes forward to strike his face. When he finally did arrive back, the bus squeaking to a stop at the stop just outside the premises, him- having been poised by the door- flying out as if ejected by the force of its brakeage and snake-strike door opening speed, he stood on the doorstep in the dark for over an hour with a shivering of the lip and a quivering of the leg, staring at the curtained window to the left of the door that would have looked through into the living room if the curtains making it curtained hadn��t been curtained shut. He couldn’t see any possibilities or clues for the type of reception he’d receive through the curtain, no shadows danced on the fabric despite the soft golden light that emanated from within, illuminating them with an ethereal angelic glow that suggested that even the slightest movement from within would have sent some black things WALTZING.

The house wasn’t quiet when he, finally, with a sigh and a shudder and a desperation to ignore the fact that he was wishing with all his might that the egg wasn’t an egg anymore but a normal child, a human looking one at that, and that Michael wasn’t the Michael he’d left but the Michael who made him hard, opened the door. The house was loud, filled with strange noises, whoops and beeps and growls and grunts and whistles and clicks, that didn’t seem to be coming from one direct spot but rather from everywhere all at once and called to his mind, for reasons unknown to him, the comparison of them to the silent screams of a hemlock garden being picked or a cactus being dethorned. The house was dark except for the golden glow that flickered like the tail end of coy candle flame, a door, standing halfway open with the patience of a giant mouth waiting for an unsuspecting traveller to mistake it for a cave, blocked an immediate view into the living room and a sighter of what was causing the brightness, until Terry played the role of an unsuspecting traveller and went in, one arm proffered in a half circle awaiting a hug and the other with the hand extended, palm up and out and waiting to push back whatever ran at him if whatever had hatched. Both of those arms freezing in place as a feeling tickled his fanny to completion and his eyes and ears were confronted with the sight and sound of not one, but two eggs, giant ones at that- filling the room like it was the room itself that was the egg- sitting side by side, glowing their glow and showcasing the decidedly strange forms inside them, filling the air with stories.

[cherrycherish]

Inventing an OC on the spot for kink purposes: Lilac (they/them)

Thinking about Lilac getting hired at a hucow farm, being placed in front of a trough and knowing that once they're plump enough they'll be filled with brood. They weren't expecting to go so long without being knocked up, just how big did they need to get? Despite their whining, the handler, Jin, only puts thick toys inside them, even once they're big enough to lay atop their belly. After growing to a massive size and filling out most of their pen, lilac can see several other hucows being brought over one day, and they're not nearly as big, but clearly round with brood. Jin climbed up Lilac's gravid form, taking out the toy currently occupying their cunt, and began directing the round cows inside one after the next, making Lilac cum repeatedly as each one squirmed along the way. The cows happily push each other in deeper into Lilac's receptive womb as the handler explains that by keeping multiple cows inside of a bigger cow, they can get the same amount of milk while saving on space and pumps, and that once these cows were well overdue they'd be released and another batch of cows would take their place, keeping Lilac perpetually engorged. The spike in hormones along with the feeling of so many wriggling inside made Lilac dizzy with pleasure. Soon their breasts were swelling with thick creamy milk, a large pump and fucking machine whirring to life to satiate them.

The handler rubbed along the taunt swell with a grin as he climbed down, "What's our motto, Lilac?"

Lilac in a blissfully engorged state only let out a content moo in response, eyes glazed over as the feeding trough was refilled and placed close enough for them to reach.

"That's right, happy cows make the best milk. If you take good care of them we'll see about letting those smaller heifers out in another eight months. I should have a new batch ready for you by then."

The overfilled cow came at the thought, they were going to take very, very good care of their brood.

[vorteqcarbon]

HOW CARBON FIBER IS MADE - DRY VS. WET

Dive into the fascinating world of carbon fiber manufacturing. Explore the intricate processes of creating both dry and wet carbon fiber, and understand the differences between these techniques. Learn how these materials are shaping the future of the automotive industry, providing lightweight solutions for high-performance vehicles.

CRAFTING PERFECTION: UNVEILING THE ART OF MAKING CARBON FIBER - DRY VS. WET

Introduction: Carbon fiber has become synonymous with high-performance and lightweight materials, revolutionizing industries like automotive with its exceptional strength-to-weight ratio. In this detailed exploration, we delve into the manufacturing processes of two prominent types: dry carbon fiber and wet carbon fiber. Understanding the nuances of these methods sheds light on the artistry behind creating components that adorn high-end vehicles, such as those from BMW, Audi, and Mercedes, and the aftermarket scene.

