The breeze of the coming evening blew through the single, tall window, rustling the scrawled upon papers strewn about the floor like old, dry leaves on the dusty flags. A sumptuous carpet was laid out on the cold, bare stone, offering little cheer to the otherwise dreary chamber of lonesome figure hunched over the grand and ornately carved desk piled high with old forgotten tomes and rolls of vellum. His hairless tail was draped over one arm of a high backed chair, inlaid in gold and set with plush, red cushions. The rat mage twitched his nose, his dark eyes narrowing at the half written scribbles which adorned yet another yellowed page and slammed his quill on the desk with a loud smack. 

“Argh,” he growled to the ceiling where there hung lamps of bronze. 

Their sparse illumination did little to chase away the pervasive gloom. The rat raised his ink stained fingers, resplendent with the glittering gems, sparkling with their inner fires, the proof of his craft, trying to work the feeling into his numbed hands. 

“Think, Blackthorne,” he grunted. “Oh, but how can I? I am at an utter loss this evening.” He turned from the desk, viewing not for the first time, the slaughtered victims of his frustrations lying all around him. “Bah,” he hissed. He winced then, his paw coming to rest on his swollen belly. “And you have not helped me one bit, I might add.”

Below the shimmering silk of his robe, a magnificent garment woven of blue and threaded with gold, his belly distended over his lap, an immense orb of iron grey fur. His navel was a small mound protruding from his stomach, forced outward by the advancement of his otherworldly pregnancy. His breasts, heaving, milk-heavy globes, wobbled atop his belly, the rigid nipples pressing through the thin fabric. The flimsy robe was fastened in place just below his pendulous breasts by a single ribbon of blue, allowing for a more than ample view of his ripe cleavage, the swell of his gravid belly and the fullness of his jiggling thighs. Blackthorne gave another pained hiss, the life within him stirring, kicking. It delved deeper, searching, always searching for the way out. He had grown easily to the size of twins and yet, the child of the King was not yet fully formed for there were still months before the birth. How much larger would he grow in such a time?

The rat heaved a weary sigh, running his fingers through his white hair which fell around his ears and down his shoulders. Errant locks which could never stay down, could never be held in place by comb or brush. 

“Perhaps a spell for bad hair days?” the rat mused. “No, I cannot even come up with a simple spell as is.” 

He turned his attention back to the parchment on his desk. The wobbling glow of a single candle, half-melted atop a grinning skull which wept tears of runny wax like congealed fat, cast the hastily written page in a grim radiance. Blackthorne took up his quill, setting into the inkwell at his elbow and placed the nib to the page. He paused, a growing circle of black spreading across the creamy yellow. 

“Alas,” he groaned. “I cannot.”

He flung the paper aside to lie with its brethren on the floor. Spreading both palms on the table, he summoned his strength, heaving his gravid frame from his chair with a pained groan. Bracing himself on the desk, he made for the tall, floor length mirror which stood in the corner of his chamber. His feet scuffed softly on the thick carpet, his hand thrust into his lower back, coming before the looking glass. Reflected in the polished surface, he viewed the changes to his growing body, a frown forming across his narrow face. His mouth pulled down at the corners, his lips drooping to see the way his belly fell almost to his knees. His thighs, once sleek and trim, the envy of many a female, had grown soft and jiggled with every pained step of his swollen ankles. 

“Ugh,” he groaned. The rat lifted his arms up behind his head, watching with disdain at the way his heavy breasts flopped on his belly. “I just do not understand how these females do it. My feet hurt, my back hurts, my breasts are so tender.” He cupped a hand to one breast, grimacing slightly. “As if I should even have breasts,” he lamented. 

Blackthorne sighed, letting his shoulders slump. His robe swayed, held in place by that single knot which let his belly hang free from between the shimmering azure folds. The rat plucked at the thin ribbon, undoing the knot. His robe fell open and with it his breasts flopped free, sagging atop his belly. The nipples were pink and erect, growing sensitive in the night air. A thin trickle of white ran down the grey fur of his swollen belly, dribbling from each tender bud. Blackthorne took a breast in his paw, his fingers playing across the bumpy pink flesh. His body shuddered, an electric thrill suddenly racing up his spine. He nudged the pink nub which leaked its rich, sweet essence, probing his nipple. His gravid body trembled in the mirror, shifting, turning so that his enormous gravid mound was now thrusting out in profile. The ripe swell of his middle, the fat roundness of his buttocks, Blackthorne’s cheeks began to blossom. The rat reached back, flinging the robe from his jiggling ass, his keen, dark eyes lighting with a lustful desire.

