Christy McNamara shifted her weight from one swollen ankle to the other, the heat of the asphalt seeping through her worn sandals. At twenty-two and six months pregnant, she hadn't planned on hitchhiking through farm country, but plans had a way of unraveling. Her cotton sundress - once loose and flowing - now curved around her growing belly, the fabric dancing against her skin with each passing truck that failed to slow. She extended her thumb again, determination outweighing the fatigue etched across her face.

The final straw had come that morning in her dingy apartment back in Millford, a speck of a town where dreams went to die. Her ex, Chad, had shown up unannounced, reeking of cheap beer. "You think you can just keep my kid from me?" he'd snarled, cornering her against the kitchen counter. It wasn't the first time - he'd cheated with her so-called best friend months ago, right after the positive test, then bailed with a excuse about "needing space." But today, he'd grabbed her wrist hard enough to bruise, demanding she "come back and make things right." She'd kneed him and run, grabbing only her backpack and the cash from under the mattress. Now, out here on this dusty road, the throb in her wrist matched the ache in her feet, and a flicker of doubt crept in: What if trusting a stranger is even riskier than staying? But the baby kicked softly inside her, a reminder that she had to keep moving - for both of them.

The hormones had turned her into a sexual powder keg, amplifying every sensation. The rumble of engines vibrated through her core, the breeze teasing her sensitive nipples beneath the thin fabric. Chad had been useless in bed - selfish thrusts that left her unsatisfied even before the pregnancy heightened her cravings. Now, her body thrummed with need: breasts plumper and more tender, her pussy perpetually slick and aching for real connection. She craved a man who could match her fire - someone tender, not rough like Chad, the kind who listened before he took. Someone she could guide, seduce, and lose herself with, pregnancy and all.

Cars zipped by, most drivers averting their eyes or accelerating, as if a pregnant hitchhiker screamed trouble. Christy wiped sweat from her brow, her long auburn hair sticking to her neck in the humid air. Exhaustion weighed on her, the pull of her belly straining her lower back, but a fierce hunger burned beneath it all - a primal urge for touch, for passion that Chad never provided. The doctor had explained it clinically: increased blood flow, hormonal surges. But Christy knew it was deeper: a reclaiming of her body, her desires, after betrayal.

A silver pickup truck slowed, pulling over with a crunch of gravel. The driver, a man in his late-40s, rolled down the window. He had kind eyes, a gentle smile, and a face framed by stubble that suggested he worked with his hands - maybe a carpenter or a mechanic. Broad shoulders strained against his flannel shirt, and his arms looked strong, capable. Christy's pulse quickened. He was handsome in an unassuming way, the type who probably helped old ladies with their groceries and never raised his voice. Perfect. So fucking perfect.

"Everything alright?" he called, window rolling down. His voice carried a slight country lilt. "Seems like a rough day to be thumbing rides." His eyes flickered to her belly, concern rather than judgment crossing his features. "Especially for a girl in your position."

Christy's heart raced, a flush creeping up her neck - not just from the heat, but from the spark of attraction. She sauntered over, letting her hips sway just a little extra, her sundress riding up to tease a glimpse of thigh. Up close, he smelled faintly of sawdust and clean soap - masculine, grounding, like fresh-cut pine on a rainy day. She leaned against the truck door, giving him a view of her cleavage, her breasts heaving slightly with each breath. "I'm managing, but a lift to the next town would help. Name's Christy. You?"

"Mark," he said, hesitating for a moment before unlocking the door. His eyes flicked briefly to her belly again, then back to her face, polite and nonjudgmental. But there was a flicker - a quick glance that lingered on her curves, betraying interest. "Hop in. I'm heading that way anyway."

As she climbed into the passenger seat, Christy made sure to brush her hand against his arm accidentally-on-purpose, feeling the warmth of his skin and the subtle flex of muscle. A spark shot through her, straight to her core. The truck smelled like pine air freshener and fresh coffee, comforting and homey, with a faint undercurrent of varnish that hinted at his work. Mark glanced at her belly once more but didn't comment, just offered her a bottle of water from the cooler between the seats. "You look like you could use this. How far along are you?"

"Six months," she replied, taking a sip and letting her eyes linger on his strong jawline, the way his hands gripped the steering wheel - firm but not aggressive. God, he was sweet. Too sweet. She imagined those hands on her body, tender at first, then firmer as she guided him. Her mind teased at the edges of fantasy, but she held back, savoring the buildup as the truck rumbled back onto the highway, the vibration humming through the seat and straight to her aching pussy.

"You alright? You seem a little flushed," Mark said after a few minutes of comfortable silence, glancing over with genuine concern.

Christy blinked, forcing a smile, her cheeks indeed burning. She crossed her legs, the friction against her damp panties sending a fresh wave of heat through her. "Just the heat. Thanks for the water - it's helping." She took another sip, her thoughts wandering to how that water could be something else, something saltier, thicker. Not yet, she told herself. Build it slow. Inside, vulnerability tugged at her: He's a stranger. What if he's like Chad? But his lilt, his concern - it felt different. Safe.

