I was always unpopular.
Not that I was unattractive. Red hair and light freckles will get you a long way, to getting compliments about being cute, or even sexy. But I always was too dorky to be able to hang out with the cool girls. And, frustratingly, I was too girly to be able to hand out with the dorky boys. As a result, I never really had many friends.
That was fine, though. I tended to prefer solitude anyway, made it easier to focus on whatever my latest project was. At the age of 16, I assumed I had plenty of time to find my social niche. I was certain it would only be a matter of time before I found SOME group of nerds that didn’t mind the fact that I was a girl. But that would be once I bothered to seek them out.
It seemed like such a waste though when there were always so many other things that needed doing, other interests to pursue that were more interesting than finding others to share my passions. Sometimes it was a little lonely, true. But… well, it was what I had become used to.
Of course, since I didn’t meet gender norms or social expectations, many of the other girls were pretty nasty to me. I began to go out of my way to avoid them, preferring to simply not deal with their bullying than try to defend myself. For all my wit, all of my retorts and snappy insults vanished in the heat of the moment, as my peers would surround me and mock me, insulting every bit of me from head to toe and leaving me feeling awful.
As a result, I had gotten in the habit of waiting until all the other girls were gone before I took a shower, since gym was the last period of the day for me. I always felt my most vulnerable there, naked and exposed, ripe to be gawked at and judged. Teasing the sparse red pubic hair was always a favorite, as was accusing me of having freckles all along my vaginal lips. It was always extra bad because I knew I actually DID what one feminine freckle, hidden under the soft fuzz. I just hated feeling that utterly defenseless. As with most things that lead to me being hurt, I found it easiest to not engage.
There were unfortunate aspects of this. The constant solitude could be eerie, and I would jump at the slightest sound. And it meant that when someone DID wait to harrass me, there were often no other students or teachers to intervene or restrain them.
But that day in the girl’s locker room… I would rather have dealt with all the teasing in the world than what happened to me.
I was alone in the locker room, completely nude and dripping wet, having just finished a shower. I didn’t have my glasses on, and so didn’t realize something was wrong when I saw a blurry figure walking toward me. I went back to getting my clothes, hoping they would ignore me. It hadn’t been a good day, and I just didn’t want to deal with the taunting sing-song of “freckle crotch” that the others had become so endeared to.
The footsteps stopped right next to where I was standing, the breathing heavy and deep. Something finally began to seem off, and I looked over, only to see the captain of the football team standing next to me, looking my bare, still slick body over. I froze, and moved to cover myself. “W-what are you doing here? This is the girl’s locker room you creep!” I stammered, embarrassed and flustered. Nobody who wasn’t a girl had ever seen me naked, and I wasn’t sure I liked the feeling of his hungry eyes on me.
I looked down, squinting my eyes, and saw a blurry, growing mass from his groin. I realized that the most popular boy in school was getting turned on by the sight of my body. “Wow… It’s just like they said, you’re pretty hot for a pathetic nerd.” He muttered, almost to himself. “Yea, this’ll definitely be worth it.”
Those words could only ever mean bad things. I didn’t speak another word, just backed away, tried to run. But my feet slipped, and in a matter of mere seconds, he had pinned me to the ground and was trying to pry my legs open. I began begging him to stop, struggling and resisting as best I could. But he was so strong, there was nothing I could do but slow his efforts.
Within moments, he had my legs spread wide, and I felt the tip of his penis nudging my opening. “Nooo, gods please, please don’t! This can’t, I can’t-!”
It was too late.
He thrust deep inside me, taking my virginity in one terrible motion as I cried out in fear and pain. Tears flowed from my eyes as he slid in and out, and I screamed at the top of my lungs, telling him to stop, shouting that I needed help, that I was being raped, that he was INSIDE me and I couldn’t get him out. But my own strategy to avoid being harrassed backfired. There was nobody nearby besides the two of us, nobody to hear or intervene. I was left to endure this horrible violation as I endured most things. Alone, without any help.
I tried to focus on anything else, cast my mind to any place and time other than here as I felt the tip of his member nudge my cervix. He was so deep, deeper than I thought anything could go, and I began to push reflexively, my sex clamping down on his member as it thrust in and out, trying to force it from my body, do deny it entrance. All it did was make it so I was all the more aware of every moment of violation, every detail of it being seared into my memory forever.
I could feel every shift within the horrible boy’s body through his member. His heartbeat throbbed through my vaginal walls, matching time with my own. He twitched and throbbed. He began grunting, going faster as I felt him starting to contract slightly, bulging, stretching me a tiny bit more as I continued to struggle as best I could. The screaming had stopped, but I still was sobbing, pleading with him to stop. It only seemed to make him enjoy it more.
