The cute little blond-haired five-year-old was sitting on Santa’s knee in the grotto in the atrium of the Westvale Mall. As it was Christmas Eve, there was a substantial crowd cramming desperately into the shops and a line of mothers with their children queued to take their turns on the plump knee of the jolly white-bearded man. To one side, by the crimson velvet rope dividing Santa’s grotto from the milling crowds, a woman stood whose fond gaze showed her to be the mother of the blond-haired boy.

She looked every inch the successful female executive, her lustrous brown hair pulled severely back from her face and expensive glasses giving her a serious, capable image; the image of masculine efficiency betrayed only by the feminine fertility shown in the full, lush features of her face. But this fertility was revealed even more strongly by her clothes.

Above the beautifully-cut, pleated skirt in autumn brown she wore a simple stretch top in charcoal, a colour often favoured to disguise the curves of the pregnant body, but in this case nothing could hide the great, round, protruding abdomen of a woman far gone with child. The top was clearly specifically designed to accommodate the hugely swollen belly of a woman late in her third trimester, but even so it was visibly stretched thin and taut over the young mother’s enormous mound, her navel poking out hard and stretched beneath the straining fabric. She was very obviously close to producing a brother or sister for the young boy on Santa’s knee.

Helen sighed softly and shifted her feet. The great size of the babe within her became uncomfortably apparent these days if she stood still for long. After an initial exchange of words young Tom had sat a while in thought. Now he leaned towards Santa’s ear and whispered. Santa gave her a quick look, almost startled she thought, and then bent back to murmur to her little boy. Tom looked so cute perched there that Helen felt a tug at her heartstrings. Her, no doubt, hormonally charged heartstrings. Then she felt a tug somewhere else. A very firm sharp tug. It felt like her baby had planted its feet against the top of her womb and kicked her fiercely.

She gave a sharp gasp and clapped a hand to the upper surface of her swollen tummy stroking and soothing the pain there. But even as she did so she felt a cramping pain low down, deeply buried in her pelvis. She felt her face going red as she fought to control her breath. Her hips shifted awkwardly as she sought to relieve the intense cramping pressure. Her hands ran anxiously around the underside of her great belly. She could feel tension in the muscles there. She had been experiencing occasional cramps for a few days now. Her doctor had confirmed that they were nothing to worry about: she continued to hold her baby high in her abdomen. Her due date was a week away and she had planned carefully to finish all that she was working on by today and, once the family Christmas was out of the way (she was entertaining the in-laws this year), she had an appointment already booked at the hospital to be induced which would allow her to return to her desk very early in the new year.

Helen allowed herself to pant surreptitiously: “wwhhhhhhh … wwhhhhhhh …”

It seemed to help, the discomfort was now ebbing slowly. But that had been a definitely more troublesome incident than her other cramps to date.

“I must be overtired,” she thought. “I’ve been overdoing it. That must be it.”

She and Tom only needed to chose a present for daddy and then she could get home to a welcome bath. Tom was bouncing off the fat man’s knee and heading happily towards the exit. Taking a deep breath, Helen walked carefully to meet him. Helen was trying hard not to waddle as she walked hand in hand with her son through the mall. She was suddenly feeling quite warm and was conscious of a hot flush spreading over her features. Late pregnancy could do that, she knew.

“What do you think Daddy would like for Christmas?” She asked Tom. There was a pause.

“He could have the baby too—I wouldn’t mind.”

“The baby?”

“Yes. I told Santa Claus: all I wanted for Christmas was the new baby. I bet Daddy would like that too.”

“You told Santa what …?” Helen gasped, resting a protective hand involuntarily on her tightly swollen belly. “You can’t have … wwhhh … not for Christmas … wwhhhhh! … Tom! … Oooooohh! …”

All thought of chiding Tom forgotten, Helen was biting her lip and clutching her free hand to her uterus which had suddenly gone hard and sore. Her knees trembled and she stumbled a little, then pulled Thomas out of the traffic streaming by so she could sag gratefully against a storefront.

