Heir, Part 10 (Patreon)

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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

-

His belly was huge. It looked the size of a beach ball!

He was only one man and so much stood on his shoulders. On his torso. Ian gasped for breath, dizzy and flushed as Derrin’s hands tenderly stroked his swollen flanks. The mound heaved and quivered. Gods, it was tight!

“We are compatible, Ian,” Derrin said, holding him from behind.

Even through the daze, there was the warmth that came with that statement. Not just emotional, but Ian could feel his magic trying to soothe. There was pleasure, desire, and the need for more. Yet it conflicted sharply with the writhing, simmering panic. Which would win out? Ian was still gasping, panting like a dog.

He was stuffed tight and uncomfortable, the babies confined. And there was so much magic, it was disorientating.

Ian’s hands joined Derrin’s which were cradling him reverently. As Ian laid his fingers on the face of his belly, Derrin cupped the sides while peppering Ian’s neck and shoulders with loving kisses. Ian puffed out thin breaths, sweating as the mound pulsed. He tried to get his magic to settle down. “Gods,” he choked out.

-

The artist gave a frustrated huff. “You keep changing!”

“Pardon me?” said Ian, his hand trying to soothe the shifting unborns perched against his lap. He was breathing heavily, his body hot.

“Well the–” the artist motion vaguely. “The pregnancy. I’m going to have to start over!”

Ian gritted his teeth. “Be assured, I am going to continue to – change,” he said with a grimace. “So you’re going to have to figure something out, because I will not have my time wasted.”

The artist frowned, twisted his lips, and started to fiercely paint, scrawling over what he had done, making Ian’s image – larger, Ian supposed, as Ian sat there, breathing, trying not to plunge into the panic he was feeling. He tried not to fight the stress, pain, and pressure that littered his body. He could only accept. There was nothing left to be resistant of.

He was justhuge. People were enamored by any glimpse of him. Always stilling and staring, gazing at him in fascination, sometimes wanting to touch him, or his belly, to make some fractional contact with his being. The whole kingdom was buzzing. All were obsessed with the prince’s pregnancy.

-

The portrait was finished within the week and it was not the least bit flattering. Ian stared at the grossly distended globe practically taking over the painting. He couldn’t actually look like that, could he? The man in this picture was a damn whale!

And so too was the chatter unflattering. Across the land were discussions of the “Pregnant Prince,” and the “Mother of Mothers.” “Mother Prince” was particularly disheartening. The palace was seeing more visitors than ever before. People from faraway lands wanted to see the miracle themselves. And this was truly becoming Ian’s reputation, because he had never done anything as noteworthy and probably never would. He would go down in history as the pregnant prince rather than anything else.

-

His whole life revolved around his pregnancy. The mass was constantly hot and pulsing, full and straining. It throbbed and heaved, overtaking his body, crushing into his being. It was just so heavy.

And Derrin was always fucking him and feeding him. He and Turner were very much in cahoots. They were trying to make them as big as possible. Fattening him like a pig. A hive queen. A breeder for magic.

But then they would reassure him. Tell him how special he was. They spoke of how strong and rich the line would be. They said that it would be the most abundant and full the kingdom had ever been. Ian would no longer be part of a dying breed. He would have many heirs, and a full-line for centuries to come.

Ian was just sweaty, flustered, and overwhelmed with it all. He was so conflicted, he knew not how to feel.

-

Yet he couldn’t fight the magic, swelling and taking over him. It was so potent. The magic was overwhelming, and he could only follow its will.

The press was going mad. There were illicit images of him, discussions of his eating habits, and questions of how many he was carrying. Most papers spoke of the absurdity of his size, and claimed a ludicrous rumor about him refusing to give birth and relinquish the young—which was absolutely ridiculous. Rather, it was the contrary.

Ian was so ready for this to be over. He didn’t think he could take anymore.

“I feel that they’re — quite grown. Sufficiently, I mean.” Ian was exhausted. This wasn’t the first time he had pestered Turner about ending things. Yet most of his requests were left ignored. He wanted these things out of him. He could sense that they were ready; good and ripe, and restless. It was time for them to be born. The magic was getting so strong, he needed an outlet. He felt like he might burst.

“Your time will come, my liège, but patience is critical,” Turner always responded.

-

Flustered and miserable, Ian found himself again hosting court, which seemed more of a political ploy for him to be shown off. There had been unrest in one of the cities, and it was his job to distract and appease. By then, Ian could barely walk, his stride a trudge; a wobbly stagger. He attempted to look happy as he greeted his people.

