#knightpreg

After spending the better part of the day walking, he's exhausted. The sun is directly overhead, and he decides to sleep until evening when it'll be cooler. That's how you find him: propped up against a tree.

Even from a distance, something is clearly wrong. He doesn't stir at all, and when you approach, his breathing is shallow, face flushed and clammy. His hands are folded over a middle that doesn't match the rest of him. Tall, muscled, wearing paladin's armour, and yet the breast plate is missing. Instead, a weirdly round belly sticks out like a sore thumb.

Without help, it's obvious he won't make it for long.

Every night, she floated behind a privacy screen and emerged in a night shift, no hint that she was ever pregnant. It was a nifty bit of magic, allowing the queen all the benefits of childbirth (to wit: a child) without any of the achy, sticky downsides of the birth part. Then the royal couple retired to bed, where they would stroke the trembling thighs and kiss the taut, reddening belly of their heavily pregnant surrogate.

Hundreds of candidates had been secretely unknowingly vetted by the court physician, but the one now squirming and panting under the king and queen's ministrations had been chosen the old-fashioned way: by accident, after a night of debauchery.

In fact, the very day that the physician was to sit down with the royals to present the final five candidates, a hesitant knock on his door had made him decide to see one last patient that morning. The king and queen arrived an hour later to find the young guard who'd been bent double on their mattress a few months prior now bright red with shame and rather plumper around the midsection. From there, amending their original plan ever so slightly had been the natural choice.

And it had worked out splendidly, as far as the royal bedwarmer (as he was now affectionately called) was concerned. Praise, kisses, and maddening touches were raining down on him. He enjoyed those every night, but this night the king and queen were a little friskier than normal.

Just that morning, all three had visited the physician who had carefully examined the growing belly and announced that he'd never known such rapid growth to denote anything less than twins.

It had taken every ounce of discipline the royals possessed to return to their usual duties, and now they were finally free to lavish their younger lover with attention. After only a few thrusts, the king felt him clench down on his cock, womb contracting as his whole body went taut. Unable to hold back, the king came on a deep grunt. His hands joined the queen's on the wildly kicking belly. Together they watched tears stream down the bright red cheeks of their heavily panting lover.

The queen's cool hand came down to stroke his wilting flesh, and he keened at the contrast with his overheated, oversensitive skin. Her other hand ran teasingly up and down the obscene curve of his belly, making all his blood rush downwards again before he'd had a chance to catch his breath.

When she spoke, her words were teasing but her voice was full of love: 'Twins without even trying, someone was rather eager. I thought we might get there on the second try at the earliest, what about you, darling?'

The king carefully pulled out, even though he could feel himself plumping up again already, ignoring the desperate noises engendered by the queen's mention of a second try while the first was still very much in progress, and whispering his answer directly into a burning ear.

'Seems we have a little overachiever on our hands. Not that I'm complaining. I look forward to an even heavier belly next year.' He jovially patted the huge bump in question, drinking in the noises of a man below him frantically, ecstatically coming undone before he continued. 'How many times will I have to spill inside your waiting body before you swell with triplets?'

The queen had seen her gravid lover overcome more times than she could count. She knew he was too tired for another round and so pushed the king down to take his place and fervently ride him, heedless of his desperately bucking hips, chasing her own pleasure instead.

Much care had been taken to prevent her ending up the way their lover had, but she knew what the king liked to hear: 'Try a bit harder, darling, and I'm sure you'll have two growing bellies in your bed soon.'

Both men groaned loudly at the visual, and at the queen rubbing and pinching her breasts, pushing herself over the edge and collapsing in a tired heap.

If I did something like that on here, poll-based, would you guys participate? What kind of story would you like to help me tell?

He can't appear weak in front of his subordinates, who rely on him to guide them through danger.

They don't even know he can get pregnant. And he doesn't want them to. Doesn't want their disgust, or their pity.

It's his own fault anyway. One moment of weakness, one night of pleasure stolen from a life of discipline, has him trekking through an unsafe mountain pass with an awful secret. Everyday his swelling belly threatens to expose him.

The strain of constantly worrying keeps him from sleep, and the long days of marching through wind and rain wear down his body and mind.

Soon, he's almost delirious from exhaustion, sweating despite the cold, forcing himself forward one step at a time while the road in front of him blurs.

Something just... snaps.

He topples over like his strings have been cut, into the waiting arms of his second-in-command.

Hours or even days later, he wakes up in a warm tent and blearily looks around. Pushing himself into a sitting position is unexpectedly strenuous, and he startles when he realises that he's naked under the blankets. Everyone must know by now...

He stares down at his belly, the obvious swell spilling between his legs almost smugly. This is the first time he's really looked at it in weeks. When did he grow this big?

Footsteps approach outside and he hurriedly covers himself up again, even knowing it's futile.

His second-in-command silently ducks into the tent, smiling when he sees his leader awake and lucid.

