Chapter 43: The Infant Dildo
The silence after his question was thick, broken only by the wet, ragged pull of her breath through her nose. The word baby hung in the air, a phantom shape inside the very real, stretching fullness he’d put there. Her cunt pulsed around the buried toy, a reflexive, hungry clutch.
Ben watched the reaction flicker across her blindfolded face. He smiled. “Yeah. You creamed. I felt it.” He gave the toy’s base a slow twist. The movement sent a deep, rolling shock through her stuffed guts. “But this?” He patted the crimson silicone. “This is just practice. This is you playing house with a fucking sofa cushion. You think a baby’s head is this polite? This tidy?”
He leaned close, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “A baby’s head is a fucking battering ram, Magpie. It’s round. It’s hard. It doesn’t give a single, solitary fuck about your tight little cunt.” He wrapped his hand around the base of the toy. “This was just to make you cum. To make you hungry for the real thing.”
In one smooth, ruthless motion, he pulled.
The withdrawal was a universe collapsing. Her cunt, shaped to that specific, massive girth, clenched around nothing, a series of frantic, fluttering spasms that felt like dying. The sudden, aching vacancy was a louder scream than the stretch had been. It was a loss. A yawning, hungry void where solid truth had been. Her juices, mixed with lube, gushed out in a warm, pathetic flood onto the sheets.
“There she goes,” Ben murmured, admiring the gaping, twitching hole he’d left behind. Her pussy lips were swollen, dark pink, and didn’t close. They just rested open, a spent, glistening O. “Look at that hungry mouth. It’s already weeping for more. It doesn’t want to be empty. It wants to be stuffed.”
He reached for the cabinet again. This time, what he lifted out was different. It was shorter than the last, but thicker, and made of a firmer, darker silicone. Its defining feature was the head—a perfect, daunting sphere, larger than a grapefruit, smooth and unyielding. Below the sphere, the shaft was a thick, tapered column.
“This,” he said, bringing it to the bed, letting its weight dip the mattress, “is the teacher. This round fucking boss here,” he tapped the sphere, “is what’s gonna school that cunt. It’s here to stretch you. It’s here to widen you. To make room.”
Maggie drooled at the feel of it, a primal groan that made her chains rattle. Her empty cunt dripped.
“Uh-uh,” Ben chided, slicking the enormous sphere with a thick coat of lube. It shone under the light, a black, wet planet. “None of that. You wanted to be bred. This is the down payment. Your pussy’s gonna learn to swallow this whole, screaming head.” He positioned himself between her thighs again. The camera’s red light was a persistent, third-party heartbeat. “Show them how a slut opens up.”
He guided the cool, slick orb to her entrance. It didn’t press. It merely presented itself. The sheer circumference dwarfed her pretty, stretched lips. It was ludicrous.
“That’s it,” Ben coaxed, his voice dark and sweet as molasses. “Say hello. Kiss it.” He applied the faintest pressure.
The resistance was immediate and total. Her body, still ringing from the last invasion, simply said no. The sphere met the outer ring of her sex and stopped. It was an immovable object against a very movable, but currently defiant, flesh.
“Come on, you greedy bitch,” he grunted, pushing harder. Her lips whitened around the curve. A high, thin whine escaped her gag. “You took the other one. You fucking sang for it. This is just rounder. It’s what you need.” He shifted his angle, grinding the sphere not just inward, but downward, against the lower rim of her opening.
The burn was a fierce, concentrated fire. It wasn’t the deep stretch of before. This was a surface-level tear, a demand for her outermost gate to unhinge itself. Her clitcock jerked, bobbing and spitting a clear string of protest onto her belly.
“Look at your cock,” Ben groaned, nodding at the camera. “It knows what’s coming. It’s creaming itself with excitement.” He bore down, putting the slow, relentless weight of his shoulder into it.