Ian suffered the entertainment—dancers, jesters, poets and actors. As uncomfortable as it was when he was on his feet, it felt equally awful to be seated there, squashed in the throne, as though he belonged there even though he had clearly outgrown it. He did not fit and it hardly suited him.

Yet the crowd was joyous, singing him praises, looking for any opportunity to show their love and appreciation. There were still those who found Ian to be an abomination, but clearly they kept quiet or simply were not in his company. Instead there was this cloying, supple adoration. And Ian had the arduous task of pretending he liked it.

“Oh!” Ian unintentionally cut off the latest poet. The room fell silent as he endured a very strange squeezing sensation inside of him. It was different from the generalized tension and growth. Ian found himself grunting in pain as he clutched his belly, his face twisting and eyes squeezing shut. When he came back to himself, and the pain rolled free, he slowly looked up to a crowd of wide eyes and excited grins.

The crowd went wild.

-

“Have you heard?”

“The babes are coming.”

“I could hardly believe it!”

“Is it real, even?”

A frission of excitement overcame the kingdom, the people buzzing and keen.

Ian sat in the medical room, trying to stop himself grimacing and groaning as he endured another painful clench inside of him. It hardly suited a prince to make such unsightly expressions and unseemly noises. He was supposed to be strong through every tribulation, not fall apart at the onset of something so feminine and common as childbirth.

“It would appear that you are in labor, sire,” said Turner.

“I think that is fairly obvious,” Ian forced out bitingly. He wasn’t in the best of moods. “When will we proceed with the removal?”

Turner frowned at him. “Removal?”

“The magical removal. I’m not sure what it entails, but —”

“Apologies my King, you may have…misinterpreted things,” said Turner, looking rather concerned. “The only way to proceed is for you to give birth naturally.”

Ian was utterly confounded. “What does that even mean?”

“Throughout the pregnancy, your body has developed a unique passage from the uterus to your anus—”

“Is this some crude joke?” said Ian indignantly. “You want me to push the royal heirs out of my—” He couldn’t even say it. It was too foul, too offensive. The indignity! He should have Turner locked away even for suggesting such a thing! Ian grunted and cringed as another contraction assailed his body, his mass shuddering. He gripped his belly tightly. “Cut them out of me if you have to!” he cried.

Turner’s face became increasingly troubled. “That is not an option, sire. You certainly would not survive it.”

“Ian, you must listen to him. Turner knows what’s best,” Derrin spoke up.

“Get out of my sight!” shouted Ian furiously. “You are both mad! Disgusting! Guards, see me out of here!”

-

The palace was alive with frenzied energy. People were worried, excited, thrilled, and keen. The magical heirs were coming! The kingdom would be saved by the efforts of their ruler in one intense event.

And yet, the prince opposed.

Chatter and laughter assailed him from all sides, filling the palace, everyone anticipating the yield of his hard work. There were courts, balls, dinners and parties. And the Prince was locked up in his room, struggling.

He panted through the increasing pain, pressure, and frequency of the contractions. Often, Derrin was at his side, wiping sweat off his brow, speaking to him softly. Trying to convince him that this supposedly “natural” birth was only way.

But Ian refused. He resisted, even with the pressure shifting lower, and his backside growing fuller and rounder as well.

For two days, Ian writhed and struggled in bed, groaning, gasping, and clutching his quavering swell. It was so huge and heavy, seeming to pin him against the mattress. It practically towered over him and he had to constantly change positions as one body part went numb, or another started to ache, or his lungs felt so compressed he could hardly breathe at all.

And he was still growing. Still eating voraciously—everything that the servants brought his way—packing his belly and feeling the pressure of it steadily advancing.

There were fireworks that evening. Ian could hear them outside the walls. Such a rare show of elation and luxury. The whole country was celebrating.

He gave a choke cry, arching, clutching his belly. It was so typical that Derrin was out of town for the rest of the week to attend to supposedly urgent political matters. After what he had done to Ian. The wretch. And now while the lords and ladies of the court were all drinking and dancing downstairs, Ian was locked up in his room crying and laboring.

“It’s been days, my Prince,” an advisor told Ian somberly the following morning. “The celebrations are starting to die down. There are whispers of…tragedy.”

And with the worry, came more unrest. Allegations that this was all some ruse. Or even false accounts that Ian and the babies had not made it.

It took all his strength to get bed, wiping his tears, as he was dressed with fine robes and jewels. He nearly collapsed at the agony of another powerful contraction tearing through him while he was adorned with his crown. His backside felt heavy as he clutched the underside of his belly. “Errgghhhh!” It felt like they wanted to burst right out! His belly gave another forceful shudder.

