Normal is created through repetition and accepting an adjustment.  I was ten when I moved in with my grandmother.  By the time I was old enough to move out I had fathered multiple children with her. It's hard to really remember my time with my parents now.  

	By the second trimester everything she had imposed onto my life had become normal.  I expected her to get up early and rush to the bathroom. Rush at least as well as she could with such an awkward shape and weight distribution far from her center of gravity.  I found myself reflexively climbing out of bed and following her.  

	My task was to reach over her gravid body and help hold her hair.  That did not stop me from positioning myself so I could slip into those dark, musky folds.  Somehow my brain decided to just accept the sound of her bile splashing in the toilet and her groans. Sometimes she would retch and her whole body would clench.  It felt like a hundred little stubby, slick fingers crushing in on my meager ten year old cock.  I came hard inside that swampy, warm darkness. .

	She had taken me as a shower companion too. She was a giant to me but would sit down. She brought me eye level to her and her belly.  I could not normalize the way she changed.  Not as quickly. Even though she told me what would happen it still felt strange. Felt incredibly awkward when she would ride my cock. She would lean in and instantly there was a hot, sticky, sweaty beach ball between us. 

	She would press down with her belly on me. It became her favourite way to tease me.  The first time I felt it kick my stomach from within hers I freaked out. I wriggled and squirmed beneath her.  I think that excited her the most. The idea she could still freak me out with her body while forcing me to enjoy it. 

	The morning was different. The boxes that had collected dust for months were now half open.  Chrome poles and fittings, wheels, computer monitors and equipment in wrapped plastic. What had been a backroom that was rarely of interest soon developed into what came to be known as the doctor room. 

	I won’t say I spent the most time in this room. But it was certainly the one I remember most vividly. Traumatic things are like that. The room was about the size of a standard garage.  The floor was vinyl tile in a thick zig zag pattern. Mildly disorienting to look at.  The trim was simple molding and the walls were the kind of slatted vinyl siding you would normally put outside of a house. I later learned it was intended to help sound dampen the room. 

	The drywall and siding had been cut through to produce wall sockets in the needed location.  Not much finishing had been done to seal the ports. This was a home project with little to no professional help. Looking back Mule must’ve been working on it for months.  

	About an hour later we had finished setting everything up. We filled up the back of my grandfather’s ttruck with plastic wrap and cardboard. He left for the dump.  My grandmother wanted me elsewhere.

	The “doctor room” when fully put together  felt claustrophobic for its size. Maybe it was the stacks of pristine medical equipment. Strange devices that were amalgams of number pads, display screens and the occasional device attached to the machine via a springy cable. 

	Every machine seemed to have at least one green light to indicate its powered state. Often there were orange lights that would flash rhythmically. At the center though was a kind of seat-bed.  My grandmother climbed into it with difficulty. Balancing herself before settling herself onto the strange throne of shiny chrome and paper pillows. 

	I moved closer. She indicated the stirrups. With both hands I helped lift her thick leg.  She could’ve easily crushed me if she wanted. Instead with my help her leads were spread.

	Viewed like this. Her vagina looked like a melted rose. One who’s petals had slid and slumped upon each other. Then she would flex or move and the whole mass would shift and ripple. The edges of her labia having the farthest transit. 

“Okay” She said to me. “Go bring that machine over.” She pointed but it still took me touching it and confirming to pick the right one.  Its rollers made it easy to move but its mass required I lean before it would be compelled to move.

When plugged in it gave out a soft hum that quickly faded into background noise.  The screen came alive with numbers at the edges but otherwise dark. 

“Go ahead and grab that part. Hold the end of it here.” Her instructions put a white slightly curved stick in my hand. One when I put my fingers near the tip I briefly saw the screen flash white. My grandmother grabbed my wrist gently and directed my hand down to the shallow, long sweat-shimmered curve of her growing belly.  

As the wand glided over her stomach white lines raced across the screen. Slowing as it became thicker.  When she eventually stopped the screen showed…something.   Small and hunched and clearly interconnected. I finally saw the thing that had kicked me in the stomach days ago. Understood in some primeval way that it came out of me.  I got the strangest sensation then.  My imagination thought of thousands of that thing, very tiny, crawling around inside of me.  

