Heir, Part 9 (Patreon)

Story Directory: $5 Patrons
Story Directory: $10 Patrons
Story Directory: $20 Patrons

Story Schedule

Summary: Ian is the last in line to the throne, and the only way to pass down his family’s magic is by carrying an heir himself. Though the idea is  unpleasant to him, and in fact, unheard of, Ian enlists several witch  doctors and warlocks, who manage to get him in a state of pregnancy,  but he constantly miscarries. As he goes on without an heir, domestic  unrest grows, and the country is on the brink of a civil war. Ian's uncle enlists a unique warlock who utilizes both science and magic in  his procedures, and Ian soon finds himself more fertile than he’d  hoped or wanted. Contains: Male: pregnancy, breast expansion, butt expansion, weight gain.

Previous Chapter 

-

Ian awoke late in the morning, not feeling especially rested, but very luxurious, and…sore.

He groggily made his way to the large, standing mirror across his quarters, one heavy step forward at a time.

He was clutching some sheets around himself as he arrived at his pink, disheveled reflection.

The first thing Ian saw were his suspicions confirmed. His breasts had shot up at least a cup size. They rose and fell with his breaths, cleavage visibly protruding over where he feebly clutched his sheets. Eyes shutting, Ian unconsciously arched, his face twisting in discomfort. His skin was hot and sweaty and he felt so entirely…full. “Gods,” he whispered.

A hand touched his arm. Ian opened his eyes to see his advisor standing behind him in the mirror.

Derrin’s hand slid down Ian’s arm in a would-be soothing way, but the dam broke, any control relinquished because of Ian’s sheer sensitivity. His arms shook, sheets sliding lower, and the pair of plump, swollen nipples he hardly recognized began to squirt. Milk splattered right against the mirror. Ian cringed, disgusted with himself.

“I’m a damn cow,” he choked out.

Derrin hushed him. “You are perfect,” he countered. “A mother-to-be. A mother to many. Your body is suited impeccably for the task. You are perfect.”

Ian groaned. “It’s just so…full.”

Derrin came around and bowed to his chest, Ian’s eyelids fluttering as he was offered relief and pleasure.

-

Ian suspected that the more Derrin drank from him, the faster and more abundant that the milk came in. And the more milk that came, the bigger Ian grew. It was a vicious cycle, yet Ian found it intolerable to be so full. He tried to hold his milk longer, but this proved hardly functional or appropriate.

He was up yet another cup size when he held court a few days later. There was no hiding the cantaloupe-sized mounds heaving on his chest. He felt squashed on his father’s throne, squashed by his own belly, which was perched on his lap, shelving his breasts. He was a young man attached to this hyper-feminine figure, this shine of fertility. His robes covered every inch of his skin, but he was blatantly pregnant all the same. Pregnant and hot.

“The Curtis family sends the best of their harvest,” the clerk presented the latest offering, this one a whole wheelbarrow of fruit.

Ian tried not to fidget; tried to keep his discomfort to himself. He impassively regarded the provisions then gave a slight nod of his head. The guard carted the fruit to the side, where it joined the large piles of breads, pastries, and preserved meats that had already been gifted. Inevitably, Ian would find himself gorging it all in the coming days.

As always, a large crowd of citizens stood by, bearing witness to the offerings, exchanges, and appeals, many waiting for their own turns. Ian was just about to order the next man to stop forward, when something happened. He gave a quiet gasp.

He was leaking. Ian could feel it. His reddened as his surplus milk began to seep right into his clothing. And as the cloth got wetter, Ian’s swollen nipples grew more defined. His robes hugged even more closely against his chest. He wished he could control it, but every fraction of his flesh was full to the brim, packed with milk. As with pandora’s box, what had started could not be contained.

It happened spontaneously these days. He seemed to last only an hour or two before he was at capacity, and often he mistimed things. And finding some privacy every couple hours to try to — to release the burden, was hardly easy.

In the dim of the throne room and the candle lights, Ian thought that people might not notice, but by the murmurs that started up, it appeared that they had.

“This isn’t a king, it’s some breeding swine!” a man shouted in affront.

There were gasps and even a nervous laugh or two. Ian’s face went scarlet. He was too stunned to react.

“You dare address your prince in such a manner?” Derrin’s voice was thick with contempt. He stepped forward from where he stood beside Ian’s throne. “Seize that traitor,” Derrin addressed the guards.

Four guards immediately shoved their way into the crowd, grabbing hold of the man who had shouted. The man struggled, his face turning fearful.

The middle-aged man was dragged before the throne, then thrown against the cobblestone, face-first. He seemed to know what was coming, because he started crying. He had gone from a detractor to a child in only seconds. “Please my liege, I beg your forgiveness!” he entreated, but now Derrin was advancing. Ian tensed.

Derrin gracefully stepped down from the dais, grabbing a sword off a guard’s belt in the process. Then he raised it high.

