It’s an old and respected tradition for your people that every female, at the time that she should lay her eggs, should return to the beach where they were hatched and continue the cycle of life in such a way. You just never realized how far away that beach was or else you might’ve started swimming in that direction some time ago—not when you were already in labor.
You can taste that you’re close in the current as your fins move desperately behind you to push you and your heavy clutch of eggs through the water. A contraction makes you stutter, faltering for just a moment, but it isn’t so bad yet. Besides, you’ll be there soon at the beach where you were hatched and you can deliver your eggs without a problem.
When you get to the beach, though, a few hours later when your contractions are far harsher and closer together, you’re confused. It’s definitely the right beach—the sand and the rocks and the water all feel and taste the same as they did years ago, the location firmly imprinted in your mind—but there arepeople. Humans. Dozens of them. They noisily splash about and laugh out loud and tan on their stomachs and pile sand into strange shapes.
I can’t give birth here, you think and you begin to swim around to find somewhere more deserted, but tradition and the sudden tightening in your belly demand otherwise. An egg descends into place to press against your cervix and you have no choice but to birth it here… people or not.
So, you surface in a place with fewer people and you hope that they will ignore or somehow understand to leave you alone as you dig your hands into the sand and crawl onto the beach—looking as much like a beached whale as you possibly could with your heaving stomach with hundreds of eggs at your side. The first egg pushes free with your next hard contraction as you bear down, pushing it out as quickly as you can, and it lands in the sand, looking like a white and polished stone, just a bit bigger than your fist. You throw your head back and groan lowly in distress as another egg immediately takes its place.
But now you’ve drawn a crowd.
You’re a creature the humans have never seen before, somehow human and yet, by your lower half and the immense load of eggs that you bear, clearly not human enough. They gather around you with their strange devices held up and there are flashes of light as they take pictures. You hate it, you want to curl up in a dark cave and birth your eggs in privacy, and you protectively try to keep your hand around your brood that slips out of you one by one, but you’re in too much pain and too large to move anywhere else and soon there are too many eggs for you to try to protect and too many humans around to keep an eye on them all.
A human reaches out and takes an egg and you screech, clicking and demanding in your own language that they mustn’t touch it, but they’re mesmerized, too curious not to touch and study, and they begin to pass it around as you watch in horror, certain that your brood is in danger and completely helpless to stop them so long as you are in your seemingly unending labor.
A male of the humans kneels down beside you and inappropriately strokes your dorsal fin in curiosity, making you moan and shiver, and another pair of hands lands on your shuddering belly as if they could tell by touch just how many there must be left within you. Hundreds, at least. They talk in their strange tongue while you moan, another touch to your fins making you gasp. Their hands are all over you, touching and exploring and, no matter how much you wish you could tell them to stop, to let you birth your clutch in peace, you’re soon birthing your brood right into their greedy palms.
There are groups of people showing up to see you now, but that’s the least of your new worries… There’s something odd occurring with the humans that has caught your attention, particularly with the females. They gather around and take hold of the eggs in front of them, caressing them and holding them to their little breasts. They seem in a daze, their actions not their own, and they greedily hoard collections of five or six eggs to themselves as if they were their own.
Then, one young woman pulls her bikini bottoms to the side, exposing her dripping wet vulva, and she crouches down on top of her own collection of youreggs, moaning and rubbing her breasts in ecstasy as she descends and takes the egg inside of her. Then another. Then another. Her womb is soon swollen with your eggs and she’s caught the attention of nearly every curious eye by the time she has consumed every of her six eggs… and then it becomes a frenzy.
Every woman begins to do the same, a hypnotic sort of state overwhelming their consciousness as they tear off their clothes and begin to push the eggs deep inside of themselves, and the men are beside themselves for what to do. Soon you have a line of eager, insistent hands at your opening and on your belly, helping you push and get every last egg out—and then the egg is immediately pressed inside of the next waiting woman.
When your hundreds of eggs have been birthed, it’s been nearly a whole day, the sun has set, and every woman who comes to see the spectacle has waddled away an extra twenty or so pounds heavier and in a daze, their male counterparts hovering and blabbering some worried words for their health and sanity that fell on deaf ears.
You crawl back into the sea when you’re done, your body hundreds of pounds lighter than before, and your brood safely nested in the bodies of your dozens of human surrogates.