SECTION 1: THE ESSENCE OF CARBON FIBER

To appreciate the crafting of carbon fiber, we must first understand its essence. At its core, carbon fiber is composed of thin strands of carbon atoms aligned in a crystalline pattern. These strands, often thinner than a human hair, are bundled together to form threads, and these threads, in turn, are woven into a fabric or mat. The magic happens when this fabric is impregnated with a polymer resin, creating a material that is incredibly strong yet remarkably lightweight.

SECTION 2: THE DRY CARBON FIBER PROCESS

Dry carbon fiber, also known as pre-preg carbon fiber, involves the use of carbon fiber fabric that is pre-impregnated with resin. The term "dry" refers to the absence of excess resin, making the material almost dry to the touch. The process starts with the cutting of carbon fiber sheets, followed by the layering of these sheets into molds, forming the desired shape of the component.

Once the layers are stacked, the entire mold is placed into an autoclave, a high-pressure curing chamber. The combination of heat and pressure activates the resin, bonding the carbon fiber layers into a rigid structure. The result is a lightweight and strong component, often favored in the aftermarket scene for its high stiffness and precise fit.

SECTION 3: WET CARBON FIBER PRODUCTION

Wet carbon fiber manufacturing, in contrast, involves the infusion of dry carbon fabric with liquid resin during the molding process. In this method, the carbon fiber fabric is laid into the mold, and liquid resin is applied over the layers, saturating the fabric. This process is typically less precise than the dry method due to the potential for resin to pool or unevenly distribute.

After the wet layup, the mold is left to cure. This process doesn't require the high pressure of an autoclave but may involve longer curing times. The result is a component with a higher resin-to-fiber ratio compared to dry carbon fiber. While wet carbon fiber is generally heavier due to the excess resin, it can be more cost-effective for large-scale production.

SECTION 4: PERFORMANCE BENEFITS OF DRY CARBON FIBER

The performance benefits of dry carbon fiber are significant. The controlled resin content ensures a higher strength-to-weight ratio, making it an ideal choice for components where minimizing weight is crucial, such as in high-performance vehicles. The precise manufacturing process also results in components with excellent fit and finish, appealing to enthusiasts seeking both aesthetics and performance.

Dry carbon fiber components are often used in critical areas like aerodynamics, where the balance between weight and strength is paramount. Spoilers, diffusers, and body panels crafted from dry carbon fiber contribute to improved handling and overall performance.

SECTION 5: THE ECONOMICAL APPEAL OF WET CARBON FIBER

While wet carbon fiber may not match the precise engineering of its dry counterpart, it has its own set of advantages, particularly in terms of cost-effectiveness. The wet layup process allows for more straightforward and less labor-intensive manufacturing, making it suitable for mass production.

Automakers producing vehicles in larger quantities may opt for wet carbon fiber to maintain a balance between performance and production costs. While slightly heavier due to the excess resin, wet carbon fiber components still offer impressive strength and durability, making them a practical choice for various applications.

SECTION 6: COMPLEX SHAPES AND DESIGN FLEXIBILITY

Both dry and wet carbon fiber methods allow for the creation of complex shapes and offer design flexibility. The nature of the material, coupled with advanced molding techniques, enables the crafting of intricate components that enhance both aesthetics and functionality.

Whether it's the aggressive lines of a front splitter or the flowing curves of a rear diffuser, carbon fiber components can be tailored to meet specific design requirements. This versatility ensures that manufacturers and aftermarket specialists can push the boundaries of innovation in automotive design.

SECTION 7: LIGHTWEIGHT LUXURY IN HIGH-END VEHICLES

For automakers like BMW, Audi, and Mercedes, integrating carbon fiber into their high-end vehicles is about more than just performance; it's a statement of luxury and technological prowess. Components like carbon fiber roofs, hoods, and interior trims enhance the aesthetic appeal while contributing to the overall lightweight design philosophy of these manufacturers.

The decision to use either dry or wet carbon fiber often depends on the intended application. In areas where weight reduction is critical, such as the roof or hood, automakers might opt for the precision of dry carbon fiber. In less weight-sensitive areas, like interior trims, the economical advantages of wet carbon fiber may be preferred.

SECTION 8: LONG-TERM DURABILITY

When considering the long-term durability of carbon fiber components, both methods demonstrate remarkable endurance. Properly manufactured carbon fiber parts, whether dry or wet, are known for their resistance to corrosion and fatigue. This longevity is a significant factor in their widespread adoption, not only in high-performance vehicles but also in everyday applications.

