Labor & Special Delivery, a fifty shades trilogy fanfic

There are two sides of the Force. I am the Light to the Dark.

An Anastasia Grey, one shot, fan fiction, snapshot event … by someone who is definitely not the troll

Labor sucks. Contractions every few minutes. Christian attempting to be supportive, but in reality is annoying. The nurses practically kissing my butt. And the doctors repeatedly sticking their fingers up my old birth canal trying to determine how many centimeters I'm dilated. All I want to do is scream at them, this is the United States, we use inches here, not the stupid metrics system.

Now, a dozen hours into labor and they want to give me an enema? Is nothing sacred? It's bad enough Christian is going to see me push a baby out my hoo-ha, but for the nurse to announce in front of him that she's going to basically force water up my butt to help me take the mother of all dumps is just mortifying. So much for future intimacy because defecation is a hard limit for Christian. I kick him out to go get something to eat because I intend to suffer this undignified injustice alone.

It's official, there's nothing worse than having a stranger shove a tube up your butt and fill your bowels with water. Then they have the audacity to tell you to hold it. Hold it? Really? Honestly? It's bad enough I spent the last few months waddling but now I have my buttcheeks clenched so tightly I walk like a fucking penguin, except the last thing I look is cute.

Ten minutes the nurse said, hold it for ten minutes. It feels like an eternity. The panic one feels when they need the bathroom but won't make it in time is setting in. It's all consuming. I know I'll hyperventilate and spew long before the ten-minute mark. Being anal retentive isn't my strong suit, it's Christians.

… waddle …

I pace before the bathroom door. I know I'm waddling but cut this chubby chick a break. I'm pregnant and on the verge of deflating, so I'll waddle thank you very much.

… waddle …

Two more minutes and I know I'm not going to make it. I'm bordering on hyperventilating. Tears are filling my eyes. FUCK THIS! I waddle my pregnant ass to the toilet, unceremoniously plopping myself down. My choice of words is ironic, I know. Finally I allow my colon to relax, releasing the wild pyro within me, and like the death star exploding, vader is spewed to safety, damaged, worst for wear and stuck on the upper side of the toilet to fester like a boil on society – filled with puss, reeking of infection, devoid of purpose, lacking originality, and most of all, trapped within it's own crusty shell and the madness that resides within.

And I, Anastasia Grey, now feel relieved.