The Maternity Ward

Her belly ripples, a taut and swollen thing, filled to the very brim of its possibilities with a corrupt and powerful life.

Droplets of sweat slither down her bloated flesh.

She is straining now.

The expanse of her tummy is a creamy white colour, deliciously burdened and marred by a scant few stretch marks that appear at random across the dome of pregnancy.

No clothing keeps her modesty covered.

A female doctor, wrapped in the garbs of her profession, glances at the tightening gut with an uncaring boredom.

The girl is in a chair, in the waiting room,  all alone.

"The maternity ward... is full," sneers the large-breasted physician with a biting disgust generally reserved for a racist's tongue.

Grunts of effort and screams of discomfort fill the stagnant air like a splash of bleach into a filthy pool.

The fat and plump mound of the labouring girl's womanhood is rumbling and fat, not troubled by the mass locked in her gut.

A contraction closes like a vice on the fattened bloat of the pregnant girl's stomach, trying to expel the beast from within her.

Eyes widen, tears form, and a scream swells in her throat...


The female doctor yawns and flips through a magazine as a sudden screech fires off throughout the room.

Her eyes don't flutter away from the article for even a moment as she hears a sickening gurgle followed by a loud splat.

Instead she follows the trail of words along to the next page and scratches, idly, at the immense swell of pregnant flesh jutting from her own pregnant form.