He thrusts and you moan, trying to keep yourself together in a daze of pain and pleasure. You throw your shirt on, buttoning with fumbling fingers over your swollen breasts, and hide under your red cloak the whole way home. You call out to your mate, who slithers into the room and wraps his arms around you. Bread you can comfort it with, sturdy vegetables and apples saved in the cold cellar down below- but you cannot deny your cravings, when your mysterious caretakers deliver death unto your doorstep, raw and unbled. He rubs your belly, smiling and telling you what a good job you did. You, swollen and ponderous as you are- you hold something sacred to them, and for that alone, they will stay. 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.
Mckenna. Age: 23.
For a moment you expect teeth and bright pain and at long last, a silence to the constant struggle in your bloated womb.
Addilynn. Age: 20.
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You hear the wolves outside, sometimes, and shudder. Your womb swells, filling up and up and up- the midwife in the village will not see you, turns away when you pass her by in the street at the market- but you know you are as big as a woman with two and three yet unborn. He encourages you to push, and you feel the egg moving down as you do.