The inherent resistance of carbon fiber to environmental elements, such as UV radiation and moisture, ensures that these components maintain their structural integrity and appearance over the long term. This durability contributes to the appeal of carbon fiber for automotive enthusiasts seeking both performance and lasting quality.

SECTION 9: ENVIRONMENTAL IMPACT

In recent years, the automotive industry has placed a growing emphasis on environmental sustainability, and carbon fiber has a role to play in this movement. The production of carbon fiber involves energy-intensive processes, but the material's lightweight nature can contribute to reduced fuel consumption and emissions during the operational phase of vehicles.

Additionally, advancements in recycling technologies are making it possible to recycle carbon fiber components, further minimizing the environmental impact. The choice between dry and wet carbon fiber, however, doesn't significantly affect the material's overall eco friendliness, as both methods share similar environmental considerations.

SECTION 10: CONCLUSION

In conclusion, the art of making carbon fiber involves a delicate dance between precision engineering and cost-effectiveness. The choice between dry and wet carbon fiber methods depends on the specific requirements of the application and the goals of the manufacture or aftermarket specialist.

For high-performance vehicles like those from BMW, Audi, and Mercedes, the use of carbon fiber is more than a trend; it's a testament to a commitment to lightweight design, superior performance, and aesthetic excellence. Whether dry or wet, carbon fiber components continue to shape the automotive industry, providing enthusiasts with a perfect blend of form and function.

Delve into the fascinating world of carbon fiber manufacturing. Explore the intricate processes of creating both dry and wet carbon fiber, and understand the differences between these techniques. Learn how these materials are shaping the future of the automotive industry, providing lightweight solutions.

This post was originally published on Vorteq Carbon.

[directturbinescontrol]

Why should you manufacture printed circuit boards?

In gadgets, printed circuit sheets, or PCBs, are utilized to precisely uphold electronic parts which have their association leads patched onto copper cushions in surface mount applications or through rilled openings in the board and copper cushions for binding the part leads in through-opening applications. A board configuration might have all through-opening parts on the top or part side, a blend of through-opening and surface mount on the top side just, a blend of through-opening and surface mount parts on the top side and surface mount parts on the base or circuit side, or surface mount parts on the top and base sides of the board.

 Use of GE Speedtronics sheets

 The sheets are likewise used to electrically associate the necessary leads for every part utilizing conductive copper follows. The part cushions and association follows are scratched from copper sheets overlaid onto a non-conductive substrate. Printed circuit sheets are planned as single favoured copper cushions and follows on one side of the board just, twofold favoured copper cushions and follows on the top and base sides of the board.

 Single- and double-sided sheets

 Single or twofold sided sheets comprise of a centre dielectric material, like FR-4 epoxy fiberglass, with copper plating on one or the two sides of GE MK IV. This copper plating is carved away to frame the genuine copper cushions and association follows on the board surfaces as a feature of the board producing process. A multi-facet board comprises of various layers of dielectric material that has been impregnated with cements, and these layers are utilized to isolate the layers of copper plating. These layers are adjusted and afterward fortified into a solitary board structure under intensity and tension.

 In a multi-facet board plan, there are two techniques used to develop the ideal number of layers. The centre stack-up strategy, which is a more established innovation, utilizes a middle layer of pre-preg material with a layer of centre material above and one more layer of centre material underneath. This blend of one pre-preg layer in IS200TPROH1B and two centre layers would make a 4-layer board.

 https://directturbinecontrols.com/

[let-me-fill-you]

Gonna need all hands on deck to rub enough lotion and oil onto your belly~

every time you boop me, you put a baby in me~

[bellyprincess]

re: your latest post + >Stacking Preg in profile 👀 Imagine putting one baby after another inside you, until your belly button finally pops out... and that's before they start growing~

I can't even describe the way my jaw dropped open reading this.

To already be popped out before they start growing? PHEW, by the time I deliver, my belly button is going to be a weapon! And...probably in its own zip code. 🤣 but my pussy is drooling just thinking about it... 🤤 I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off of it, just constantly rubbing and flicking the little protrusion on my bump as both finally start to grow outwards even more~ what if you...put some more in me? for funsies!🤭

[roundrabbit]

tumblrs gonna stack these weird but have these cute preg pics of some of my favorite canon characters but with absolutley no context cos it’s all long and au/RP based