Chapter 10 Pregnant, Panicked, and Horny
With a surprising degree of bittersweet regret, I contemplated my heavy, milk-inflated breasts, the Amulet of Morphos nestled deep in the warm, sweaty valley of my cleavage.
The familiar tingle when I pressed my old male briefs against it was both thrilling and devastating.
The memories we’d made would last forever… right?
My hair began to shorten. My massive breasts started to deflate. I felt that familiar stirring between my legs as my pussy began to reshape. Then everything stopped—reversing only partway before snapping back with cruel finality. What the hell happened?
I frantically grabbed my laptop and repeated all the web searches we’d done before, fingers shaking so badly I kept mistyping.
There were mentions of minor changes possible within the twelve-hour window—bigger boobs, different hair color, even inducing lactation.
But everything confirmed what I already feared: the Amulet of Morphos refused to work on a woman who was pregnant or on her period.
Oh god no.
The realization hit me like a freight train. I collapsed onto the bed and curled into a tight ball, hoping the world would simply crush me and end the nightmare.
We’d had frantic, unprotected sex multiple times—raw, animalistic, cum-soaked sessions where Jordan had filled me over and over.
I’d loved every second of it in the moment, moaning like a whore while my new pussy clenched and milked him dry.
Never once had we considered the consequences.
Or… had some dark, hidden part of me secretly fantasized about it?
About my belly swelling, my tits growing even heavier and leakier, my body becoming a vessel for new life?
Why the hell did a filthy fantasy have to become so terrifyingly, inescapably real?
A violent shudder ran through me as fresh horror mixed with something far more disturbing: a warm, slick throb between my legs.
My pregnant body was already reacting—nipples tightening into aching peaks, a fresh rush of milk leaking from them and soaking through my shirt in sticky trails that ran down my swollen belly.
The heavy globes felt fuller, more sensitive, almost painfully erotic.
Every tiny movement made them sway and tug, sending unwanted sparks straight to my clit.
I screamed so loud and high-pitched that my woman’s voice would have shattered glass.
I’m sure every creature in the forest around the Airbnb scattered.
In a blind, hormonal rage I ripped the amulet from my cleavage and hurled it in a too-girlie overhand toss.
It sailed through the open doorway, skittering across the hardwood with a metallic clink.
I was devastated. Being stuck as a woman for nearly a year was already horrifying. Being pregnant—feeling a baby growing inside me, my body changing even more, and eventually having to push it out—was unspeakably worse.
My tits were already leaking. Thick rivulets of warm milk soaked through the front of my shirt, running in sticky trails down my swollen belly and soaking into the waistband of my shorts.
The heavy globes swung like pendulums as I moved, the wet fabric rubbing my raw, sensitive nipples with every frantic motion.
They felt bruised and overworked, constantly stimulated by the damp cloth.
Every time baby Jordan cried, my milk production went into overdrive.
A sharp, tingling rush flooded my breasts, making them feel even fuller, heavier, and more painful.
The let-down was almost orgasmic in its intensity, but the emotional whiplash left me reeling—horror at being pregnant, reluctant maternal instinct, and raw resentment at my traitor body.
I had to restore Jordan. She didn’t have any of the limitations that blocked the amulet.
I forced myself through one final feeding, tears streaming down my face as I struggled with how to explain the mess I—we—had created.
Jordan latched on hard, suckling with desperate hunger while milk sprayed from my other nipple, soaking us both.
Time was running out. Jordan was fed, changed, and sleeping when I went hunting for the amulet again.
This time it was truly gone. I discovered what had happened: it had slid across the floor and disappeared under a small side table near the front door.
There, against the downhill wall, was a floorboard with a large knot-hole.
My wild throw had sent the amulet straight through it.
When I reached down, my slender feminine arm went in all the way to the armpit and found only empty air.
The luxury Airbnb was built on a steep mountain slope with a thick granite-and-mortar foundation. The table sat against the downhill wall where the floor was at least four feet above the crawl space below.
I was frantic. The only options were smashing through the foundation (impossible) or tearing up the flooring to climb down. No axes or saws were available. Still, I had to try. The clock was ticking—we had to be out by the next evening.
In desperation I raided the kitchen for anything useful: a large carving knife and a small meat cleaver.
In my weaker female body I had nowhere near my old strength.
My arms burned after just a few swings. My heavy, leaking breasts swung wildly like pendulums with every desperate chop, slapping against my chest and stomach, milk spraying and soaking my shirt completely.
The wet fabric chafed my raw nipples until they felt like they were on fire—red, swollen, and hypersensitive.
I dragged the heavy table aside, muscles screaming in protest. The hardwood planks were thick.
The knife barely scratched them. The cleaver did slightly better, but progress was agonizingly slow.
Every few minutes Jordan’s cries pulled me away for feeding or changing.
Each time, my milk surged violently, breasts throbbing and leaking in messy streams down my torso as I tried to soothe her.
The emotional war inside me was relentless—rage at Jordan, terror at being pregnant, unwanted waves of tenderness when I held the tiny baby against my leaking chest.
I tried prying at the joints but only succeeded in bending the knife and chipping the cleaver.
In my frustration I swung harder. Pain exploded through my fingers as two nails tore.
Blood welled up, mixing with the milk and sweat dripping down my body.
I was exhausted, defeated, and completely broken.
I was fucked again—by Jordan, by myself, and by that damned amulet. I’d condemned her to growing up from scratch, and now I would have to raise her while my own body swelled with a second child.
DAMN… and double damn.