He nodded, pulling back onto the highway with a smooth acceleration. "I couldn't just leave you out there. Where you headed exactly?"

Christy leaned back, her dress riding up slightly to reveal more of her smooth thighs. She watched him steal a glance, then look away politely, his cheeks tinting pink. "Nowhere specific. Just away from my ex. He... he cheated on me with my best friend when I told him about the baby. Grabbed me this morning, tried to drag me back. I got away, but..." She trailed off, letting a hint of her vulnerability show, her voice softening. "Figured I'd start fresh. What about you? Live around here?"

Mark relaxed a bit, launching into easy conversation. "Yeah, got a cabin not far off. Work as a carpenter - build furniture, fix up houses. Keeps me busy and out of trouble." He chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated through the cab. It was the laugh of someone who'd been hurt too - his divorce, he mentioned briefly, from a woman who craved city lights and left him feeling like a relic in the countryside. But he didn't dwell; instead, he asked about her hobbies, drawing out that she loved reading old romance novels and sketching wildflowers, traits she'd tucked away during her toxic relationship.

They chatted lightly as the miles rolled by, the sun dipping lower, painting the sky in oranges and pinks. Christy shared just enough about her life to seem vulnerable - small-town boredom, Chad's controlling rages - while subtly flirting, laughing at his jokes, touching his arm when emphasizing a point. Her arousal simmered, building with each glance he stole at her curves, each kind word that fell from his lips. By the time they approached his turnoff, she was slick with need, her body primed and ready.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Mark said softly, his voice full of genuine empathy as she finished venting about Chad. "If you need a place to crash for the night, I've got a spare room at my place. It's nothing fancy - but it's clean and safe." He hesitated, his hands tightening on the wheel. "I... I don't usually pick up hitchhikers. Especially not someone in your... condition. But you seem like you need a break."

Christy's pulse quickened. This was easier than she thought, but doubt flickered: He's too nice. What if I get attached? "You'd do that for a stranger? You're too kind, Mark."

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just trying to help. No strings attached."

Oh, there'd be strings, Christy thought, her mind suddenly exploding with fantasies. She shifted in her seat, her inner walls fluttering at the delicious twist of his innocent words. Strings, yes, but not the kind he meant. She imagined strings of spit and saliva dangling from her lips as she sucked his cock down her throat, taking him deep until she gagged, the thick strands stretching like obscene links connecting her mouth to his shaft. Drool spilling over her chin, dripping onto her plump pregnant belly, mixing with sweat as she bobbed her head faster, urging him to fuck her face tenderly at first, then deeper.

The fantasy escalated, her breath hitching as she stared out the window, pretending to watch the passing fields. Later, after she'd swallowed part of his load, she'd beg him to come inside her - threads of cum shooting into her aching pussy, filling her until it overflowed in pearly lines, leaking out in viscous strings that she'd rub into her skin. More on her pregnant belly, warm ropes splattering across the firm swell, dangling and dripping down the curve where the baby kicked, marking her as his. And her face - god, yes, blasting across her cheeks, her lips, even her eyelids, thick strings hanging from her eyelashes like erotic jewelry before she licked them clean, tasting him while smiling up at those kind eyes. The thought made her nipples stiffen against her dress, her clit pulsing with need. Pregnancy had made everything more intense - the sensitivity, the wetness, the sheer hunger. She pictured Mark's tender hands tracing those pearly strings, spreading his seed like a claim, his voice soft even as he gave in to her desires.

By the time they pulled up to his cabin, Christy was desperate for release, her fantasies leaving her on the edge. Mark was oblivious, still the perfect gentleman, but she could see the spark in his eyes - the way he glanced at her lips or the curve of her belly. This was going to be fun.

Mark's cabin was nestled in a wooded area, a cozy two-bedroom setup with a wraparound porch, a small workshop and a view of a small lake shimmering under the fading sunlight. It was exactly as he'd described - nothing fancy, but inviting and well-kept. The exterior was made of logs, with wildflowers dotting the yard and a gravel path leading from the workshop to the front door. Inside, the air smelled of aged wood and faint traces of varnish, evidence of his carpentry work, mixed with the earthly scent of the forest outside. There were no frilly decorations, no signs of a woman's touch - just practical furniture, a stone fireplace, and tools neatly organized on a workbench in the corner. It felt like a sanctuary, far removed from the chaos she'd left behind - Chad's angry shouts echoing in her old apartment, the bruise on her wrist a fading reminder.

Mark carried her small backpack inside, ever the gentleman, and showed her around with a shy smile. "Kitchen's through here - fridge is stocked if you're hungry. Living room, bathroom down the hall. And this is the guest room." He pushed open the door to a simple space with a queen-sized bed, fresh linens, and a dresser. "It's not much, but it'll do for the night. Help yourself to anything. I'll whip up some dinner - pasta okay?"