There was a wet, protesting sound. A pop, but not the victorious kind. A reluctant, fibrous groan of flesh giving way under duress. The very crown of the sphere began to intrude, distorting her entrance into a tight, desperate stretch around a curve that had no end.
“There,” he hissed, his own breath starting to labour. Sweat gleamed on his forehead. “There’s the start. Your cunt’s fighting it like a virgin. It’s so fucking pretty.” He held the pressure, letting the unbearable tension build. Her hips were trembling, her whole body vibrating with the effort to either accept or expel this impossible thing.
He pulled back a whisper, just to see her swollen lips cling to the slick surface. They tried to close, failed, and remained hooked on the curve. “See? It doesn’t want to let go. It tastes it and thinks it’s getting filled up.” He shoved forward again, harder.
This time, the sphere gained an inch. A brutal, winched inch. The sensation was pure, searing width. It wasn’t going deep. It was just… occupying the front door, demanding the frame be broken wider. Maggie’s scream of pleasure was muffled into a choked sob. Her eyes rolled wildly behind the blindfold.
“One inch,” Ben panted, pausing to pour more lube over the juncture where her flesh swallowed the black sphere. It dripped and ran down her perineum. “For the first inch of your cunt-stuffing dildo's head. You think it waits? You think it asks nice?” He rotated the toy slightly, a grinding, abrasive turn that made her legs kick out straight. “It rules you. It makes its own fucking space.”
He pushed for a second inch. The struggle was violent, messy. Her pussy frothed with the mix of lube and her own desperate fluids. The stretch was visible, a taut, shining ring of pink being forced to circumference it had no right to. She loved it, trying to thrash, held still.
“Two,” he grunted, his muscles corded. He was leaning over her now, his face inches from hers. She could feel his hot breath. “Two inches of a skull, Magpie. Just the fucking forehead. And your cunt’s frothy.” He slapped her inner thigh, a sharp, stinging crack. “Open.”
He gathered himself, bracing. This was for the third inch. The pop was audible, a wet, visceral sound that seemed to echo in the room. The sphere sank deeper, past a major ring of inner muscle, lodging itself firmly in the front of her channel. The feeling was one of profound, inescapable fullness at her very threshold. It wasn’t deep. It was just there, a round, hard fact that her body had to host.
He stopped. Held it. Let her feel the complete, jaw-breaking width of it.
Her body bucked, a weak, fish-like flop. Sounds were coming from her, low and animal, beyond any language. Her cunt, stretched around the unyielding sphere, rippled in frantic, rhythmic flutters. A fresh gush of fluid, thin and hot, trickled out around the toy.
“Three inches,” Ben breathed, triumphant. He was staring at where she was impaled, his eyes blazing. “That’s it. That’s all made her cum her brains out. Just the head.” He gently tapped the part of the shaft that still protruded. The vibration shook through her core. “And look at her. Dripping. Begging. Her pretty pussy’s stuffed with just the idea of it.” He leaned close to her ear, his voice a rough, loving curse. “Imagine the rest. Imagine that round head ramming into you, over and over, pounding your cervix. You’ll take it. You love it, my bred clitcock size queen."
He left it there, buried just three inches deep, a round, black promise of ruin, and stepped back to let the camera drink in her helpless, wide-stretched truth.
He left it there, buried just three inches deep, a round, black promise of ruin, and stepped back to let the camera drink in her helpless, wide-stretched truth. The sphere was a dark planet eclipsing her, its sheer width holding her open in a gasping, silent scream. Her cunt fluttered around it, a frantic bird in a cage of its own making.
“See that, folks?” Ben said to the lens, his voice conversational, almost jovial, as he wiped his hands on a towel. “That’s the look a pussy gets when it knows it’s lost the argument. It’s just waiting for the terms of its surrender.” He came back to the bed, running a thumb over the sweat-slicked curve of her belly. “But three inches is just a teaser. A headline. We need the full story now, Magpie. We need the whole fucking manuscript.”
