Heir, Part 8 - 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

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Ivy and Emeric parted ways on surprisingly amicable terms. 

She made sure not to touch him as he saw her off at her carriage. “You’ll take care of yourself?” he inquired with a sorrowful edge to his voice. 

Ivy knew Emeric was hurt, but he carried himself like a true prince.

She nodded. “It has been a true pleasure, your highness.” 

“Don’t call me your highness, Ivy. I was moments away from being your husband.” His smile was pained, but a smile all the same. 

It made Ivy more fond of him than she had been before. “Of course, Emeric. My dear friend.” Ivy resisted the urge to clutch her back, her body not accustomed to the sharp increase of weight now jutting out before her. She felt awkward standing there, so heavy, in public, Emeric, his parents, and all the palace’s staff and guards seeing her off for her journey home. 

Emeric gave a curt nod, hardly able to contain his disappointment. Ivy felt truly and dearly sorry. She’d never wanted to hurt him.

His parents were a few steps back, deeming not to speak, as they wore bitter looks on their clenched jaws. It was for the best, politically speaking. 

“This won’t end the alliance between our kingdoms,” Emeric assured her. “The heart wants what the heart wants,” he added, throwing a glance at Derrin, who stood waiting by the carriage door. 

Ivy inhaled, and couldn’t come up with much of a response. “Well.” Her magic was thrumming, eager to depart. 

“You will have an abundant line,” he went on. “The Gelt kingdom, once barren and quiet, will soon be full of the laughter of babies.” 

Ivy refrained from grimacing. “It has been a true honor, Emeric. I hope to see you again in the future. After…after all this.” 

“You will have your hands full,” the prince said as he bowed. By then, Ivy couldn’t nearly curtsy, but she managed to fairly deep nod. 

“Farewell, my lord.” 

“Safe travels, Ivy.” 

She was finally going home. As she made her way to the carriage door, Ivy gave a hard look at Derrin, warning him against assisting. And with some struggle, Ivy heaved herself onto the miniature set of stairs, barely managing to duck through the too-small door, as the flanks of her belly rubbed both sides of it. She stumbled slightly once she squeezed her way through, then collapsed against the soft bench, breathing heavily, cradling her mass. She motioned immediately for a guard to close the door. Derrin would ride the way home on horseback. The little compartment just didn’t have much room for them both anymore. 

Ivy closed her eyes, truly relieved that her long journey was finally over. She had not been home for weeks, and it had been physically and emotionally draining to have herself paraded around the countrysides of two nations while feeling uncomfortable in her own skin. She longed for the safety of her quarters, and the softness of her bed. The privacy, as well. Yes, privacy, she was truly yearning for. 

- 

Ivy managed to doze in and out during her journey home, but found herself consistently gasping awake, either by a hard bump on the road, or by her own body starting to teeter over, as her bench could no longer suitably accommodate her at her weight. 

But she made do. After days of travel, dozing, and eating, Ivy’s back was positively burning. Her whole body felt stiff and sore after enduring being mostly cramped in the same position for days on end with only the occasional break. 

They had made stops for food or to wash up, but had managed to largely avoid the public and the attention that came with it. Of course, that wasn’t an option on their arrival to the Gelt palace. 

When the door was opened for her, Ivy could hear excited, chattering voices outside. Though she felt like she could pass out at that very moment, Ivy tried to gather up any fragments of composure she could muster and plastered on a smile. 

Getting out of the carriage was a tight, undignified squeeze. She had to shove and squish her belly through as it painfully scraped on the sides of the narrow doorframe. The fit was even worse than it had been days ago. No one had known this would be an issue. No one had anticipated Ivy’s ludicrous rate of growth. 

The chattering of the crowd abruptly ceased as Ivy stood as tall as she could before them, her shoulders back and spine arched as she breathed heavily, trying to still look regal, somehow. In her disheveled, flustered state, it hardly worked. She was dressed in robes she’d had custom-made by the royal seamstress in Plethera prior to her departure, yet now the material no longer fit her loosely, instead hugging tightly to her skin. 

D-cup breasts sat high on her chest, and she knew her backside had filled out some. Standing there, panting, straining to support the heavy weight of all these babies, Ivy felt like a jester. A freak of nature. She was more pregnant than any person should have been. Despite only being a few months into it, she looked past term with twins. But then, she was carrying five. 

The silence endured for a very long time. The air of shock was present and heavy, and Ivy could do little more than stand there, frozen under the stares. The once lovely ruler was now this…this cow. She felt gutted under their assessing gazes. 

All the while, she could feel the babes. She could sense their fitful magic radiating through her, and she didn’t know what to do with it all. She just tried to breathe, her hand unconsciously cupping low on her belly. She breathed and begged for their patience. 

Then Derrin came to her side. “Behold, Princess Ivy. You may have heard word from Plethera, but she is home, here to confirm it personally. The princess has single-handedly saved the monarchy.” 

There were some murmurs, the people still ambivalent, but intrigued. They marveled at Ivy’s transformation after her being gone only a few weeks. 

“The princess has gone well beyond her duties to the kingdom. She has ensured a fruitful pregnancy and an abundant line of heirs. Look how fertile she is, practically bursting. Soon she will give birth, and the royal line will be guaranteed for years to come!” 

Ivy’s face burned. She didn’t know why her advisor had to sell her so humiliatingly. Derrin, as always, was trying to guide public opinion however he could. 

There was hesitation, then a couple of claps that didn’t catch. Instead there was more murmuring, people trying to form opinions. At least this distracted from Ivy’s failed betrothal, the news of which was sure to have gotten back to Gelt by then. 

“It has been a long journey,” Ivy managed to call out despite her breathlessness and embarrassment. “I shall retire.” 