“Please…” I gasped. “Just please don’t… c-cum… inside me… I could get… could get pregnant…” He only laughed, and thrust harder and faster. “No, I don’t want to have a b-baby! I’m not ready, I don’t want to be a mom, please, PLEASE!” The most popular boy in school ignored my desperation, and bellowed as he reached climax.
I felt his hot seed firing into my body, harsh thuds against my cervix as it erupted in powerful spurts, each impact subtle, but echoing all the way through every inch of me, right down to my very soul as I arched my back, screaming in denial. The warm stickiness kept oozing deeper, the feeling of it disappearing as is slithered past my cervix. I moaned in despair as I went limp, shuddering at every jet that was pumped into me against my will. I was helpless to do anything to stop it, and I hated every single moment.
The powerful football player stayed inside me for a time, letting himself go limp as he looked down at me, seemingly savoring how quiet and still I’d become. Then, my rapist stood, saying “That was pretty good, for a nerd.” leaving without another word.
And yet, he hadn’t left entirely. Not really. I shuddered and moaned, realizing I could still felt the heat of his disgusting semen inside me. It was starting to slide down my opening in thick, sticky streams. I crawled back into the shower slowly, whimpering as his cum kept leaking from my abused girlhood and dripping down my thigh, until at last I was beneath the shower heads once more.
I turned the faucet as hot as it went, and curled up beneath it. I cried without restraint, letting the burning heat scorch away the feeling of filth. But no amount of steam or heat to rid me of the despair, the helplessness, the horror of what I had just been forced to experience.
I tried to report the crime almost immediately, going to the principal first thing in the morning. The school, however, refused to cast doubt on their star player for some dorky unpopular student, let alone a girl. Contempt and amusement coloring their every word, they made clear that they got the vast majority of their funding from and for the football team.
There were no girls on the football team. That meant that, to him, my good grades and scholarly aspirations were something I owed to the success of the boy who had had his way with me. “If anything…” the principal finished, “You should be grateful he found some pathetic girl like you worth raping, I figured the cheerleaders would be more his type.”
I went to the police, but they echoed the school’s sentiments, saying that “The state championship is more important than your regret for being a whore. What did you expect, walking around naked in the girl’s locker room? And that’s ignoring the fact that a hard-core alpha like Mecha-Arm Pete would never fuck a girl like you. If anything, you’re lucky we’re not arresting YOU for leveling false accusations!”
I withdrew even further into myself. My parents learned of everything that had happened, but they had always been disappointed in me, wishing I’d been more popular, more attractive. Or even just had been born a boy instead of a girl. They were very Old Testament in the way they’d raised me, and had made it clear my entire life that the proper place for a woman in society was legs open, either being impregnated or giving birth. Anything other than that was going against the will of the lord.
Even worse, they were huge fans of the high school football team. The entire town worshiped them like minor deities, and my mother and father were no different. So they knew that if they backed me up, it would ruin any chances of their teenage pantheon of beautiful boys winning this year. Thus, it was easy for them to justify to themselves taking the same contemptuous line as the school and police.
I was known as a lying, valueless, resource-leeching whore everywhere, even within my own home. All because I tried to do the right thing. I was crushed, I didn’t know where to turn or where to go.
Then, by some twisted miracle, it got even worse. I started to get sick. My mood began swinging wildly. I started getting really hungry. I also missed a period. Then a second. Then a third. My belly, while still the same size it had ever been, had become firm to the touch, unyielding. I denied it to myself, for a time. It was the first time I’d ever had sex, and it had been so awful. It couldn’t have happened, I couldn’t be…
A test showed that I was. The subsequent doctor’s visit confirmed it. I was pregnant. Just finishing up my first trimester, about to start my second. I was distraught. The doctor offered me a merry congratulations, told me he was sure I would carry the pregnancy well and make an adorable teen mother, then sent me on my way.
Out of desperation, I went to my parents. Begged them to let me get rid of the rape baby that had been forced to take root inside me. They were horrified and disgusted. With me, of course, not my nightmarish situation.
They accused me of sleeping around and getting myself knocked up, and then refusing to take responsibility for my mistakes. They said I had to deal with the natural consequence of promiscuity. Apparently spending the next eighteen years of my life, two more years than I had even been alive for raising a child I never wanted was a reasonable punishment for having sex once, or so the bible decrees.