He gripped the shaft behind the lodged sphere. Maggie whimpered, a pre-emptive sound. “Shhh,” he soothed, his tone utterly at odds with the tension in his hands. “Push it out like you’re taking a shit. It’ll help.” He didn’t wait for her compliance. He applied pressure, a steady, forward grind.
The sphere resisted, then moved. It gained a cruel, halting quarter-inch, stretching her internally in a way that felt less like penetration and more like geological uplift. Her channel was being reconfigured, millimetre by millimetre, to a shape nature had never intended. A thick, syrupy gush of her own fluids escaped around the sides, soaking the sheets beneath her ass.
He worked it in inch by inch.
The fourth inch was a hot, gorgeous eternity. Her pussy gushed with the advance, a clear, copious stream that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with sheer systemic overload. Her erect 24-inch clitcock twitched violently, slapping against her stomach with each heartbeat, a furious, neglected prince denied its throne. The camera, repositioned low and to the side, captured every detail: the slow, obscene consumption of the black sphere, the glisten of strained tissue, the angry pulse of her ignored cock.
The fifth inch made her spine bow. A raw, animal noise ripped through the gag. Ben paused, panting, admiring the work. Her lower abdomen was beginning to show a subtle, firm bulge, a distinct rise beneath her skin that hadn’t been there before. “There it is,” he breathed. “Look at that. Your body’s making room. It’s so desperate to be stuffed full.”
He pushed for the sixth.
This was a fight. Her muscles, intelligent and terrified, clamped down in a vice of refusal. He leaned his whole weight into it, his teeth bared. The sphere won, as it was always going to. It sank deeper, and the bulge in her belly became undeniable, a taut mound that displaced her navel. Her clitcock, now ringed by a swollen, angry hood, stood hard at attention, bulging with need, weeping a continuous bead of precum that dripped onto the distended skin below.
He worked it in inch by inch.
The seventh and eighth inches came in a sustained, brutal push that stole the air from the room. Her pussy was a sluice, gushing with each fractional advance, the fluids now tinged pink. The camera captured every detail as her belly bulged with the intrusion, a firm, rounded pregnancy of silicone. He was filling her birth canal completely, packing the space meant for passage with a single, unmovable truth. Her clitcock, needing to cum but ringed by silicone, throbbed in desire, a separate entity screaming for a finish it would not be granted.
“Nine,” Ben grunted, the number a curse. The shaft was almost fully buried, only a few inches protruding. Her stomach was a carved, hard dome. He slapped it, and the sound was a deep, hollow thump that vibrated through her insides. “Hear that? That’s full. That’s a slut stuffed to the brim with consequence.”
He gave one final, wrenching shove.
The base of the toy met her flesh with a soft, final thud. It was seated. Complete. Her birth canal was no longer a canal. It was a vault, and the sphere was its treasure. She was impossibly, grotesquely full, every internal landmark smoothed away by the pressure. Her belly was a taught, rounded hill. Her clitcock, achingly hard, bulged with veins, dripping onto the curve of the hill as if anointing it.
Ben stood up, his own shirt soaked with sweat. He looked from her wrecked body to the camera, a slow, satisfied smile spreading across his face. “And that,” he said, his voice quiet with something like reverence, “is how you make a hole understand its purpose.” He walked to the lens and reached out, his hand blotting out the light as he ended the stream.
The red light died. The room swam back into existence, defined not by the camera’s judgmental eye but by the raw, persistent truth of the object within her. The silence was a physical weight. Maggie floated in it, anchored only by the crushing sphere lodged in her pelvis. Her breath came in shallow sips. Each inhalation pressed her diaphragm down onto the solid mass below, a nauseating, full reminder.
Ben stretched, the bones in his back cracking like distant gunshots. He sighed, a contented, workmanlike sound. “Metrics from that are gonna be fucking stellar,” he said to the room, running a hand through his hair. He glanced at her, a technician assessing a humming reactor. “Look at you. Just… holding it. Your body doesn’t even know how to protest anymore.”
