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At night the woods are dark and full of fearful things, but you must go to make your deliveries, to receive and take away from the homesteads and the farther neighbors. And so you take your red cloak around your shoulders, dark hair tumbling out from under the hood, and grip your basket tight as you walk out under the moonlight. The woods are full of long stretches of silence, the night peepers and singing insects having long since gone to bed themselves. Whispers of wind bring snatches of voices past your ear, and you struggle not to listen, to pay no mind to the soft wailing of wolves far distant. Do not listen, your mother told you, once. Not to the wailing of wolves, nor the hooting of owls- and never chase a light down into the swamp, nor eat fairy food. Lest you fall. You look up, and up, and up. Your fingers dig into the dirt, the holy symbol your mother made to keep you safe bouncing against your breast. You grit your teeth against how good it feels, the cool fall air rushing past your skin, nipples tight and dragging in the dirt as you muffle your cries.
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Unfortunately, it does not get easier, just different. This was the biggest one for me. In many ways, you yield some authority to the church. Don't expect this to be like the others. IE –≤ the comment about not having a husband to give priesthood blessings, etc. She might be everything you want, but in her eyes you are not what she has been dreaming of her whole life. Plan on knowing their religion better than they do at all times. They may need much more than casual contact with the church to see the truth in it. Marriage to the right person is wonderful. I hate to say it, but if you are serious, go explore her world.
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When we were dating he made it very clear to me that he had no desire to come back to church. Anyway, we've discussed marriage already. I think the LDS have been vastly over-simplifying that doctrine. I would think that a comprise between you getting missionary discussions and her reading the CES letter would be even. Ending sooner rather than later is much easier and less painful for everybody. See to it that she is aware of your plan, so you both can properly dress. Sadly, I'm not sure at this point. Then you complain when the polish of being married to a doctor wears off and you grow callused to the money and big house. I don't remember much of the breakup because it's been overshadowed by what happened to her afterwards. Not unless she thinks she can convert you.
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At night the woods are dark and full of fearful things, but you must go to make your deliveries, to receive and take away from the homesteads and the farther neighbors. And so you take your red cloak around your shoulders, dark hair tumbling out from under the hood, and grip your basket tight as you walk out under the moonlight. The woods are full of long stretches of silence, the night peepers and singing insects having long since gone to bed themselves.

Whispers of wind bring snatches of voices past your ear, and you struggle not to listen, to pay no mind to the soft wailing of wolves far distant. Do not listen, your mother told you, once. Not to the wailing of wolves, nor the hooting of owls- and never chase a light down into the swamp, nor eat fairy food.

Lest you fall. You look up, and up, and up. Your fingers dig into the dirt, the holy symbol your mother made to keep you safe bouncing against your breast. You grit your teeth against how good it feels, the cool fall air rushing past your skin, nipples tight and dragging in the dirt as you muffle your cries. You try not to look, you try, but the hands that grip your hips are so strong, the thick cock filling you past what you can bear- the chase that heated you so still racing in your blood.

The wild things have caught you, and claimed you, and they seem to sing in triumph as they leave you with dirty knees and damp thighs, breathless from release. You throw on your cloak again and hurry home, your path unmolested by man nor beast.

You lie, and when the sickness grips you in the morning, you hope it is merely bad festival buns. You confess your encounter, as much as you dare, to the village priest, and he gathers the eldest of the village to consult with.

Your face burns with humiliation, but a chill settles in the pit of your poor, bloated stomach- you know the stories, some folks have been burnt for less. Never here, no- but everywhere, one hears the tale of someone who knew someone who ran afoul of when the witch-finders came to town, some few villages over. I did not know him. Only that I met him in the deep wood, and I feel afraid- and I think it is more than the sin of being out of wedlock that chills me.

They make you strip down naked, kneeling down in the center of the small church. The doors are locked and barred shut, and the lights burn low as the old man and the old women confer. This is not something they want the rest of the village to know about.

They pierce you with a silver ring, to ward off the evil, and the priest prays holy words over your swollen womb. The babes leap inside you as you kneel, praying fervently and hoping, so desperately hoping, that you are heard. That the fire in your loins is only the rawness of the new ring, and not some new vileness having made you foul and wrong, to lust so after pain and desire. The priest seems satisfied. The village women leave you to dress, nodding to each other- though there are still whispers between their bent heads, having seen the frightful shapes of the things that pressed against your belly.

You throw your shirt on, buttoning with fumbling fingers over your swollen breasts, and hide under your red cloak the whole way home. Winter is hard that year- and still you must make your rounds, ferrying herbs here and there, retrieving coin where it is set, eggs and milk, and leaving the packages of medicinal plants and scented soap in their place. No one will say a word to you- they barely acknowledge your blushing cheeks and hastily hidden plumpness, your cloak clutched tightly around your growing form.

A harvest-festival bastard, you would confess tearfully, if they pressed. But no one ever does. You hear the wolves outside, sometimes, and shudder. You throw an extra piece of wood on the fire, though you can ill-afford it, and make sure the doors and windows are shut up tight. Still, when there is meat left at your door, steaming and red- you cannot refuse it.

Jack Sprat could eat no fat, his wife could eat no lean, they say. You eat both, and hunger still as your belly rounds and rounds and will not stay flat beneath your hand. Bread you can comfort it with, sturdy vegetables and apples saved in the cold cellar down below- but you cannot deny your cravings, when your mysterious caretakers deliver death unto your doorstep, raw and unbled.

A man was killed, the other day- you hear, and step out upon the path with your basket in hand, shivering. The winter draws long, and the wolves are hungry- you do not know what keeps you safe, as you walk along the wooded paths, but you know it is valuable and that you must make your deliveries, sweet lotions, liniments and herbs, and that when people know they are getting a service, they make very little noise about the righteousness of the person from whence it came.