It wasn’t long after that I started to show. I covered it up as best I could, loose baggy clothes not being out of the norm for my regular style. Nobody paid attention to me except to bully me the majority of the time anyway, so for the most part it worked.
But that didn’t help hide it from myself. Every time I looked at my swelling baby bump in the mirror, or my swelling breasts ached with the milk they’d started to produce, or I looked at the boy that had forced me to have this child, I couldn’t help but tear up, mind flashing back to the horrific violation, thinking about where I would be, what I would be doing within the next few months. The knowledge that I was going to give birth for him, against my will, and I was powerless to do anything to slow or stop it, my body merilly gestating his rape baby.
My grades began to slip, but nobody cared. I was lost in the shuffle of students struggling to succeed, and the sudden changes went largely unremarked upon. My parents refused to get me maternity clothes, or even so much as a dress, saying that as long as I was going to be a teenage mother, I may as well dress like it. They kept getting me big tee-shirts and sweaters, combined with normal jeans and sweatpants. They told me to hide it as best I could, because they didn’t want to have to deal with the questions.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t want to deal with the questions either. But they still came.
The baby continued to grow, making everything harder, every little bit of weight hanging off the front of my body making it more difficult to move, bend over, sit, and dress myself. My ankles and back and hips ached, each day leaving me more pregnant, more feminine, more full of life. I hated it, hated how I looked and felt.
The day came, as I entered my third trimester, that I felt it kick for the first time. My mind whirled as I struggled with the reality of my condition. Those little nudges from inside meant I was pregnant. There was a tiny person inside my body. Growing in me, and it was going to come out, and be alive, I was going to be a mom. I was gestating a rape baby, and I was helpless to do anything but wait to deliver it into the world, give the one who attacked me the ultimate gift that a girl can give. It was moving and kicking and growing bigger with every passing second, and I could do nothing but let it.
I broke down in my bedroom, cradling my invaded womb helplessly. I hated this child. Everything about it. I hated the football player who got me pregnant. I hated my parents, the school, the police, and my peers for brushing it off as my fault. And above all, I hated this baby, growing inside me, slowly changing everything about me, whether I wanted it to or not.
The most frightening thing was, I had no idea when my due date was. After that first appointment, I’d been so crushed and offended by his cavalier attitude that I’d never come in for a follow-up. I didn’t know the gender, didn’t know if it or I were healthy, and had no concept of when I actually was projected to push out my unwanted bastard. At any moment, this baby could force me to give birth to it, and just like how it was conceived, like the extension of its father it was, all I could do was wait and see what it decided to force me to experience.
Every time it kicked, I would shudder in disgust. I was getting so big, so quickly. Eventually, even with the oversized clothes, the pregnancy became impossible to hide. I gave in and stopped trying to , letting my firm, obvious pregnant swell peek out from under my clothes, freckles dotting it here and there.
Not much really came of my lack of modesty, just more mocking and hateful words. I was used to that.
By the time I was eight months, I felt unbearably massive. I looked at myself in the mirror to try to come to terms with my body’s changes, and saw that, under my gravid belly, my girlhood had become swollen and puffy between the little tufts of bright red pubic hair framing my formerly virgin slit. A brief touch between my legs, just to explore, showed that it was hyper-sensitive as well, making me bite my lip as shameful pleasure shot toward my core.
My breasts had become larger, and would leak milk if any pressure was put on them. The nipples were dark, slightly more prominent than before as well, and were just as sensitive to any touch. My belly was still covered in light freckles, though it was stretched taut, and hard as a rock.
I looked entirely different. I hated what I had become, some sculpture of a fertility goddess, barely even feeling human anymore. My rapist had taken over my body on so many levels, sculpted me with his seed wholly and fully into some vision of shy, humiliated, self-loathing impending motherhood.
My parents sat me down later that day, said that when I went into labor, they didn’t want to be bothered with it. Hospital visits were expensive, and at this point I wasn’t worth the cost. They suggested I get a friend to help me, and then went back to talking excitedly about the upcoming game.
So it was that I came to school, in my ninth month of forced pregnancy, wearing jeans and a poorly fitting t-shirt, nervous as I had been for the last several days. I’d been having Braxton hicks at least once per day, they were coming closer together, gradually getting more intense, and today had been especially bad. I knew I was likely on the cusp of labor, but kept hoping it would be just one more day away.
I was halfway through first period when I was forced to accept that it was really beginning. These constant cramps, this building pressure low in my hips, this feeling, nudging against m very soul, instinctual needs surfacing, telling me to get somewhere safe, quiet, and prepare to bring my baby into the world. There was nothing else it could be. I was rapidly descending into hard labor. By the end of the day… I would be a mommy.