He came back to the bed, the mattress dipping. His fingers, cool and dry, traced the outrageous line of her clitcock. It jumped at his touch, a strained, eager thing, smeared with its own neglected ooze. “Poor thing,” he murmured, not with pity, but with fond possession. “All that work happening next door, and you’re just standing guard. Throbbing. Let’s fix that.”
He wrapped his whole hand around the base of her, his grip firm and knowing. At the same time, his other hand closed around the small, still-visible portion of the toy’s shaft.
He didn’t pull it out. He didn’t thrust it in deep.
He began to bunny-fuck it.
Tiny, rapid strokes. An inch out, a brutal inch back in. A shallow, frantic pistoning that made the broad, spherical head inside her nudge repeatedly against the deeply-buried mouth of her cervix.
The effect was instantaneous and catastrophic.
A broken sound, half-gargle, half-sob, erupted from behind the gag. The previous fullness had been a state of being. This was an event. A relentless, pinpoint tapping on the most forbidden, internal bell. It wasn’t a pain she could locate. It was a deep, resonant shock that echoed in the roots of her teeth, in the hollows of her knees.
“There she is,” Ben whispered, his fist on her cock beginning a slow, corkscrewing stroke, gliding through her mess. “That’s the spot, isn’t it? The ‘no’ spot. The ‘you’ll ruin me’ spot.” He kept the toy’s pace quick, shallow, insistent. Tap tap tap tap. “And look how your cock loves it.”
Her clitcock was betraying her utterly. Each tiny, internal nudge sent a bolt of corrupted lightning straight up its shaft. It swelled further in his hand, a fat, veined club of reactive flesh. Precum welled from its slit in a continuous, slick ribbon. He collected it with his thumb, smearing it over the glans, his strokes becoming smoother, tighter, more demanding.
He was overloading separate circuits simultaneously.
The deep, internal tapping was a form of madness. It promised a fundamental rearrangement. The firm, rhythmic milking of her cock was a visceral, familiar demand for release. They met in the tangled knot of her brain, merging into a single, inescapable command: shatter.
“You’re taking it,” Ben breathed, his own arousal evident in the tightness of his voice. He watched her face, a masterpiece of conflict behind the blindfold. “Your cunt’s sucking on that head, begging it to come in further. And this,” he squeezed her cockhead, “this is just creaming itself happy about the whole thing. You’re a perfect picture. Gagged. Blind. Tied. Stuffed. Bred.” He emphasized the last word with a sharper twist of his wrist and a slightly deeper push of the toy.
A wave of pressure, hot and uncontrollable, built in her body. It had no direction. It wasn’t heading out; it was just expanding, a seismic swell of pure heavenly response. Her hips stuttered against the cuffs, trying to arch into his hand and away from the toy at the same time, accomplishing neither. The sounds she made were not human. They were the sounds of a vessel cracking under pressure.
“Yeah,” he coaxed, his rhythm never faltering. The toy nudged. His hand stroked. “Let it go. Cum around it. Cum while it’s knocking to get in. Show me how happy you are to be full. Show me your greedy, submit slut joy.”
The breaking point wasn’t a crescendo. It was a collapse.
Her orgasm was a silent, white-out implosion. Her cunt, stretched wide around the unyielding sphere, could not clench. Instead, it vibrated, a high-frequency hum of surrender that sent fresh rivulets of fluid leaking around the toy. Her clitcock erupted in his fist, not with pulses, but with a sudden, copious gush that coated her swollen belly and his hand in thick, pearlescent ropes. Her bowels cramped, a deep, involuntary spasm. Her entire body convulsed, a rigid arc of utter, mindless capitulation.
The tapping continued. The stroking continued.
They gentled, but did not stop. He milked the last few drops from her permanently hard cock, watching them drip onto the distended mound of her stomach. He slowed the toy to a gentle, persistent rock, still kissing her cervix with each tiny movement.