“The punishment for treason is death.” Derrin brought the sword down, then all Ian saw was the blood—pooling on the floor; speckling Derrin’s clothes.

Ian was frozen in shock. He had never seen a man die before. It had never been his duty before now.

And so he sat there, eyes wide, breathing thinly, as milk continued to seep into his robes, and his babies fluttered around in his belly.

-

“Would your parents have done any differently?” Derrin asked him later that day, as Ian sat quietly in his quarters in an ornate chair, gazing absently at nothing.

Ian supposed not.

“I’ve disturbed you,” Derrin noted with a frown as he walked behind Ian, resting his hands on the prince’s shoulders. “Perhaps I was impulsive. I forgot how…new, you are to this. And in your condition, well – it’s not something you should have to see right now. Your entire being is focused on creating, feeding, nurturing, and growing. You are pure growth and fertility. You should not see death. Not now, at least.”

Ian flinched at the metallic hiss of Derrin drawing his dagger.

“But the people must fear the monarchy. They must know their place,” Derrin added. “If we allowed such insolence…”

Ian could feel the tension in Derrin’s hands as the older man took hold of Ian’s hair, which was pulled back in one long braid. Derrin gripped it tightly at the base of Ian’s skull.

“I hate to see things degrade. You’re vulnerable, my prince, and people see it. Things may only get worse after the babes. I will not give these peasants any excuse to misbehave. You have enough on your plate.”

Derrin started cutting through the braid with the knife. At the rate Ian’s hair was growing, he was sure to have enough hair to start a new braid in a couple of weeks. Derrin finished cutting through it, then regarded the thick lock for a while, like he might keep it. Finally, he tossed it aside. “Are you well, Ian?” Derrin asked, his voice more tender now.

Ian looked down, his hands cupping his belly, where they seemed to be continuously settled these days. He knew he had grown some since his arrival home only a week earlier. He could feel the tightness and pressure inside of him. It was a perpetual sensation. His growth was continuous. He was always so hungry and horny and huge.

There was a light knock on the door.

“Enter,” said Derrin, removing his hands from Ian’s shoulders as he nodded in greeting to the warlock.

“Prince Ian.” Turner bowed. “Are you ready for your exam?”

“I will give you to some privacy,” said Derrin, then he departed without ceremony.

It was atypical. Derrin usually preferred to stay Ian wasn’t going to protest.

“You’ve changed quite a bit, haven’t you, my prince,” Turner noted as he waited, arms folded behind him. He nodded slightly to the bed.

With a frown, Ian got his feet, resenting the amount of effort it took to do so. He then wobbled over to his bed, where he reclined against the pile of pillows that had been arranged there so that he was lying back but still upright enough to be comfortable.

He would have never consented to this whole experiment had he known how drastic it would turn out — five babies for godsakes. But then Ian thought of the alternatives. The collapse of the monarchy. The loss of the kingdom his parents had guided, and ruled so lovingly. And all the lives that would be lost to civil unrest. Even Ian knew he wasn’t that selfish. He still hated what he had become. This disgraceful jester of a man. He wasn’t even allowed the luxury of doing it in secrecy. Gelt needed a leader.

“Where are your foul tools?” Ian inquired as Turner came over to survey him.

“Your highness, you are brimming with magic. It’s overflowing you. This shouldn’t be hard.” He held up his hands. “Do you mind?”

Ian hesitated then slowly pulled his tunic up over his abdomen. He gave a slight incline of his head.

As Turner laid his hands on his swell, Ian’s face twisted. It felt invasive and unpleasant, yet the magic thrummed in acceptance, gently curving to the warlock’s whim.

Turner pulled back abruptly, eyes wide and bright with astonishment. “Why — I have never — there’s another fetus!”

“What?” said Ian.

“You have developed — what were five are now six. Six babies.”

Ian was horrified. “No,” he protested. “No, that couldn’t — how?”

“Magic work in miraculous ways.”

That was not an adequate explanation. Ian swore under his breath as he looked down at his huge belly. He looked beyond capacity. He looked like he should have given birth two months ago.

Anxiety surged, his breathing thinning. “They’re just multiplying, then?” said Ian in panic. “And you just – you just act like it’s not a big deal. Like you couldn’t care? Because it’s not happening to you, it’s happening to me.” Ian’s voice was raising.

“Ian, you must calm yourself.”

“Don’t patronize me, witch,” Ian snapped. Then his milk started to seep, and it was humiliating. How could he expect anyone to take him seriously? He was a veritable mess.

Ian pressed his lips for a moment, afraid that his voice would crack if he kept speaking. Turner was looking at him in pity, and it just made everything all the worse.

“Derrin looks well,” Turner said gently. “The two of you are getting along I expect?”

Turner was usually professional to indifferent. He never inquired about anything personal. Ian looked at him, perplexed.