She would gently glide the wand around. Looking at it from different angles.  Soft noises came from her, lusty noises as she reached out to stroke my equine cheek. I had become erect again and, as had become normal, I casually  mounted my grandmother. It was particularly easy with her legs in the stirrup. 

Only one or two lazy thrusts in and she stopped me. Pressed a hand to my chest and then my face. The wand pressed to her pelvis and she turned my head to see the screen.  A strata of pulsing fat was suddenly split by a long shaft. Mine. Seeing my cock on that screen made it feel like a monster. 

Made me feel like I had a monster attached to me.  Like the monster in her. I think that was when it clicked how much the child was mine. I wasn’t her prisoner anymore. I was her mate.  I was terrified and thrilled as I experimented.  Pushing beyond the scope’s range and sliding almost to the fetus. 

She put down the wand, instead pulling me closer. She made me lay against the curve of her belly and put my ear to it.  All I could hear was the layers of gurgling and her heavy heart beats.  But then something else. A similar sound but weaker. Off rhythm from the other. 

When I heard its heart beat I instantly wanted to pull away. But she kept me there surrounded by her machines and over her belly like a barrel. She grabbed my shoulders and started grinding her hips. I tried to balance myself but it only resulted in strange and weak thrusts. 

I could hear their heart beats at different speeds. Hers accelerated faster through awareness, knowledge that all of this was to feed her unchained sexual desires.  The half-formed child within her could only react.  Panic in its rapid heart beat. I don’t know if the pleasure of the mother is conveyed to the fetus.  But the physical strain definitely agitated it. It wasn’t even born and she was still teasing it sexually against its will.

“Okay, finish up.” Was all she said to me as she pulled me closer. Bucking with her hips to raise mine off the ground.  I went back to fucking her roughly.  I was terrified my young cock would still be long enough to bruise it.   But it just felt too good.   I don’t even want to say it but the idea of cumming on my unborn son somehow made sexual sense to my brain.   I came with the full, if foolish, hope that my cum would leak into her womb with the fetus. 

	Now that the doctor room had become part of our lives, I began to learn how things worked. I would take her blood pressure. At first the books were impossible to read but with her help they slowly began to make sense.  I always figured mothers made babies.  No, they host them.  Little creatures with a pipeline to their host.  She was a big fat flesh cauldron and at the time I felt like it was a demon in there kicking, waiting to get out. 

	I don’t know what it is that makes a pregnant horse’s vagina taste differently. Maybe its traces of amniotic fluid or just the awkwardness of keeping all your hidden parts totally cleaned. I learned to like it as one day she told me we couldn’t have sex anymore.  I really could hurt it now as big as it was.  	

	Our vaginal sessions got replaced with me sitting on her chest. Her warm pulsing belly pressed to my butt and my cock down between her heavy, sagged breasts. She scooped them up. Pushing their floppy flesh together. Letting my cum pool in them and using it to slicken every part of her.  I held the head board. I learned this new position like all the others. Within a few days I was treating her mouth like a second pussy.  Even at night I would slip it into her sleeping mouth and let my cum ooze down her throat.  I could be depraved too.  

	I started seeing what I could get away with while she slept. The pills she took knocked her out hard. I spent hours those nights with my hands crawling over that baby vault. Feeling it respond, perhaps reaching out in the same way looking for the outsider who made its home shake violently so often.

While I knew my cock would wake her up. I could slowly work my arm in.   I was terrified. If she shifted her thighs I expected she could break my arm.  But her vagina had already began to change. Her hormones had loosened her that I could easily slide one of my child arms into her. 

	Her throbbing heart beats were everywhere around me. Constantly footfalls like massive giants on grassy plains.  A forceful thump-thump that made every slick, dark, moist inch of her insides clench.  One night I realized she was faking. But when I tried to pull my arm out she clenched down hard. Suddenly awake and grinning at me. Seeing me trapped in her with my hand in her nookie jar.

	She started to stroke my cock. Rubbing the already excessive pre onto it to lube it up. She rolled just enough to pin me with her belly. Now shifting her whole body. Grinding down on me.  That heavy mass pressing on my chest. She was moving quicker.  Letting out her usual pleasured groans.  I don’t know when I started cumming, I don’t know when I stopped. I was a slave to the heavy curves and contours of her body.   When I awoke the next morning my arm was soaked.  Three showers couldn’t get her musk off my arm.  I was resigned to an ugly truth:  Even my body smelled like her property now.