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. 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. You throw on your cloak again and hurry home, your path unmolested by man nor beast. He encourages you to push, and you feel the egg moving down as you do. He rubs your hips and encourages you to just relax and keep pushing. He coils his long body at your feet, supporting you as you squat and strain.
Willa. Age: 21.
His fingers rub and caress you, making you cry out in pleasure.
Adelina. Age: 32.
You, swollen and ponderous as you are- you hold something sacred to them, and for that alone, they will stay. You see the bulge of the egg move into place, and you scream as you feel it inch toward your hole. You want their help, you cry out, unafraid that they might hear you- but they will come no closer.