“Mmm,” he said. He turned his back to the mirror, his round, wide cheeks displayed prominently. “Perhaps though, there is something to be said for this condition.” 

The rat swayed his motherly hips, lifting his slender tail so that his dimpled rump would not be covered. Slowly, he turned back, his belly before him. His cock pressed against his lower stomach, the plump fruits of his manhood dangling between his thighs. 

“I may have indulged a bit too much,” he laughed. “My my, to have aroused even myself. Why Blackthorne, you are simply too much.” 

The rat smiled, his white fangs flashing through a pair of lips painted the color of fresh blood. His dark eyes were framed in blue shadow, making them glitter like uncut gems. 

“Yes,” he hissed. “I was beautiful and pregnancy has only made me more so.”

The rat stepped back from the mirror, returning to his chair. His paw extended for a crystal ball which sat atop his desk. Muttering an incantation, the ball clouded as if filling with an unnatural fog. Through the swirling mists there came the vision of a creature. Black as night, a thing of utter horror curled within its cocoon of living flesh. Blackthorne placed his other hand on his belly, flickers of sickly green energy sparking from each tip. Tiny bolts of emerald lightning darted across his stomach, singing his grey fur, sinking into his flesh with a jolt that made the rat wince. The creature within the crystal ball began to move, clawed limbs stirring, pressing against the walls of the rat’s magical womb. Blackthorne’s belly bubbled beneath his touch, flutterings of life stirring within him. The monster moved, shifting, searching for the way out, eager to escape into the world. 

“Not yet,” growled the rat. “Urg, not yet.” Pain racked his gravid frame, but the rodent would not let up. Power flowed through him, a dark and arcane might granted by the hand of the King, the father of his growing child. “Ah, I must bear it,” he snarled through gritted fangs. “To wield the words of power from the King himself.” Sweat slathered his fur, matting his hair to his forehead. “I must have it!” Spittle ran down his chin, dribbling onto his chest to ooze between his heaving breasts. 

His belly roiled, the thing within him, protesting to the power being fed to it from the rat mage.  Blackthorne at last removed his hand, his breath whooshing from his slackened lips in a great sigh. The creature within him, the offspring of the King, settled into a fitful slumber, having fed upon the raw power of the rat. Licking his lips, Blackthorne ran his hand over the crystal ball, silencing the magical sphere. The image of the creature faded, returning once more to clear glass. Waggling his fingers, Blackthorne cast a new spell. A spectral hand emerged from the gloom, floating before him. 

“You know what to do,” he grumbled. 

The hovering servitor flew to his belly, fingers spreading over the gravid flesh. Slowly, that spectral hand slid across his stomach, slipping down his lower belly, rising up to circle his navel. Blackthorne exhaled in contentment, slumping deep into the padded cushions of his chair. A second hand appeared, setting to work on his heaving breast. Magical fingers plied themselves to his nipple, flicking, twisting. The rat's lips began to part, his fangs emerging in a satisfied grin. 

“Ungh,” he moaned. “O-Oh, that is heavenly.”

His arms fell to the sides of the chair, his legs extended out before him. The magical hands continued to explore his ripe body, circling and sliding, caressing his tight, bloated flesh. Blackthorne’s tongue rubbed at the roof of his mouth. His eyes began to droop, lost as he was to the blissful ministrations of his magically summoned simulacrums. So lost was he in his pleasure, that the rat did not notice the peculiar way in which his shadow had lengthened across the floor. The lamps wobbled, their orange glare spilling over the dusty flags like the runny yolk of an egg. Blackthorne was not surprised when the shadow grew, coagulating into the shape of a beast otherworldly and obscene. 

“Ebilith,” he said. “I see that you come unbidden.”

