Heir, Part 9 - 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

-

Ivy awoke late in the morning, not feeling especially rested, but quite nice all the same. 

She groggily made her way to the large standing mirror across her quarters, one heavy step at a time.

She was clutching some sheets around herself as she arrived at her pink, disheveled reflection. 

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

A hand touched her arm. Ivy opened her eyes to see her advisor standing behind her in the mirror.

Derrin’s hand slid down Ivy’s arm in a would-be soothing way, but the dam broke, any control relinquished because of Ivy’s sheer sensitivity. Her arms shook, the sheets sliding lower, and the pair of plump, swollen nipples she hardly recognized began to squirt. Milk splattered right against the mirror. Ivy cringed, disturbed by it. “I’m a damn cow.”   

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

Ivy groaned. “It’s just so…full.” 

Derrin came around and bowed to her chest, Ivy’s eyelids fluttering as she was offered relief and pleasure. 

- 

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

She was up yet another cup size when she held court a few days later. There was no hiding the cantaloupe-sized mounds heaving on her chest. She felt squashed on her father’s throne, squashed by her own belly, which was perched on her lap, shelving her breasts. She was a young woman attached to this hyper-feminine figure; this shrine of fertility. Her robes covered every inch of her skin, but she 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. 

Ivy tried not to fidget; tried to keep her discomfort to herself. She impassively regarded the provisions then gave a slight nod of her 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, Ivy would find herself 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. Ivy was just about to order the next man to step forward, when something happened. She gave a quiet gasp. 

She was leaking. Ivy could feel it. She reddened as her surplus milk began to seep right into her clothing. She wished she could control it, but every fraction of her 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. She seemed to last only an hour or two before she was at capacity, and often she mistimed things. And finding some privacy every couple of hours to try to release the burden was hardly easy. 

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

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

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

“You dare address your princess in such a manner?” Derrin’s voice was thick with contempt. He stepped forward from where he stood beside Ivy’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. Ivy tensed. 

Derrin gracefully stepped down from the dais, grabbing a sword off a guard’s belt as he moved. He raised it high. 

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

Ivy was frozen in shock. She had never seen a man die before. It had never been her duty before now. 

And so she sat there, eyes wide, breathing thinly as her babies fluttered around in her belly. 

- 

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

Ivy supposed not. 

“I’ve disturbed you,” Derrin noted with a frown as he walked behind Ivy, resting his hands on the princess’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.” 

Ivy 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…” 

Ivy could feel the tension in Derrin’s hands as the man took hold of Ivy’s hair, which was pulled back in one long braid that went down to her tailbone. Derrin gripped it at the base of Ivy’s skull.

“I hate to see things degrade. You’re vulnerable, my princess, 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. At the rate Ivy’s hair was growing, she was sure to have enough hair to start a new braid in a couple 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, Ivy?” Derrin asked, his voice more tender now.

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

There was a light knock on the door. 

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

“Princess Ivy.” 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 but Ivy wasn’t going to protest. 

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

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

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

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

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

Ivy hesitated then slowly pulled her tunic up over her abdomen. She gave a slight incline of her head. 

As Turner lay his hands on her swell, Ivy’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 Ivy. 

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

Ivy was horrified. “No,” she protested. “No, that couldn’t — how?” 

“Magic works in miraculous ways.” 

That was not an adequate explanation. Ivy swore under her breath as she looked down at her huge belly. She looked beyond capacity. She looked like she should have given birth two months ago. 

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

“Ivy, you must calm yourself.” 

“Don’t patronize me, witch,” Ivy snapped. Then her milk started to seep, and it was humiliating. How could she expect anyone to take her seriously? She was a veritable mess. 

Ivy pressed her lips for a moment, afraid that her voice would crack if she kept speaking. Turner was looking at her 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. Ivy looked at him, perplexed. 

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

Then he told Ivy the truth about her condition. 

- 

She really was just a joke. 

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

Ivy sat stiffly in her 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 her bedside was steadily evaporating. Ivy was sitting tensely on the edge of her bed, her mind reeling with growing fury. 

Her magic was so potent now. But then, she was carrying six magical babies. This level of concentration was unprecedented, and the magic was getting quite hard to control now. Particularly when she was agitated. She 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,” Ivy 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 Ivy, irritated that tears were forming in her eyes. 

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

“I used to have swarms of admirers,” Ivy snapped. “Any lad or even lady I wanted. I used to be gorgeous.”

“You still are, Ivy.” 

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

“You are not mine.” 

“You are nothing,” Ivy 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,” Ivy choked out, glaring at her belly. 

Ivy startled as a hand rested on her cheek. She looked up, surprised by how close Derrin had come to be.

“Sorry I lied, Ivy. 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.” 

Ivy huffed, unintentionally smiling a little, but she bit it away. 

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

Ivy cupped the hand on her cheek. “Don’t lie to me again.” 

Her magic wasn’t any less restless, yet it had changed. It thrummed around her in tendrils of warmth and desire. She felt drawn to Derrin, even though she wanted to be angry. It flowed through her veins. Ivy 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 Ivy’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 her. 

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

Ivy groaned, one hand gripping the headboard, her back to Derrin’s chest as he drew her all the way to the cusp. She was getting close. And she could feel the tension in Derrin’s body as both rapidly ascended. 

“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, our children. 

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

Derrin came. 

Ivy’s mouth opened wide as a sharp surge of pleasure lanced her core. She was hardly cognizant of her own orgasm; she just felt her spine arching so hard it was painful, her nipples squirting and her mind going white. 

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

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

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

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

Derrin cradled her gently, offering indecipherable, comforting murmurs as Ivy’s eyelids sank. 

Just a dream, Ivy decided, as she passed out.

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