“Mummy?” he said, surprised.

“It’s nothing, darling …” she replied. “ … wwhhhhh! … wwhhhhh! … Mummy just got tired … wwhhhhh! … hhhooooo! … That’s all.” She rubbed at her burning tummy. The sensation was familiar. Only too familiar. “Only I can’t be starting yet,” she told herself, “I just need to sit down somewhere and take the pressure off my belly.”

Holding the hand of her young son, the troubled executive waddled slowly towards the toilets located in a side aisle behind the shops. Her knitted top felt suddenly very tight and she longed to flip it up to free her tensely swollen abdomen. Furthermore, with each step she felt an urgent pressure bearing down on her pelvic floor as if her fetus had already started its assault on the maternal cervix.

Thomas noted that his mummy seemed suddenly to be having some difficulty walking and her face was becoming quite flushed as if she was involved in something quite vigorous. He had been told that the new baby would come out of his mummy’s tummy and that the reason why he couldn’t watch was that it involved a lot of hard work for mummy.

“Is the baby coming already mummy?” he asked hopefully.

“What? … no .. Tommy … don’t say things like that!” Helen implored distractedly. “… OoohhHHoooo! … It’s happening again! … Ohh Tommy! …” she gasped.

A hard searing pain was spreading across the great curve of her belly and as her hand grasped at the designer top she could feel the muscles of her uterus rippling and hardening. She gripped her son’s hand fiercely.

“Quickly,” she hissed, dragging him into the nearest open stall in the women’s toilets.

“HHhhhaaaaaaarggghhh!! …” she groaned, doubling over the toilet basin with her arms wrapped around her convulsing tummy. She sank into a squat, her knees spread as far apart as her skirt would allow, anything to ease the terrible pressure she was experiencing, to make more room for the fetal head she could feel beginning to bulldoze its way into the narrow gap in her pelvic bones.

“HHhhhhaaaaaahhh! … HHhhhhaaaaaahhh! …” she panted urgently, trying to ride through the urgency of the contraction gripping her body like a vice.

“HHhhhhaaaaaahhh! … HHhhhhaaaaaahhh! … nnnnnggggghhh!! …” Her face contorted and her chin sank down to her chest a she realised she felt a desperate desire to push.

“Nnoooooooo!! … “ she moaned, “ HHhhhhaaaaaahhh! … HHhhhhaaaaaahhh! …” She flipped up the expensive charcoal top bearing her taut belly, all hard planes and bulges where it pressed tightly on the limbs of her child.

“HHoooooooo …” she puffed gratefully, bowing her head. It seemed that her spasm was ending. After several moments of panting recovery, Helen hauled herself up and plumped heavily onto the toilet seat. She pulled up her skirt and, with some difficulty, tugged down the beautifully styled panties she was wearing beneath.

This was the first time that Thomas had viewed the full, womanly sex of his mother. Beneath the taut protruding belly her parted thighs displayed a plump mound, thickly furred, with a gaping gash down the very peak of that plumpness, the lips seeming to be peeling apart to expose a clutter of moist, inflamed flesh within. Helen probed with slender fingers the gap that her young son was eyeing with such interest. She had to spread wide and still it was awkward to get her hand around the bulk of her straining abdomen and push questing fingers into her vagina. She could only get to the knuckle before feeling something very hard blocking the way.

“Ohh Tommy,” she panted, “I don’t think I can take many more like that. We need to get home and find Daddy.”

She stood, a little slowly and unsteadily, dragging her flimsy panties up under the flowing skirt. Together they walked out into the crowded concourse. With every step Helen suppressed a gasp at the urgency of the downward pressure that seemed to be pushing her pelvis apart. She winced as passers-by brushed against her hard, aching belly. She felt the tightness begin to build once more. Her free hand grasped ever more tightly the painful mound; cupping underneath it, trying to lift her baby’s massive, inexorable weight off her pelvic floor.