He's been worried for months, but he had to feign surprise when the medic examined their ailing leader and found a healthy, fertile belly instead.

After all, he'd been wondering for weeks whether his strong, fit superior's sudden turn for the worse might have something to do with the vague recollections of a night that involved a lot of alcohol and a familiar voice moaning and grunting in his ear as he spilled into an eager, hungering body.

Kneeling at his leader's side, he's unsure whether to tell him. It seems wrong not to, but learning he'd let some underling knock him up, in an already fragile state, might do more harm than good.

And yet part of him wants to spill his secret. Wants this man to know exactly whose seed he's swelling with. Wants to touch every inch of the irresistable round belly he's only caught a glimpse of. Wants to kiss and carress until they both thrum with need the way they had months ago.

Maybe some of his thoughts, his desires, shine through his careful mask. Maybe it's the way he's looming over his commander's gravid form, so close and yet not touching. Either way, the fearsome leader has flushed bright red, eyes wide, pupils huge. This close, there's something familiar, a scent that turns his insides to liquid.

But then the thick walls come up again, any trace of emotion gone, the mask of the stoic commander back in place.

Seeing him like this, radiating undeniable authority while his vulnerable, swollen belly is showing through layers of blankets, is too much to bear for the knight.

Cock throbbing in his pants, heart hammering in his ears, his instincts are warring in his fluttering stomach. The need to submit, the need to whine, the need to mount, and the need to fill.

Terrified, he meets those steely eyes and sees surprise turn into comprehension.

A strong hand comes up to nestle in the curve between neck and shoulder, thumb stroking the soft skin of his throat, no doubt feeling his throat bob as he swallows heavily.

Somehow, it loosens his tongue.

'I swore the medic to secrecy! No one knows save for the three of us. I told the men you were ill.'

Thumb pressing down harder, that lethal gaze turns away for a moment or two, as his commander digests the information.

Then it swivels back to his face, unreadable.

'It was you, wasn't it?'

How can he deny it?

He nods as much as the steel grip on his throat allows and watches something like relief, or perhaps resolve, cross that handsome, severe face.

'I'm revising your standing orders. But first-' The commander indicates his straining cock with a tilt of the chin.

Five minutes later, they're both muffling breathless sounds of pleasure as they relive that fateful night months ago while feeling the product of their desperate, drunken rutting kick and writhe.

Over the next three months, they never acknowledge the commander's swollen belly out loud, not even as their hands roam across the clandestine swell.

They make it through the mountain pass and into the town beyond, where the whole squad is given a few well-deserved days off. When their leave is up and their duty done, they start on the return trip.

The men are glad to see their leader looks a lot better, unburdened even.

And he is, having left quite a lot of weight behind at the house of healing, after hours of straining and pushing.

Now he's slowly getting his strength and flat, muscled stomach back. All's well that ends well, isn't it? So why does he feel... empty?

NEW PFP! Yay it's something I made and am proud of. Though the tilt of the cuirass to accomodate a baby bump isn't the best I think. The sketch for this below

Imagine that pregnancy grants people immunity do death and harm (like in some The Sims games).

Now imagine monarchies abusing this "feature" of humanity to win wars, by making their armies of knights pregnant for wars.

(I just had an idea of an army of pregnant knights in my head, okay?)

I think this would achieve world peace pretty quickly! Just a buncha gravid guys who can't really bend over or swing a sword... Better start waving that white flag.

Although, if you're a bloodthirsty ruler (let's be real, most probably are), you'll want your knights in fighting trim. One particularly cunning monarch has the right idea; obviously the key is to knock them up as late as possible.

A few nights before the big battle, a chorus of amorous noises rises up out of the military camp, easily travelling miles across the plains of the future battlefield and seriously confusing the opposing faction.

It's a pretty sweet life, being a royal stud. You're fed and pampered, getting milked every day, being praised for your virility. Wearing a cockcage for a week or so is less fun, but you know that soon you and your fellow studs will get to fuck all night, knocking up as many knights as you can.

The next day, medics go around testing all the knights, and the ones that aren't pregnant yet are sent out for round two.

The whole plan works better than the monarch dared hope, as the sight of their fit, flat-bellied knights inspires their much rounder opponents (whose bellies are already writhing lively under their chainmail) to give in immediately.

From there, it's very easy to dethrone their king and claim their kingdom.

All is rosy, at least for a month or six, when another recently bred army approaches the newly-merged kingdom and the monarch calls all their knights to arms, only to be met by a sea of heavily pregnant warriors, some of whom are already in labour.

Time to try diplomacy instead...

That night, the monarch meets their rival for dinner in a lavishly decorated tent on neutral ground just outside the gates.

Before dessert is served, they have already stripped down to a thin, silken robe, and the king is eating out of their hand. When he leans in for a feel, all apprehension forgotten, there's a quick flash of steel.