Heir, Part 3

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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, Connor 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. Connor’s  uncle enlists a unique warlock who utilizes both science and magic in  his procedures, and Connor soon finds himself more fertile than he’d  hoped or wanted. Contains: Male: pregnancy, breast expansion, butt expansion, weight gain.

Previous Chapter 

-

“So it’s true?” said Al breathily.

He was sprawled in the bed, recovering from recent vigorous activities and Ian’s abundant need to be filled daily, but preferably several times a day. Ian couldn’t believe how horny his condition was making him.

Ian was sitting up beside him, sheets piled around his hips, but even with his back turned to Al, there was no hiding the rounded curve of his abdomen. Al had felt it too. Ian rubbed his face with his hand. “Don’t worry yourself with such things,” he muttered. He grimaced at the sensation of fluid rolling down the underside of each of his breasts. He was leaking again.

“But I think it warrants my attention,” said Al.

“Disgusted already?”

Al slowly sat upright. Ian didn’t look, but he could feel the other’s movements. Al moved closer, behind him, Ian shivering as Al’s chest pressed to his back. Al’s hands rested on Ian’s waist and steadily shifted forward, encircling him, resting on his belly. Al’s thumbs lazily stroked circles against the bloated flesh. He gave a thoughtful hum but he did not remark. He knew better than to comment.

Al’s hands began to move again, sliding upwards, cupping the small B-cups that sat pert on Ian’s chest, again rubbing, exploring the moisture there. Ian’s breath shuddered through his throat. He could feel Al peeking over his shoulder, scrutinizing him in silence.

Al dropped his lips on Ian’s shoulder, and Ian wasn’t opposed to another around. The kisses moved up his throat, and down again, his flesh tingling, groin aching with need. Then Al was leaning over him to plant kisses against the plump flesh of his chest, skin jiggling where it had been firm and taut only weeks earlier. As Al found the nipple, Ian released a gasp.

But Ian didn’t stop him. This was new. He was…curious. He had yet to explore these new sensations, in fact repelled by them. But something stopped him from intervening as Al wrapped his lips around Ian’s right nipple, and took a suck.

Ian groaned, his hand instinctively shooting up to grip at Al’s hair.

The two spent the whole weekend in Ian’s quarters.

-

By Monday morning, Ian was having certain, uncomfortable, issues.

For one, the small new breasts on his chest were up a whole cup size. They were terribly bloated and hot, full of – full of fluid, despite being drained consistently, and…enthusiastically, several times the previous day and the day prior to that as well.

Ian could not decide which of his developments was the most embarrassing, but he put in an order for a new wardrobe to hopefully negate the visible weight gain in his chest, arse, and stomach. He needed clothing that was larger and looser, because the attire that he had at present wasn’t cutting it. Everything had gotten tight on him, and he despised the sensation of having to squeeze into his own attire. He hated how easily anyone might see his changes. Ordinarily the Royal tailor would handle this sort of thing, ensuring that any expecting monarch was suitably clothed with dignity. But of course, these were atypical circumstances. Firstly, Ian was not even a woman, and had made no official announcement of being pregnant. Why would he, when it was likely that he would miscarry? Secondly, and changes had popped up out of nowhere, and in the span of days sometimes. He swore, some days he awoke in bed to find his belly a little broader than it had been the day before. But he was carrying five, so it was to be…expected? He honestly wasn’t sure and didn’t like to think much on that.

Any which way, he was in a shameful, disgraceful state indeed. No prince should be blatantly outgrowing their britches, nearly bursting the buttons of their tunics. He looked like a glutton.

Ian was just grateful that the service at the palace was always prompt and meticulous. Not a full day later, he had a whole new arrangement of clothing draped in his closets. They were made of the finest materials, some practically gliding against his fingers. A few were more militarily styled and adorned some of the woven badges that declared the levels of service he had completed in his late teens. For the first time in a while, Ian felt quite proud of himself.