She let out an explosive gasp as the pain returned, building and building beneath her tight, sweat-dampened top. Her knees began to tremble and weaken as the fearsome pressure in her pelvic girdle pushed her thighs apart. She desperately needed to sit, and to spread. They were passing a furniture store, open onto the mall, brightly lit to entice in the passing shoppers and, at the very front of the store, a lounge suite. With a long low moan of pain Helen waddled awkwardly towards the store front and plumped her heavy, swollen body onto a brightly coloured, well upholstered two seater. Beneath her flowing skirt her hugely gravid belly bulged out: full, round and low between her bent, widespread thighs.

She was hot, red in the face and panting hard from the shock and her exertions. But the relief she sought from her travail was not to be found. In the process of sitting on the low couch she had buckled her body at the waist and drawn her shapely legs up to either side of her labouring belly. Immediately her tummy went rigid with a searing contraction. She was unable to suppress a high, keening moan as her pelvic bones creaked apart and the bony head of her babe wedged itself lower and lower in her womanly opening.

A crowd began to mill around, drawn by her cries and fascinated by the unexpected show. Helen flushed crimson with mortification as she was forced to lift her concealing skirt and tug desperately at her lacy panties. Before the gathering throng she pulled the flimsy garment down, stretching it with difficulty over the increasing gap between her parted legs, and exposed her hairy vulva. Once she had the panties over her knees and could freely stretch them wide she cried out again and clutched at her hard belly. The pain was surging back and this time she knew she had to push.

“HHHHHHNNNNGGhhhhhhhh!! … “ she groaned, “HHHhfffffffff! … HHHhfffffffff! … HHHHHHNNNNGGhhhhhhhh!!”

With that something gave inside and she felt a fountain erupt from her pouting pussy lips.

“HHOOooooooowwwww! …” she howled, and gasped for breath. Already the next contraction was upon her. She reached forward and grasped her buckled knees as she recalled doing when she had squeezed Thomas painfully into the world.

“HHHHHHNNNNGGhhhhhhhh!! …” she moaned again. “Ohh Lord!! … It’s coming! … HHHhfffffffff! … HHHHHHNNNNGGhhhhhhhh!!”

Now there were gasps from the crowd of shoppers as Helen’s nicely trimmed labia began to side apart and stretch into a gaping oval with the glistening, gooey curve of a small skull appearing in the gap. Her feet were flailing in the air, still tethered at the ankles by her damp lacy scrap of panties. Her face was scarlet and twisted with pain and effort. Her belly stood up hard and clenched with every awful contraction.

The baby slid back inside Helen’s straining vagina as her contraction subsided and then thrust mercilessly forward as she screwed up her face and howled with pain and pushed and pushed with the next one. With each driving thrust of her strong, healthy tummy muscles the baby’s head bulged further out, pressing her delicate bottom out in a vast, thinly stretched bowl, and widening her vulva to a hard, white-lipped ring. Now her cries were gaining a new element of pain and fear as the stinging agony in her labia warned her of the danger to her sensitive, over stretched womanhood.

She knew she mustn’t push too hard, must allow time for her abused tissues to accommodate the terrible diameter of her baby’s cranium. She forced herself to lean forward, to put her feet to the ground. She straightened her back and placed her hands on her lower thighs. She looked tearily around the fascinated crowd witnessing her most intimate moment. Then a last great contraction hit. Her flesh was forced apart and suddenly the babe was sliding, bumping and bruising her tender flesh as it gathered pace and popped free in a further gush of steaming fluid. With a shocked cry she reached her panicked hands down just in time to catch her newly born child as it shot out from her tortured vagina like a cork from a bottle.

Young Tom climbed onto the couch beside his trembling and panting mother.

“You did it Mummy! You did it!” he cried, clinging enthusiastically to her neck. “I knew you could!” That’s the best Christmas present ever!”