From the abyss stepped forth an imp. Her lithe, supple frame moved with the easy grace of a dancer. Her slender shoulders were green with a leathery toughness, which descended down each arm and her back. The skin of her chest, belly and legs was a light tan, like the sands of the Golden Coast. Her sleek, muscular legs terminated in a pair of cloven hooves which struck the flags like a flint. Blue sparks flickered from her feet with each step, scorching the carpet and setting alight the discarded papers strewn before her like a trail of rose petals. Blue flickers turned to blackened ashes which danced like motes of dust in the gloomy air as the imp came to stand before the rat mage. A long, thin tail, tipped with a triangular point, curled above her tight, round rump. She leaned forward, her claws gripping the arms of the chair, her pert, apricot breasts gliding up Blackthorne’s belly. Rock hard nipples the color of blackest midnight tickled his sensitive flesh and the rat could not suppress the giddy thrill which was growing inside him. 

“So long as you carry the spawn of the King, I am always bidden,” the imp replied with a curl of her black, glimmering lips. Full, wet lips, forever pushed out in a pouty sort of way which made the rat’s heart flutter. Her nose, vaguely feline, crinkled as she smiled. Her eyes, crimson set within pools of jaundice yellow, regarded her charge with a mixture of fascination and wanton lust below a pair of jagged horns which adorned a cascading curtain of hair the color of burnished copper like a crown.

Blackthorne sat with his chin resting on his fist, the gems on his fingers twinkling in the candlelight. “And here I had believed that you simply could not resist my charm.”

“The arrogance of mortals will never cease to amaze me.” The imp shook her fine head, but the smile could not be suppressed. She then turned her attention to the summoned spectral hands, still massaging Blackthorne’s body and clucked her tongue in disgust. “Really now.” The demon had pushed herself from the rat mage, her face twisted in contempt. “You wish to waste such efforts on those pitiful things?” She pointed at the floating hands. “You know that you have me, dear mage.” Her lips once more became that familiar grin. She straddled the rat, her slim legs hugging his jiggling thighs. “I can do so much more for you.”

Her tail flicked behind her, snapping with the crack of a bullwhip. Instantly, the dweomer of the summoned hands was dispelled. The heat of her supple body, the furious desire which swirled in her eyes, not to mention the sheer power of her demonic magic had stoked the flames within Blackthorne. Her hips pressed into his lap, the throbbing of her male sex, a black rod of pulsing glee trembled against his lower belly. Her balls churned between his thighs, promising the rat of the splendors to come. His own manhood rose in challenge, nuzzling the rippling muscles of her taut belly. The imp leaned closer, draping herself over the rat. The unborn spawn of the King shivered, protesting to imp’s weight crushing down Blackthorne’s belly.

The rat groaned and Ebilith wrapped her arms around his neck. “Do not fret, dear mage.” She ran her fingers through his tangled hair, stroking his ear. “The master has sent for me to care for you. Soon, you shall bear the spawn of the King. Is that not grand?”

“I wish for the power of the King, himself,” replied Blackthorne. “The promise made in return for this burden.”

The imp grew close, her breath, hot and wet, carrying with it the faint aroma of brimstone, blowing on his lips. Blackthorne’s mouth quivered, growing slack with the anticipation of her devilish mouth. The imp claimed his mouth, her lips meeting his in a fearsome kiss. Her tongue, forked and slender, probed his gums, sliding along his teeth, seeking the passage into his mouth. Blackthorne would oblige, his fangs parting, opening himself to her. Ebilith wasted no time, slipping between her lover’s jaws to scour the red gums, the white teeth which lay upon them as pearls on a bed of crimson silk. Her tongue caressed his palate, plunging down his throat. Blackthorne moaned through his twitching nostrils, his paws rising, grasping the imp by the buttocks. Ebilith gave a start as hard, cruel fingers sank into her firm, smooth flesh, but the demon would not cease in her embrace. Her hands slipped from his neck, falling to his shoulders as she sat back, filling the rat’s palms with her hot, yielding flesh. 

“O-Oh,” sighed Blackthorne. His cock trembled with need to pierce her infernal flesh. 