Maggie dissolved into the sensations, into the aftermath. The pain, the fullness, the shocking, inappropriate pleasure blurred into a single, warm syrup in her veins. The blindfold was a kindness. The bonds were an embrace. The gag silenced the words she didn’t need to say.
She was milked. She was fucked. She was gagged, blindfolded, bound.
Pregnant with his baby. Stuffed with the fattest cock.
He kept bunny fucking the huge dildo. Shallow. Relentless. The spherical head inside her became a battering ram against the tight, internal knot of her cervix, a persistent, rhythmic demand that her body could neither answer nor refuse. Tap-tap-tap. It wasn't a fuck; it was a tattooing.
Her clit had gone quiet, spent and oversensitive, a throbbing monument on her belly. The sensation had migrated deeper, becoming a hollow, resonant ache that echoed the toy’s pace. Each tiny thrust sent a fresh, thin trickle of fluid past the stretched seal of her lips. The sheets beneath her were a cold, soaked map of her surrender.
“Listen,” Ben said, his voice hushed. He stilled the toy completely, leaving it buried to the hilt. The silence it left was a roar. Her cunt muscles, trained by the rapid-fire motion, continued to flutter in a futile, after-image clench around the stationary girth. A wet, suckling sound filled the room. “Hear that? That’s the sound of a hole that’s been convinced. It’s suckling on nothing. Just begging for the next bit of work.”
He leaned over her, his shadow crossing the light. He didn’t touch her cock. He placed his palm flat on the firm, rounded mound of her lower belly. “You feel full, Magpie?” His thumb pressed in, just below her navel. The internal pressure shifted, a nauseating, deep roll. “You feel that weight? That’s not a toy anymore. That’s a condition.”
Maggie whimpered, a weak, broken sound. Her mind was scraped clean of thought, filled only with the physical scripture of his will.
“I know you do.” He removed his hand. The relief was momentary. He grabbed the dildo’s base again. “But ‘full’ is a temporary state. ‘Crammed’… that’s more permanent. That’s when there’s no space for anything else. No air. No thought. Just the solid fact of being occupied.” He resumed the bunny fucking, but harder now, the strokes a vicious, shallow punctuation. Thump-thump-thump-thump.
The cramming began.
It was a different quality of stretch. The initial penetration had been about width, about making space. This was about denying it. Each short, sharp shove packed the sphere tighter into the channel, leaving no room for breath, for fluid, for anything but the dense, crushing presence of the silicone. Her stomach muscles jumped and quivered under the skin. She felt her own heartbeat in the trapped, pressurized tissue.
“Your insides are rearranging,” Ben grunted, the effort clear in his voice. Sweat dripped from his chin onto her thigh. “They have to. Physics demands it. You’re cramming a cathedral into a closet. Things have to break.” He changed the angle, tilting the shaft upward. The spherical head ground against a new, excruciating plane of inner flesh.
A raw, guttural scream was muffled into a wet choke by the gag. Her vision, already dark, sparked with static. The sensation was less of pain and more of a fundamental wrongness, an anatomical protest so profound it bordered on existential.
“There!” Ben hissed, triumphant. He held the angle, applying steady, cramming pressure. “You feel that? That’s the back wall. That’s as far as you go. And we’re fucking it.” He began the rapid, shallow pistoning again, a machine designed for maximum friction with minimal travel. Grind-grind-grind.
The overload returned, but duller, heavier. It was a systemic failure. Her body began to shake, a full-limb tremor that had nothing to do with pleasure. Her bound ankles rattled the chain. Her stuffed cunt leaked a continuous, thin stream that was more sweat than juice. The feeling of being crammed was total. It was in her hips, her lower back, the base of her throat.
She loved it.
“Gonna let you marinate,” he said softly, wiping her thigh with a clean cloth. He patted the base of the toy. “Let that feeling settle into the bones. I’ll order food. You need calories.” He walked away, his footsteps receding, leaving her in the silent, saturated dark, impossibly, irrevocably stuffed.