Spring comes. Then summer. Your womb swells, filling up and up and up- the midwife in the village will not see you, turns away when you pass her by in the street at the market- but you know you are as big as a woman with two and three yet unborn. A litter, you think quietly, as you pass by dogs that growl at you, and children who run away from the hand that once gave them candy, mints and honey-drops to chase away colds. You are shunned, with your red cloak and your big belly full of harvest-bastard- except they know.

They all know, for you are that strange woman who lives on the edge of town, with no family and no man and no true guidance to keep you whole and human. You run your hand over the fullness that bulges out under your skirt, huffing and puffing as you walk, and hope that the miller will still have flour for you, if you hurry. The silver ring has done its work- the evil stays within you, and every full moon, you moan as the babes- the pups, you think of them- roll and thrash within you.

The howls echoing in the woods seem to draw them, yearning, against the skin of your belly- you press your hands there, and there, and feel hands, snouts, paws, pressing outward. You are long past when you should have birthed, you know, and though the ache rolls through you three nights of every month, hips and back screaming- your waters never break.

It holds the evil at bay- but it does nothing to make yougood again, holy and pure, and you know you are lost as your passage clenches emptily, begging to be touched. The wolves and wild things have made you theirs, and no matter how you try to hide it, no matter how hard you clutch at your red cloak, everyone can see the swollen curve, the mound of your belly, and knows your sin.

You worry, always, that this will be the night the villagers come for you, with pitchforks and fire- but they never do. They seem content to have washed you from their minds, that poor strange girl at the edge of the forest, far from their quaint little town- no one has visited you in months, none even come close enough by to see in weeks, and you know they have put you out of their minds as lost. You could have died in childbirth, been eaten by beasts, burned down with the cottage- and they would have nodded to each other, mouths tight.

And so you are alone, in the woods, with no one to come for you. No one to care. The forest has reclaimed this land, so far as the people of the village are concerned, and you with it. Thirteen moons. A full year since you last ran in the woods, breath fogging as you panted, light and fearful as a deer. You cannot sleep. You can barely walk. Your hips ache and creak, and when the bits of meat show up, you cannot refuse them, red gushing down your chin as you devour so hungrily, tears dripping from your eyes as you bolt it raw.

You rise from your bed, slow and ponderous, panting as you do- your womb is a great, distended thing, your belly is huge, and you think if the world was right, you would sprout extra teats along the protruding ridge of it. The cold air hits, and your nipples stiffen, painfully tight on your milk-swollen breasts as they tilt into the wind.

The trees are orange and black-barked in the night, and the branches sway and creak like your aching hips do as you waddle stiffly down the path, your enormous, moon-like belly leading the way.

The urge to run, to leap, on all fours hits you- and you laugh, because it is as ridiculous as expecting you to dance about the village square, as graceful as a maiden, in the vastly distended state you are in.

No- you will bring the wolf-king his children at your own, stolid pace, chafing fretfully at your arms and starting to shiver as the cool fall night caresses your bare skin. The howls come closer, and you think you see eyes in the shadows, watching you- escorting you.

A cow, fat with calf, would have been pulled down and torn to pieces by now- a villager, great with wholesome and human child, the same. You, swollen and ponderous as you are- you hold something sacred to them, and for that alone, they will stay. You come to a clearing, and the moon shines down- and the pups leap again inside of your belly, clutched and protruding from your cradling arms. The wolf-shapes circle, coming no closer, and the silver ring tingles and itches and burnsat the apex of your thighs as the cramps come heavy through you again.

You want their help, you cry out, unafraid that they might hear you- but they will come no closer. Not while that sacred ring keeps their pups sealed up in your belly, keeps their sensitive noses and paws well away.

You get down on your knees, settle into the grass with your thighs spread, and howl. The wolf-king himself lurks past the edge of the clearing, and you can hear himgrowl as you pant and beg. I will be torn to pieces, you think, either by them or by the long-delayed birth, and trembling, you reach down past the enormity of your belly.

The ring is there- you grip it tightly, clenching your teeth as you try awkwardly to bend the silver without tearing your tenderest flesh. It gives- you gasp in the sudden relief- and quick as thought, it is flung away into the trees, and they surge upon you. For a moment you expect teeth and bright pain and at long last, a silence to the constant struggle in your bloated womb. What you get is fur and noses and the warm bulk of bodies propping you up as you cry out, belly straining, your water breaking at last and running into the dirt below you.

Your heels dig into the ground, your arms looped around the necks of your new packmates, and their warm tongues sooth you as you moan and strain and cry, delivering at last. The pink, squirming things that emerge from between your thighs are picked up in hands that are huge and rough and furred, and set against your breasts two at a time, whimpering and suckling from your vast supply of milk.

Imagine your lover is a Naga. You agree, and the two of you spend the next couple of weeks trying your hardest to get pregnant. Sometimes you notice it getting larger even during the day. A sudden hard contraction hits you, and you feel a rush of wetness run down your legs. You call out to your mate, who slithers into the room and wraps his arms around you. He coils his long body at your feet, supporting you as you squat and strain.

You feel the first egg moving into position, a visible bulge moving down through your body. You lover holds you and rubs your belly with one hand, kissing you softly as his other hand reaches to spread your hole.

His fingers rub and caress you, making you cry out in pleasure. You feel the heads of his cocks poke your back and realize how turned on he is. He encourages you to push, and you feel the egg moving down as you do. You shift your legs apart, and you tell him the egg feels too large to come out.

He rubs your hips and encourages you to just relax and keep pushing. His other hand moves to grope your breast, helping keep you steady as he thumbs your nipple. You push, feeling yourself spread wider and wider around the egg.

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