Wild Fetish Desires

Nina

The thought of getting pregnant had always been the surface of my deepest desires-dark, raw, and unrelenting. Seeing women with swollen bellies, their bodies transformed by passion and creation, sent heat rippling through me. I knew exactly what they did to be in that state, and the idea always made my breath hitch and my body ache.

It started when I was 21, a craving I had to suppress through years of university and endless work shifts. But even as life piled responsibilities onto my shoulders, that need never left. It clung to me, lurking in the corners of my mind. Nine years later, despite my chaotic schedule, that fantasy only grew more vivid.

Late at night, I'd come home exhausted but restless, slipping beneath my sheets with sinful thoughts swirling in my head. I'd imagine strong hands gripping my hips, my body sweaty and my inside filled to the brim, swollen with the proof of desire. The pulse between my legs became impossible to ignore until I found release, panting in the dark.

My family only called when they needed money. I was alone-always alone. Maybe that was why these fantasies consumed me. The idea of having a baby, someone who would be mine and love me unconditionally, was amazing. And the thought of getting there, of the act itself, made my body burn.

My best friend once suggested surrogacy. "You get the baby without the mess," she said with a laugh. But I wanted the mess-the sweat, the gasps, the primal connection. I wasn't built to carry a child for someone else and then walk away. That wasn't me.

At 34, time wasn't on my side. Closer to menopause than my twenties, I wondered if I'd ever fulfill this dark, beautiful dream.

I worked two jobs to keep myself busy, one at a small café and the other at an elderly women's care home. The shifts barely overlapped, and I had just enough time to catch my breath between them. At the care home, I assisted the elderly with bathing, dressing, and ensuring they took their medications. I rarely spoke to my coworkers, preferring to focus on my tasks instead.

Today, I was scrubbing a small handkerchief, Mary, the kind-hearted woman I cared for, had just vomited on when a conversation among the other girls grabbed my attention. I paused mid-scrub, as though standing still might help me catch every word without missing a beat.

"Girls, do you remember that website I mentioned last week?" asked a blonde woman, a wide grin stretching across her face.

"Website? You mean that one?" another girl said, putting deliberate emphasis on the words.