"Perfect," she said, flashing a smile that was equal parts grateful and flirtatious. Her body still hummed from the fantasies that had flooded her mind during the ride, those vivid images of messy threads marking her pregnant form. The ache between her legs hadn't faded; if anything, being in his space, surrounded by his scent, only intensified it. But doubt lingered: He's offering a room, no expectations. Can I really trust this? She needed a moment alone to compose herself - or maybe to stoke the fire a little more, to remind herself of her own power after Chad's control.

As Mark headed to the kitchen, Christy slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. The room was modest but clean: white tiles, a clawfoot tub, and a large mirror over the sink that reflected her fully. She turned on the faucet, splashing cool water on her face to wash away the road dust, but her eyes were drawn to her reflection. Slowly, she peeled off her sundress, letting it pool at her feet, followed by her damp panties. Standing there naked, she took a deep breath and really looked at herself, admiring the changes pregnancy had wrought on her body.

Six months in, she was a vision of fertile sensuality. Her once-slender frame had blossomed into lush curves that made her feel powerful, desirable in a way she'd never experienced before. Her breasts, previously a modest C-cup, had engorged to full, heavy Ds. Her skin was taut and veined faintly in blue, stretched to accommodate the fullness, and her areolas had darkened to a deep rose, spreading wider around nipples that were continually erect, hypersensitive from the hormonal surge. They poked out prominently, begging for touch, and even the cool air of the bathroom made them tingle. Below, her belly was the star of the show - round and firm, protruding in a perfect arc that started just below her ribcage and curved outward, the skin smooth and glowing with a faint sheen of sweat. A dark linea nigra ran down the center, bisecting the swell, and inside, she could feel the occasional flutter of movement, a reminder of the life growing within. It was a testament to her body's transformation, making her hips wider and fuller, her ass plumper and more inviting, with stretch marks like delicate tiger stripes along her sides - marks she traced with pride, not shame. Her thighs had thickened too, soft and strong, leading to a pussy that had changed as well: the lips plumper, more engorged, perpetually flushed from increased blood flow, and always a little wet these days. Her skin overall had a radiant glow, softer and more sensitive, every nerve ending alive. Pregnancy had amplified her sexuality, turning her into a goddess of desire, her curves begging to be worshiped.

Christy's breath quickened as she stared, her hands drawn to explore. She started with her breasts, cupping them gently from below, feeling their weight in her palms. They were so plump, so sensitive - the slightest squeeze sent a jolt of pleasure straight to her vagina. She rolled her nipples between her fingers, pinching lightly, imagining Mark's tender mouth there instead, sucking with that careful reverence she'd sensed in him. A soft moan escaped her lips, but she held back, not wanting to tip over the edge just yet. Her hands trailed downward, over the curve of her belly, caressing the taut skin in slow circles. She felt the warmth radiating from within, the subtle kicks responding to her touch, and it only heightened her arousal - this body, changed and powerful, was hers to command. Chad never saw me like this, she thought. He never worshipped what I am.

Lower still, her fingers danced along her inner thighs, teasing the soft flesh before reaching her pussy. She parted her legs slightly, watching in the mirror as she traced the outer lips - plump and slick with arousal. They were warmer than usual, engorged from the hormones, and she dipped a finger between them, feeling the silky wetness coat her skin. Not penetrating, just stroking the sensitive folds, parting them to expose her clit, which throbbed under the attention. She circled it lightly, then slid back to the lips, tugging gently, imagining those strings from her fantasies - spit and cum mingling with her own juices, dripping down. The sensation was electric, building a delicious pressure, but she stopped short, breathing heavily, her reflection showing flushed cheeks and heaving breasts. Not yet, she thought. Save it for him. Her pussy ached with need, lips tingling from the touch, but the tease only made her hornier, priming her for what was to come.

Satisfied with her little ritual, Christy rinsed off quickly in the sink, then slipped into a fresh tank top and shorts from her backpack. The tank was thin and white, clinging to her curves, and she skipped the bra on purpose, letting her hard nipples poke through the fabric. The shorts hugged her wide hips and full ass, riding up just enough to show off her thighs. She ran a hand through her hair, tousling it for that just-rolled-out-of-bed look, and headed to the kitchen, her body buzzing with anticipation.

Dinner was simple but delicious - spaghetti with marinara, garlic bread, and a fresh salad, the savory aroma of garlic and tomatoes filling the cabin. Mark had set it up on the porch, the evening air cooling as fireflies danced in the dusk, their lights twinkling like stars against the darkening woods. They ate side by side at a small wooden table Mark made himself. He asked about her life, listening intently without judgment, his kind eyes focused on her as she spoke. He shared a bit about himself: divorced two years ago after an amicable but painful split - his ex, Lisa, had craved the urban buzz, leaving him and his quiet life behind. "She said I was too rooted, too simple," he admitted with a wry smile. "But I like the rhythm here - working with wood, hearing the lake at night."