Of course the dopamine helped. One couldn’t avoid the adrenaline inebriation of a whole weekend spent on their back.

Ian tried on one of the new pairs of trousers, but the fit wasn’t what he had expected. Instead than being looser, it fit his form, but the waistband was more flexible and snug, curving into him comfortably rather than cutting into his new swell of flesh.

Well, it was just the trousers. No bother. This time Ian selected a tunic, pulling it over his head.

It didn’t fall loosely over him, as he hadn’t anticipated it would. Instead he had to pull it down. This fit was wrong as well. Though it was more comfortable than his old clothing, it was not styled to disguise or even soften the curve of his stomach. Instead, it seemed stitched almost specifically to emphasize the jut of his abdomen. As Ian examined himself in his mirror, he was affronted to find that he looked even bigger than before, the material fitted specifically to his body, snug and drawing focus to his belly.

Ian immediately summoned the tailor. He didn’t even have something looser he could change into, so had to endure the man staring at his midsection with wide, bulging eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?” Ian brandished some of the new pieces that had been placed in his closets, replacing his old clothes. “This is not what I requested. These pieces are absolutely ridiculous!”

The tailor bowed lowly, then just got on his knees and hunched his head, as though he could not bear this reprimand. His work was usually impeccable. “Sire, I do not understand. I received the requests directly from Sir Derrin—”

“What?” said Ian. “My uncle sent an order?”

The tailor nodded.

“And you did not receive mine?”

“I’m sorry, your Majesty, I did not,” said the tailor mournfully.

Ian almost stormed off to confront Derrin, but then remembered himself; his appearance. He couldn’t walk around the palace like this, his condition so blatant, his breasts protruding like a woman’s. The dopamine had almost entirely drained by then, replaced by irritation. “You may leave,” he said as calmly as he could. “Tell the guards to summon my uncle. I would like an audience with him immediately.”

“Yes, sire.” The tailor stood. “You would like to have him summoned…here? In your personal quarters?”

“Yes,” said Ian. Desperate times and all that. He found himself bizarrely bound to his bedroom, unable to leave for shame. It was completely outrageous and it was Derrin’s doing. “And tailor, I would appreciate if you did not repeat what you saw here today. What’s…going on with me, I mean.”

The tailor’s eyes compulsively shot down to Ian’s gut, but instantly moved up again to meet his eyes. “I assure you, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

-

Perhaps Ian was being the ridiculous one. It wasn’t as though everyone didn’t already know… Still, he wasn’t trying to flaunt his shame and desperation. This was unnatural, and he wholly resented the fact that he had to resort to it.

“I was summoned?” said Derrin with a curious look as he strode into the chamber. His eyes discreetly traveled along Ian’s form.

“What is the meaning of this?” Ian demanded, motioning vaguely to his body. His cheeks were hot as he knew the apparel revealed every curve of his recent growth to his uncle.

“Sire?” Derrin appeared politely confused.

“Since when do you have authority over my wardrobe?” Ian elaborated. “You intercepted my own personal requests and put in an order for such fitted clothing. You would have me traipsing around like some pig?”

“Ian, you’re not a pig. You are pregnant. You should be proud.”

“I see no need to be anything but fatigued. You overstepped.”

Derrin sighed. “You saw how they reacted when you stepped out in the rain. There on the brink of a coup. We must restore faith in the kingdom.”

It was an unexpected turn in the conversation and Ian did not know what to say.

“And if that means we must show off the, erm…forthcoming heirs, then we must. I’m just glad you’re showing so early.

“Ian, I know you would prefer that this detail of our country’s history be kept hidden away and forgotten, but the kingdom is under incredible strain. I don’t think you have that luxury. Just be grateful we’ve survived this far.”

He had left Ian speechless. Derrin turned and walked off, capes billowing behind him. Ian slowly sat down at his desk and stared off, a frown pulling at his lips.

