Heir, Part 10 - Female Version

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Summary: Ivy is the last in line to the throne, and the only way to pass down her family’s magic is by producing an heir. Though she suffers from infertility, Ivy enlists several witch doctors and warlocks, but is still unable to sustain a pregnancy. As she goes on without an heir, domestic unrest grows, and the country is brought to the brink of a civil war. Ivy’s uncle enlists a unique warlock who utilizes both science and magic in his procedures, and Ivy soon finds herself more fertile than she had hoped or wanted. Contains: Female: pregnancy, breast expansion, and more.

This story is a work of fiction. As specified throughout the story, all characters featured in this work are 18 years of age or older.

Previous Chapter

-

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

She was only one woman yet so much stood on her shoulders. On her torso. Ivy gasped for breath, dizzy and flushed as Derrin’s hands tenderly stroked her swollen flanks. The mound heaved and quivered. Gods, it was tight!

“We are compatible, Ivy,” Derrin said as he held her.

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

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

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

-

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

“Pardon me?” said Ivy, her hand trying to soothe the shifting unborns perched against her lap. She was breathing heavily, her body hot.

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

Ivy gritted her teeth. “Be assured, I am going to continue to – change,” she 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 Ivy’s image – larger, Ivy supposed, as she sat there, breathing, trying not to plunge into the panic she was feeling. She tried not to fight the stress, pain, and pressure that littered her body. She could only accept. There was nothing left to be resistant of.

She was just huge. People were enamored by any glimpse of her. Always stilling and staring, gazing at her in fascination, sometimes wanting to touch her, or her belly, to make some fractional contact with her being. The whole kingdom was buzzing. All were obsessed with the princess’s condition.

-

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

And so too was the chatter unflattering. Across the land were discussions of the “Pregnant Princess;” the “Mother of Mothers.” “Mother Princess” 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 Ivy’s reputation, because she had never done anything as noteworthy and probably never would. She would go down in history as the pregnant princess rather than anything else.

-

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

And Derrin was always attending to her. Fucking and feeding her as much as she wanted. She was certain that he and Turner were in cahoots. They were trying to make her as big as possible. Fattening her like a pig. A hive queen. A breeder for magic.

But then they would reassure her. Tell her how special she 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. Ivy would no longer be part of a dying breed. She would have many heirs, and a full line for centuries to come.

Ivy was just sweaty, flustered, and overwhelmed with it all. She was so conflicted, she knew not how to feel.

-

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

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

Ivy was so ready for this to be over. She didn’t think she could take any more.

“I feel that they’re — quite grown. Sufficiently, I mean.” Ivy was exhausted. This wasn’t the first time she had pestered Turner about ending things. Yet most of her requests were left ignored. She wanted these things out of her. She 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, she needed an outlet. She felt like she might burst.

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

-

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

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

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

“Oh!” Ivy unintentionally cut off the latest poet. The room fell silent as she endured a very strange squeezing sensation inside of her. It was different from the generalized tension and growth. Ivy found herself grunting in pain as she clutched her belly, her face twisting and eyes squeezing shut. When she came back to herself, and as the pain rolled free, she slowly looked back at a sea 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 frisson of excitement overcame the kingdom, the people buzzing and keen.

Ivy sat in the medical room, trying to stop herself from grimacing and groaning as she endured another painful clench inside of her. It hardly suited a princess to make such unsightly expressions and unseemly noises.

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

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

Turner frowned at her. “Removal?”

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

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

Ivy was confounded. “Pardon?”

“Indeed. Though you pregnancy is magical, and there are multiples, the techniques used to implant you necessitate that you naturally—”

“Is this some joke?” said Ivy indignantly. “You want me to push out five babies?” She could not think of a single elder or ancestor in her magical line who’d had to go through natural childbirth, let alone with multiples. She should have Turner locked away even for suggesting it! Ivy grunted as another contraction assailed her body, her mass shuddering. She gripped her belly tightly. “Cut them out of me if you have to!” she cried.

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

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

“Get out of my sight!” shouted Ivy furiously. “You are both mad! 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 princess opposed.

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

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

But Ivy refused. She resisted, even with the pressure shifting lower, and her hips growing heavier.

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

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

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

She gave a choked cry, arching, clutching her 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 her. The wretch. And now while the lords and ladies of the court were all drinking and dancing downstairs, Ivy was locked up in her room crying and laboring.

“It’s been days, my Princess,” a maid told Ivy 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 Ivy and the babies had not made it.

It took all her strength to get out of bed, wiping her tears, as she was dressed with fine robes and jewels. She nearly collapsed at the agony of another powerful contraction while she was adorned with her crown. Her hips felt heavy as she clutched the underside of her belly. “Errgghhhh!” It felt like they wanted to burst right out! Her belly gave another forceful shudder.

Several handmaids helped her stagger to the court, where she emerged from the curtains, onto the dais, and made her first public appearance in a week.

She was sweaty, flushed, and genuinely trying not to cry openly. Standing there, as tall as she could, she put on her best smile. “Don’t believe the rumors,” she assured the crowd gazing up at her as though she 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, her belly rumbled. The crowd couldn’t hear her grunt beneath their volume, and she tried to smile as her insides twisted and quaked, her boulder of a mound stretching her robes and pressing harder into the dais as she struggled to breathe.

Everything would be fine.

-

Ivy summoned all the best witch doctors of the land. First they would look positively affronted at seeing her condition, then they would quickly temper themselves, wiping their faces clean of expression. Finally, they would each give her a thorough exam. And with subtly stunned or disturbed voices, they would all form the same conclusion. “Your highness, you must start pushing.”

But Ivy wasn’t going to be the first in a line of hundreds of powerful mages to give natural birth, and to a litter, like some farm animal.

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

Her belly was practically bigger than she was, this massive protrusion, pinning her down, dropping against her, as it grew and tightened, and ached for release. Still, Ivy sent for more witches. There had to be someone who could help her.

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

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

Ivy gave an inhuman scream as a head popped right out under her dress as she choked. Some spittle rolled down her chin as she was swarmed with attendants, and her 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. She labored and sobbed as she pushed out one baby after another.

When it was over, she was in and out of consciousness for a while. In her episodes of wakefulness, she would find babes — real babes, draped on her chest. It was surreal. She had done this. They were actually real, and this hellish pregnancy was over.

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

And Ivy was exhausted.

-

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

In the aftermath, months later, she was still quite out of shape. Her belly was a round, albeit softer and smaller, curve. It was a pooch that sat on her torso and made her look as though she was still six months with one child. Her hips and backside were still round and curvaceous. Her breasts remained ludicrously large.

She kept trying to get out of the caretaking aspects and nursing. Wasn’t that what nurses were for?

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

It was an adjustment.

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

Ivy fell into another kiss, her eyelids sinking as she immersed herself in the contact she had been craving during her 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 Ivy could easily become pregnant again even without the clinical and magical process it had necessitated before.

She would find out soon enough.

The End