Several guards helped him stagger to the court, where he emerged from the curtains, onto the dais, and made his first public appearance in a week.

He was sweaty, flushed, and genuinely trying not to cry openly like some mopey wench. Standing there, as tall as he could, he put on his best smile. “Don’t believe the rumors,” he assured the crowd gazing up at him as though he was one of the gods themselves, descended from the heavens. “I’m fine. The babies are as strong as could be. Everything is fine.”

As the people cheered, his belly rumbled. They couldn’t hear him grunt beneath their volume, and he tried to smile as his insides twisted and quaked, his bolder of a mound stretching into his robes and pressing harder into the dais as he struggled to breathe.

Everything would be fine.

-

Ian summoned all the best witch doctor the warlocks of the land. First they would look positively affronted at seeing his condition, then they would quickly temper themselves, wiping their faces clean of expression. Finally, they would each give him a thorough and mortifying exam. And with subtly stunned or disturbed voices, they would all form the same conclusion. “Sire, you must…you must birth, as a woman would.”

But Ian wasn’ta woman, and his body wasn’t remotely similar.

So he held the babies, held them in, swelling and aching, his skin hot and red. He spent days groaning, writhing, twisting, and sobbing disgracefully as lowly servants moved and adjusted him, dabbed his sweat and put ice to his flesh. Often they forced food down his throat, perhaps intending to stuff him until there was no room left.

His belly was practically bigger than he was, this massive protrusion, pinning him down, dropping against him, as it grew and tightened, and ached for release. Still, Ian sent for more warlocks. There had to be someonewho could help him.

“Nrrghhhhh!” Ian groaned as his belly heaved with growth. Tears were rolling freely down his cheeks, nipples gushing hot milk into his clothes. His nipples had grown so large and swollen, bulging obscenely against the thin wet cotton. His honeydew-sized breasts were tight with milk but with no one to feed. His body was desperate to expel these babies. He felt dizzy. He whined in pain through another heave of growth. It was just too much! There was no room left, he was gonna pop!His arse tightened and burned as fresh tears sprung from his eyes.

He couldn’t – hold it – he couldn’t – “Arrghhhhh!” he roared, shifting and twisting, finding himself on his knees, low belly pressing into the mattress. And yet he resisted. “Don’t you dare!” He schooled his children. “You will not!” Then the pressure surged, his belly tightening, throbbing, pushing forcefully, bouncing forward.

Ian gave an inhuman scream as a head popped right out, the back of his dressing gown tenting as he choked. Some spittle rolled down his chin as he was swarmed with attendants, and his belly lurched, then more of the body was shoved free.

Things proceeded rapidly from there. Sheer momentum forced the babies free and it was absolutely excruciating. He labored and sobbed like a woman as he pushed out one baby after another.

When it was over, he was in and out of consciousness for a while. In his episodes of wakefulness he would find babes — real babes, on his chest, suckling, drinking the—the milk his body had made for them. It was surreal. He had done this. They were actually real, and this hellish pregnancy was over.

When Derrin returned, he pressed his lips to Ian’s head. “Look what you created,” he murmured as they marveled their perfect children. There were eight—eight—plump, healthy infants. The kingdom was saved.

And Ian was exhausted.

-

At the start of the pregnancy, Ian had thought he would return to his slim, toned form once it was over. Towards the end of the pregnancy, with the extensiveness of his transformation, Ian had not been so optimistic. It was not what he had signed up for, yet there was no backing out.

In the aftermath, months later, he was still quite out of shape. His belly was a round, albeit softer and smaller, curve. It was a pooch that sat on his torso and made him look as though he was still six months with one child. His backside was still round and protruding, and his breasts remained ludicrously large.

He kept trying to get out of the caretaking aspects as well as the unpleasant nursing. He was a man and had no business doing these things. Wasn’t that what wet nurses were for?

And yet he was guilted, coaxed, and harassed until he found himself back in the nursery with terrible frequency, the cacophony of eight crying infants steadily giving him a headache.

It was an adjustment.

“This is the life,” Derrin said as he kissed him that night. He offered a tender smile that lit Ian’s veins on fire.

Ian fell into another kiss, his eyelids sinking as he immersed himself in the contact he had been craving during his weeks of recovery.

Of course, Derrin and Turner wanted to ensure an abundant and healthy line of royals. Which was probably why neither had bothered to mention that Ian could easily become pregnant again even without the clinical and magical process it had necessitated before. Ian’s body had grown the right parts and developed all the right hormones. It was suited for pregnancy, and now it was just a matter of conception.

He would find out soon enough.

The End