Then Ivy and her escort of guards filed towards the entry of the castle. Ivy knew she was moving at a disgraceful waddle. Her ankles felt sore and swollen from her seated position cramped in the carriage. She was moving painfully slow, though continued to resist any offers of aid from her entourage. She wanted to look strong. Proud. So she kept her spine erect and walked on her own, though she knew her guard had to slow down accordingly. She was just grateful for their flank and their numbers, concealing what they could of Ivy panting, sweating, and terribly flushed. Steadily, she made her way inside. 

Ivy slept for a full fifteen hours upon easing herself down on her bed. For that time, she enjoyed a reprieve from all duties, and when she awoke, servants flooded her room with the offerings of food. Ivy did not turn anything away. She was ravenous. 

She took things easy again that second day, spending most of her time in bed, resting, eating, and continuing to have her meals delivered right there. Her hands would cup her swell as she continued to process just how large it was and how rapidly it was growing. She could feel the heat and tension occupying it. She still couldn’t help resenting what had become of her. All Ivy wanted was to stay locked away in her quarters for the remainder of the pregnancy. 

Yet some things could not be avoided. 

Her seamstresses put together some robes and dresses that could accommodate her form without looking baggy and sloppy, even though Ivy would have preferred something a little more loose. 

Heirs in tow, Ivy attended only the most critical of meetings—those that truly needed her attention. She would sit quietly, her belly perched against her lap while pressing into the table edge, as she listened to appeals for funding and legislation on different matters, and her cargo squirmed rather contentedly. 

Then there was the royal portrait. It was…an uncomfortable tradition. In the weeks leading up to an inauguration, a painting was done. Being that Ivy would become Queen as soon as an heir was born, that time was now. Ivy had been getting insistent messages from various parties to get this done so that her likeness could join the paintings of her parents, grandparents, and all her other predecessors in the royal line. 

Though Ivy was neither keen nor enthused, it would possibly cause a controversy to break this tradition after over fifty generations of it. After all, she was already decidedly breaking a lot of other traditions. Getting pregnant out of wedlock. Becoming this obscene, breeding Queen. It would be diligent to keep her subjects on her side, lest they lose their patience with this new and bizarre style of sovereignty. The last thing she needed was another uproar. 

Ivy was adorned with a flowing golden dress. She thought this would be an improvement and perhaps temper her extensive abdomen, but it didn’t nearly. The jut was so round and huge, it bulged blatantly out even under her layered skirts. 

“I will require a chair,” Ivy noted on her first session with the artist. 

The painter looked scandalized. “Every monarch has posed tall and strong for the portrait. They were all magnificent. Do you know that I painted your parents? Trust in the process, Princess Ivy, you must stand.” 

Ivy made a face. “I will, require, a chair,” she said, definitively, as she tried not to show how truly arduous it was to be standing at that moment. 

She was anything but strong. 

- 

Ivy limited her days to a maximum of only a few engagements, but she was always fatigued when she returned to her quarters, whether that was in the afternoon or deep in the evening. The portrait was coming along. Ivy wearily tried to undo her robes, thick and heavy on her overheated body. 

There was a knock on her door. 

“Come in,” Ivy called, as she already knew who it was. Few people were allowed to solicit her at her quarters. 

Derrin walked in with his usual brisk stride. “I’ve caught you changing,” he noted, his eyes doing a quick swoop down Ivy’s body. Typically this would not be an issue, but now…things were different. Ivy’s body was different. Full and curvaceous, and somehow not as decent as when she had been a skinny lass. 

“It’s not anything you haven’t seen,” Ivy muttered, working her way through buttons, allowing her robes to progressively fall open. She felt Derrin’s gaze sweep over her again and could not help her self-consciousness. “Is it not disturbing?” 

“You look incredible,” Derrin said plainly. “It’s a testament to your noble task and your powerful magic. And besides that, well — you look incredible.” 

Ivy lifted her gaze to meet Derrin’s. Her robes hanging open revealed the thin tank top she had on that didn’t nearly cover her body. Well, it covered her chest, but still hugged against the round mounds there, swollen nipples bulging against the semi-transparent material. The curve of her belly protruded out, smooth, round, unblemished, and entirely huge. 

“How could you think that?” Ivy said. 

“I think a lot of things of you,” Derrin admitted, stepping forward; closing in. 

And so the affair continued. It was highly inadvisable and irregular, to the point of nearly being illicit. Ivy was a crown princess, and Derrin, just an advisor. Yet Ivy could not deny how good it felt to be touched and revered, as though she wasn’t the abomination she thought herself to be. Derrin loved all her curves, constantly cupping and rubbing them. He seemed to savor every moment of their tryst. He ran his tongue along Ivy’s breasts, causing Ivy to shudder and gasp out. 

“They’re very plump,” Derrin noted, voice a mumble against Ivy’s flesh. “Do you know what that means? They’re full of milk.” 

Ivy’s flesh was hot and dewy, breasts swollen and aching. She gave a hum, her eyes squeezing shut as Derrin circled her nipple with his tongue. 

“Shall I taste?” he asked, and he didn’t wait for response. He sucked. 

Ivy groaned, arching, while pulling Derrin harder against her. Derrin sucked and drank as the pressure eased, her groin heating and tingling. Her hips twitched by instinct.

Derrin stilled them with his hands. “Soon,” he murmured, before taking another draw, a long moan escaping Ivy’s lips. Ivy’s face was hot, body tingling against the unbelievable pleasure. She just tried to hold on; breathe through it. Finally, Derrin had sucked until there was not more to drink. He gave a smirk as he wiped a stray white droplet from his lips. “You’re delicious,” he told Ivy, before moving on to the other breast.

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