Teleporter Mishap, The

2:00 PM. THURSDAY.

Dr. Layla Holt had always been a woman ahead of her time. Unfortunately, that also meant her inventions tended to be ahead of the safety manual. Her latest experiment, the “Holt Quantum Matter Transporter,” was no exception.

The test was simple: stand in the shimmering arc of the teleporter, press the glowing blue button, and… step onto the beach in Gavà Mar, Spain half a planet away.

Or at least, that was the plan.

Layla stepped onto the transporter platform, took a deep breath, and hit the button. A low hum filled the lab, and a column of faint azure light enveloped her. She braced herself for that stomach-dropping whump of sudden displacement. There was a flicker of static in the air. And then... nothing.

She waited. Looked around. Still in her basement lab. Still surrounded by her cluttered desk, her posters of vintage sci-fi films, and the ever-growing pile of empty coffee mugs.

“Great. Months of work down the drain, again,” she muttered, stepping out of the circle and jotting Test #11: Failure in her notes.

And that was that.

---

8:00 PM. THURSDAY

Giving up for the day, Layla returned to her upstairs living room and made herself comfy. She sighed in relief as she took off her panties and tight bra, letting her B cups free as she donned a loose, white crop top, soft grey sweatpants, and nothing else. Layla poured herself a tall glass of cheap wine and nestled into her couch, skimming the channels on her TV to find something to turn her mind off to. Syfy looked promising, with a triple feature of Killer Klowns from Outer Space, Xtro and Attack of the 60 Foot Centerfolds.

Somewhere halfway through Xtro, she paused to stretch and noticed a dull, tight sensation in her midsection. She rubbed her stomach absently. “Ugh,” she mumbled, ignoring the faint firmness under her sweatshirt.

By the time Centerfolds was halfway over, the feeling had grown into a pressure—a fullness, like she’d eaten three big dinners. She pulled the blanket up to her chin, shifting around on the couch. “Gonna regret all that wine,” she grumbled, even as her belly quietly rose and fell, a fraction more taut with each passing minute.

When the credits rolled, she stood to grab another drink… and froze. Her sweatshirt clung just enough to reveal a rounded swell where her flat stomach should have been. Not huge. Not alarming. But… there.

She squinted down at herself. “Weird,” she muttered, patting the curve. Definitely bloated. “Must be the wine.”

Yawning, pleasantly tipsy, she switched off the projector and shuffled to bed.

---

2:00 AM. FRIDAY
The teleporter in the lab hummed faintly in standby mode. In the bedroom, Maren’s belly swelled another inch. Her breathing slowed into deep, oblivious sleep.

---

4:00 AM. FRIDAY
Her abdomen rounded further, the waistband of her sweatpants now pressing tightly. Layla stirred lightly in her sleep, uncomfortable, but still unconscious.

---

6:00 AM. FRIDAY
The pressure shifted subtly outward, her stomach now firm and full enough to make her blanket drape like a tent over her midsection.

Morning sunlight spilled across her face. Maren groaned, sat up, then stared down at herself.

Her belly was huge. Not grotesquely oversized, but smooth, firm, and undeniably large, like she was in the final weeks of pregnancy.

She staggered out of bed, clutching her distended midsection, and hurried to the lab.

“No, no, no!” she muttered, frantically tapping through her console’s logs. The readout was clear: the teleporter had been slowly cycling all night. But instead of sending her anywhere…

“…it’s sending air into me!?” Her eyes went wide.

She dashed to the platform, moving to hit the shutoff switch—

BUMP.

Her belly smacked a side lever, knocking from its position at level 3 to level 10. Her eyes darted toward the level's label, her heart sinking as she read: SIGNAL AMPLIFICATION.

The hum of the teleporter deepened. The glowing ring around the platform pulsed faster.

“Oh no!”

Her stomach pushed outward with a visible surge, swelling like a balloon with each beat of the teleporter’s thrum. In barely thirty seconds, she was beach ball round. Her crop top rode up, exposing the taut, pale curve beneath.

A minute later: yoga ball size. Her legs strained to keep balance under the load, each breath shallow from the growing pressure.

And then it spread. Her hips puffed outward, arms rounding as air filled them too. She staggered back, half-waddling, half-rolling, her limbs melting into her body until she was nothing but a glossy, taut sphere with her head perched on top.

“Gah! Shut… down…!” she wheezed, mashing the emergency code into the console with the tips of her fingers.

A slow, merciful countdown began: 5… 4… 3…

By the time the teleporter powered down, she was fully inflated, perfectly spherical, unable to move or speak—just sitting there, swaying gently in place.

The only sound in the room was the faint hiss of the air cycling out of the machine’s vents.

And the echo of her own rapid breathing inside her round, helpless body.