I decided to ignore it as best I could, hoping I would be able to find the time to get somewhere. By the time I was in fourth period, it was clear it wasn’t the case. The contractions were about two minutes apart, and deeply painful. I wouldn’t even have time to leave school before Rapist Jr. was on its way out.
The lunch bell rang, and I walked to the cafeteria. As I reached the doorway, a strong labor pain hit, gripping me impossibly tight. I groaned in pain, sinking to my knees, clutching my swollen belly as I felt something give inside me. My eyes shot open in horror, and I saw everyone staring at me as my waters broke, soaking my pants and panties, forming a musky-smelling puddle beneath me.
As my eyes welled with tears, everyone started laughing, saying I’d peed myself or, worse, knowing exactly what that was, realizing that I likely was going to give birth any moment now. The principal walked over with a mop and bucket. “Clean up your disgusting little mess, won’t you? Oh, and, as much as you may think you deserve special treatment for being a pregnant little whore? I’m telling you now that you are still expected to attend all your classes. If I find for any reason you didn’t, you will be punished accordingly.”
I spent lunch cleaning up my own amniotic fluids, riding out contractions as best I could as the head rammed down against my rapidly ripening cervix. Everyone stared at me, judging me cruelly, nobody helping or offering so much as a kind word.
The bell rang before I was done, and the dining hall cleared out. I was told to finish cleaning up my mess as quickly as possible, and left alone. I honestly would have almost been thankful, were I not scared and feeling myself getting closer to delivery with every second, not in any way wanting to be in this position, in this place, with this baby.
Just as I finished, a potent labor pain stole my breath away, knees growing week as, much to my horror, I felt the baby slip down into my birth canal. My cervix was fully dilated, the baby at last being born.
It was time.
I leaned against the wall, struggling not to push until the contraction was over. As it ended, sweat beading on my forehead, I turned around. My eyes went wide as I realized that, behind me, hungry eyes roaming my body with a mixture of pity, contempt, and lust, was him. The one who did this to me, who raped this baby into my belly against my will.
The fabled Mecha-arm Pete grinned at me, reaching out and caressing my hot, laboring mound. “It looks like that REALLY hurts, nerd.” He grinned, tone smug, clearly amused by my obvious dilemma. “Of course, any baby I make is going to be a big one, even with your pathetic genes weighing it down. Strong and fast, poor little thing probably can’t wait for your unathletic book-worm body to push it out at your own pace. I bet it’s already slipping down that little tunnel I got to enjoy so much nine months ago.”
Once more a contraction held me tightly, my belly visibly shrinking under his hand, and I felt his spawn slip another inch down my birth canal. I forced myself to continue resisting the need to push, holding my legs together tightly. I was still quietly hoping I could hold back until the end of the day.
In spite of my efforts to look strong, to not let him know how much what he did had hurt me, was still hurting me, I let out a pained moan. His hand slipped to the side of my aching, sweaty middle, the other coming around to hold the other side, cupping my cramping, aching fertile mound. “Of course, I don’t have anywhere to be. I could sit here all day if I wanted, watch you struggle not to give birth to my baby. God, it’s made me so hot, seeing you walk around, getting all big with our kid.”
Another contraction, and the child in question moved further down my teenage girlhood, opening me deep within. It was ravaging my birth canal all over again, the product of his seed causing pain with every small movement, feeling him so deep inside me even though I didn’t want it, never wanted it. Violating me with pregnancy, birth.
I was panting and sweating, in so much pain I was starting to see spots. My vision began to go black around the edges, and I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to make out of this school before this happened, wouldn’t even make it to my next class. It was too late, the baby wanted to be born, right now.
I let out a groan, looking with fear and disgust at the horrible monster that raped this baby into me. “Please- Ahhhn! Please g-go away… this is very painful, and h-having you here is… AGH!” Another spasm ripped through my belly, and I felt the baby slip a bit further down. I slid to the ground, holding my belly, knees and thighs trembling far too much to be able to stay standing. The horrible monster of a person joined me, clearly enjoying every moment of my pain, seeming to actually be turned on by it.
“I know. I’m pretty great. I imagine just having me here is making you feel lame. I mean, how sad is it that the first time you got laid, you got knocked up? You must have really been desperate to have a baby, though honestly, who could possibly give anyone a better baby than me, the literal golden god of this school. To be honest, you should consider yourself lucky, that such an amazing guy like me decided to let you have my baby.” Tears flowed freely from me as another squeezing, birthing pain held me tight, and this time I could resist no longer.