“There’s…something you must know,” Turner said.

Then he told Ian the truth about his condition.

-

He really was just a joke.

An object. A thing to be used and manipulated continuously for the gain of others.

Ian sat stiffly in his quarters. The wardrobe door was flapping, grinding its bolts out. The fur on the rug was standing and twitching, while the water in the glass at his bedside was steadily evaporating. Ian was sitting tensely on the edge of his bed, his mind reeling with growing fury.

His magic was so potent now. But then, he was carrying six magical babies. This level of concentration was unprecedented, and the magic was getting quite hard to control now. Particularly when he was agitated. He needed to relax.

Then Derrin walked in without invitation, like he owned the place. He certainly thought he did. “Turner informed you,” Derrin blurted, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “Right. Well, I know it isn’t ideal —”

“You lied,” Ian said.

“I simply withheld the truth,” Derrin argued. “I just wanted…things to proceed, safely. Conception had failed so many times with other donors. And you were going through so much, physically. You still are.”

“You planned this,” said Ian, irritated that tears were forming in his eyes.

“Is it not as your parents would have had it? Who else but me?”

“I used to have swarms of admirers,” Ian snapped. “Any lad or lady I wanted. I used to be strong, and fast—handsome.”

“You still are, Ian.”

“I’m just your breeding bitch.” Ian gave a bitter laugh. “You made a mockery of me. This is humiliating.”

“You are not mine.”

“You are nothing,” Ian spat. “How dare you. An underling. I could’ve had anyone I wanted.”

“All the same, this was the best course. It wasn’t personal. It wasn’t to hurt you. It was the best course.”

They were Derrin’s babies. Derrin’s six babies.

“I’m just some joke,” Ian choked out, glaring at his belly.

Ian startled as a hand rested on his cheek. He looked up, surprised by how close Derrin had come to be.

“Sorry I lied, Ian. I think you are magnificent. The entire country lives and feeds on your magic. If you did not bless the lands, the people would starve. And if you did not lead, we all would suffer, terribly. You liken yourself to a dog, yet you are the sun. I am scum on the floor, but even I cannot taint magic as fiery as yours.”

Ian huffed, unintentionally smiling a little, but he bit it away.

“And a joke, you are not,” Derrin added.

Ian cupped the hand on his cheek. “Don’t lie to me again.”

His magic wasn’t any less restless, yet it had changed. It thrummed around him in tendrils of warmth and desire. He felt drawn to Derrin, even though he wanted to be angry. It flowed through his veins. Ian and the magic were one and the same.

“You feel amazing,” Derrin murmured, clearly enthralled as his eyes closed, even as their solitary point of contact remained Derrin’s palm cupped between Ian’s hand and cheek. The heat swallowed them, and their lips met.

All that mattered next was contact. Contact, heat, contact, connection.

Clothing was shoved aside, the two becoming a tangle on the bed, as Derrin kissed every inch that he could find of him.

“This is perfect,” Derrin muttered as his body claimed Ian’s. “You are perfect. You are singular. The breeder of magic. You’re saving it, preserving it.”

Ian groaned. He was on all fours, one hand gripping the headboard, enduring as his prostate was battered, drawing him all the way to the cusp. He was getting close. And he could feel the tension in Derrin’s body as both rapidly ascended towards climax.

“You are pure creation,” Derrin rambled on, drunk with pleasure. “Doing the will of the gods and the kingdom. Your magic’s amazing. I want more…want to fill you with more. Want you to be full of magic, of our children.

And so did Ian’s magic. It latched onto the words; the possibilities. And the magic wanted it, desperately. To multiply; proliferate.

Derrin came.

Ian’s mouth opened wide as a sharp surge of pleasure lanced his core. He was hardly cognizant of his own orgasm, he just felt his spine arching so hard it was painful, his nipples squirting and his mind going white.

Soon accompanying the crashing, euphoric waves, was an underlying pressure in his naval, then his belly started to stretch. “Errggghh…”

It inched forward, filling him beyond tightness, beyond capacity, as Ian whined in pleasure, pain, and protest. One of his hands instinctively shot back, looking for Derrin’s.

But Derrin was holding Ian’s growing flanks as the mass grew in pulses under his fingers.

“Nrrrggghhhhhh…gaaaAHHHHH—!” Ian clutched his own mouth lest the guards burst in. “Godddds…fuhhhh—!” Ian groaned and panted. “Hahh…hahhh…hoo…” He struggled to breathe as it finally stopped, or slowed enough to be tolerable. He sunk back against Derrin, gasping for breath, completely boneless. Ian fidgeted and groaned, then resigned any attempt to move. He felt tight to bursting. So he whimpered and gripped what he could reach of Derrin’s shirt as stray tears clouded his vision.

Derrin cradled him gently, offering indecipherable, comforting murmurs as Ian’s eyelid’s sank.

Just a dream, Ian decided as he passed out.