-

Part of why the monarchy was so important was because the kingdom largely ran on its magic. Annually, the royal family would visit each major city and bless the harvest with a touch of magic. By extension, the people would be blessed, and so would their lands. It didn’t seem like much, but it was critical to their survival up to this point, on such parched, deficient soils that couldn’t keep up with the needs of the people on its own.

It was a few weeks later, and Ian was wearing a formal colonel jacket that paid homage to his military days. It was honestly the thickest thing he could find in his closet. He didn’t want to do this. It was practically torture to him. Lately, he spent most of his days hidden away in his quarters, having meals brought to him. But this ritual could not be avoided. This had to be done in person.

“Head up. Shoulders back. You are the prince, stop hunching. Arch a bit, will you?”

“Shut up,” Ian snapped, his temper getting the better of him, as it was wont to lately. He climbed into the carriage, nearly slamming the door in Derrin’s face.

He couldn’t believe how much he was growing; how big he was getting. Accompanying his disfigurement were swollen breasts, a plump backside, an insatiable appetite for food and more sordid affairs, and clothing that was far too snug for his liking.

The tailor came by almost weekly now, constantly upgrading and adjusting things, adding inches, recording Ian’s growth with the measure of materials. Never did he meet the prince’s eyes.

Ian looked blatantly pregnant. He knew, by the gasps that greeted him when he had finally exited his quarters, his guards astonished by his transformation.

And now he was to go out in public. He had spent the carriage ride to the first city sitting in the dark, his gloved hand covering his face. His uncle was seated on the bench across from him.

“Are you ill?” Derrin asked.

Ian ignored him.

In no time, the carriage came to a halt. Ian could hear the horses of his guards slowing to a stop around him. He could hear his drivers dismounting. It wasn’t long before his arrival was being announced outside of the carriage door.

He hesitated as long as he could, longer than was appropriate. He could hear mutterings of a crowd outside. For what felt like an hour, he lingered. The mutterings were getting louder, people getting testy and impatient.

“Ian,” said Derrin quietly. “They are counting on you.”

Ian fidgeted with the button of his jacket. He missed those days, him a young, dashing hero. Pride of his family. He would travel all over the country, meeting the people, his subjects who loved him. Men would shake his hand or entreat to buy him drinks. Women would swoon if he even caught their eye. Ian would have loved to continue about his affairs and social life with a discrete little bump. But he was carrying five. Toting them around with him. He couldn’t hide that. They were meant to be marveled.

Derrin leaned over and wrapped his cape about Ian’s shoulders, allowing the thick material to enshroud him like a cloak. Ian trembled slightly, patting Derrin’s hand. “Thank you.” He drew a deep breath. “But it’s okay.” He was only going to get larger, after all. He couldn’t hide it. So Ian shrugged the cape off him, standing in the process.

Ian exited the carriage, the bright sunlight stinging his eyes. He was hardly three months along but was certain he looked six. His body had transformed in only a couple of weeks, and now he was to be shown off like a prized pig.

The crowd was expansive. Everyone in this village had to be present. The commoners staring at him in utter shock, as though they had not believed the reports of what had transpired at the palace during the last protest on that stormy evening.

But now they could see it for themselves. The world had become utterly silent, and it took everything Ian had not to bow his head in shame. Unconsciously, his hand slid up, cupping the evident mound under his jacket. It was so obvious. It couldn’t be anything but a pregnancy. Unless anyone thought it to be a farce. But it wasn’t. And somehow, the people knew it.

They began to cheer, to Ian’s astonishment. They clapped and screamed, throwing their arms in the air. It went on and on, Ian’s embarrassment swelling by the moment. But beyond that, was a strength. A comfort. His people were pleased with his unnatural state. They were proud. Derrin threw Ian a knowing look.

“Thank you,” Ian managed as the applause started to subside, though he still didn’t think he had the stomach to publicly acknowledge his rather clear condition. He realized that he was still clutching his belly, and slowly lowered his arms. “For your perseverance. For your faith in me. Now let us carry on with the ritual.”