Giving in silently, I started to push. I felt the baby slide down, eager to emerge from my body. Meanwhile, the teenage football start continued to taunt me and fawn over his own virility and popularity. “I just figured, since I put the kid into you, I’d come wish you luck in pushing it out. Show for once in your life you can actually do something meaningful, you know? God knows that you’re made to give men babies, if you aren’t even doing that, what good are you?” With that, followed by a harsh, nasty laugh, he got up and walked away, leaving his agonized, terrified victim behind him, full of his baby, giving birth against her will.
I only had a few seconds rest before another spasm wracked my aching, laboring mound. I pushed with the crushing pain, and was rewarded for my obedience by feeling my entrance bulge slightly, the baby’s head resting just behind it. I felt the fabric of my panties slip over my wet, sensitive lips. I was gripped by the panicked realization, that I was still fully clothed, in spite of being on the cusp of crowning.
With a trembling hand, I reached down to my waist, unbuttoning and unzipping my soaking wet, ruined jeans. Just as I get the waist opened, however, another squeezing cramp slammed into me like a truck. I tried to ride it out, breathe through the pain and pressure, to not push, but the baby relentlessly, cruelly, inexorably slid forward regardless, my body working to deliver the child even without my help.
My opening burned as the baby’s head emerged from between my swollen lips, opening me wide in spite of my need to hold back, to clear room for my unwanted offspring. The emerging child made my panties tent out around the slimy newborn, away from my straining loins.
I sobbed in frustration, leaning back, realizing I was too late. The baby was too far out of me, I couldn’t close my legs anymore. Just like nine months ago, he was holding me open, I was powerless to do anything but keep my thighs apart and let him ravage me.
As I tried to assemble some idea of how to deal with this, how I could avoid delivering a rape baby into my ruined underwear, another contraction came hot on the heels of the last. His unwanted newborn continued opening me even wider, opening me into a full crown as my hands gripped my thighs tight, toes curling as I threw my head back, crying out in agony and despair as I gave in to my primal need to birth.
The pain was overwhelming as the baby’s head slid from me entirely, more fluids pouring from me, coating the floor and pooling beneath me as my pants and panties both bulged and strained, an obvious mound where the head was hidden within my clothes, the fabric JUST elastic enough to hold my rapist’s child.
Between contractions, I slipped my hand under my clothes, between my legs. I felt it. The head of his offspring, pushing firmly against the unyielding fabric of my jeans. I trace it back to where it’s emerging, and shudder again as my finger brushes the point where the child’s head lies next to my over-sensitive folds, the body rotating as I moaned, my body preparing for the next part.
Another crushing spasm, and my belly shrank down once more. I cried out in pure agony and self-disgust, amazed nobody had come to check on me, even if just to tell me to shut up. I had no choice but to push as hard as possible and the shoulders began to shove from my burning, straining girlhood. My hand still down between my legs, I pushed the baby as gently as possible to the side, giving it room to emerge into the cramped space it had forced me to deliver it into.
One shoulder popped free as I yelped in shock, the sensation catching me by surprise. Then the other. They were out. The shoulders were free, just the body left. The worst was over.
I used my fingers to pull the baby from my body, a little bit at a time, until it came to rest in the groin of my pants, the fabric bagging heavily as it struggled to contain the new life I’d just screamed and sobbed into them.
Cheeks burning with humiliation, tears of despair running down my face, knowing that this was just the beginning, that the next eighteen years were going to be devoted to raising even though I never wanted it, I finally was able to close my legs enough to remove my bottoms. I looked down at the child that I conceived against my will, the progeny for the least popular girl in school and the most popular boy in town. The two most opposite people in the world, being forced to create life together.
It was a little girl. I… Almost couldn’t believe it. How could such an evil boy make such a sweet, beautiful baby girl? She had hair as red as mine, the same eyes too. Her face was like his, and as he had foretold, she was a big baby, but…
I reached down, carefully picking her up from within my soiled clothing, crying. Some teachers come into the lunch room, saw me sitting there, umbilical cord trailing from inside me to the child I just birthed.
I weep as I’m told I’m expelled for this unseemly, lewd display. But not because my rapist has effectively ended any chance of a successful life. No, I wept because I knew that he had bred another girl inside me. Another future victim for himself and people like him.
Someday, this innocent child will probably go through the same horrors I just did. And I couldn’t protect her. I couldn’t even protect myself.
I dreaded the inevitable day that my little girl came to her mother and told me she was pregnant. But until then… I could try. Just as I always had.