Ebilith ran her hands down the rat’s chest, caressing the swollen breasts, swirling around his pink areolas. She descended down the curve of his gravid belly, the churning movements of his unborn stirring beneath her palms. She pulled her mouth from his, descending now to the scruff of his shaggy chin. Blackthorne let his head fall back, his throat bared to the imp. The devilish creature peppered his neck, her kisses traversing the curve of his throat to come to the pool of his collarbone. There, she filled that empty hollow with her lustful desires until it verily overflowed, spilling down his chest, seeping between those pendulous orbs which heaved with every straining breath. The imp plummeted, seeking to dip between those spheres. Blackthorne’s milky breasts wobbled, parting before her muzzle so that she could graze upon the sensitive flesh which dwelled in the valley below. 

Her fingers, those nimble claws, raked his belly, the rasp of fur and skin a decadent symphony, joining the chorus of the rat’s moans of blissful contentment. Blackthorne, not to be outdone, slid his hands up her back, relishing the way her muscles flowed with such liquid grace. Truly, no mortal female could compare to Ebilith’s infernal charm, her devilish grace and beauty. His cock stirred, his heart thudding in his chest with more than simple carnal desire. There came to him a need, a want to keep this perfect creature for himself. Long had he racked his brains, trying to find a means to thwart the King and hold back the eventual banishment of Ebilith once the birthing was complete. Tonight, would be the night, he had told himself. He clapped his hands to the imp’s cheeks, tearing her gasping mouth from between his sagging breasts. Ebilith opened her eyes, a small, knowing smile curling her lips.

“Perhaps, we should take this to the bed?” the imp asked with a coy raising of a brow.

“I would agree,” replied Blackthorne. 

Ebilith slid from her charge, coming to stand at full height before the mage. Her slim body was an enticing promise which Blackthorne could not ignore. The rat cupped a hand beneath his belly and struggled to heave himself from his chair. 

“I have gotten heavier since last we embraced,” he said with a slight smile which brought a grin to the imp’s face. 

“You mean since last night?” the imp chuckled.

Ebilith took his hand in hers, dragging the gravid mage to his aching feet. His belly thrust into her tight stomach, her hands reaching now for his shoulders. With a deft movement, the rat’s robe spilled from his gravid frame, sliding effortlessly to pool at his feet. Bared before the imp, his pregnant form was revealed. His hips, wide and round with their maternal padding, tapered down his full thighs, his slim calves. The heat bloomed in the cheeks of the imp, and her cock began to stir. A rod of pure jet rose, throbbing with the need to claim this gorgeous mortal. Her fingers itched to seize Blackthorne then and there.

“Allow me to help you to the bed,” she whispered. 

The bed was one befitting a mage of Blackthorne’s standing. Tucked to the side of the rat’s chamber, surrounded by the high shelves which sagged with dusty tomes and crumbling parchments, there squatted a behemoth wrought in solid oak. The reddish wood was carved with the meticulous care of a master craftsman. The high headboard was inlaid with delicate veins of pure gold and studded with emeralds. The mattress itself was covered in sheets of shimmering red and gold silk, the pillows glimmering with vibrant threads of woven green, and blue. 

Blackthorne clambered onto the bed, one knee resting on the mattress, his long tail slithering behind him as he fell over, crumpling into the sheets. His belly spilled outward, a vast hump of grey which swelled like a pearl. His breasts wobbled gently, shaking with the labored breaths of the rat mage as he struggled to roll onto his back. Ebilith came to kneel beside him, her clawed fingers running down his side, exploring the scruff of his lower belly, now rising up his stomach, circling both breasts to gently caress his throat. Blackthorne moaned, offering his neck to the imp. Ebilith’s lips met his throat, claiming his chin as she traveled up to meet once more those red lips. Her jaws parted, surrounding his mouth, her tongue slipping from between her fangs to to slide along his teeth. Blackthorne seized the imp by her narrow waist, drawing her to him so that she lay atop his belly. Ignoring the furious kicking of his unborn, the rat mage’s nimble tongue slithered from his jaws to twine around Ebilith’s, rubbing the smooth underside of her tongue, darting into her mouth. The taste of sulfur was on his tongue, bubbling with an acrid tang which made the hairs on the back of his neck stand. 

His claws slid around her back, embracing the otherworldly beauty. Ebilith offered no resistance, her hands on his cheeks, her lips pulling back, glistening black. Her cock throbbed against his belly, that ebon rod pulsing with the raw heat of her desire. Her balls churned, fattened with fresh seed. 

“Now, shall I?” the imp asked. 

“Yes, Ebilith,” said Blackthorne. 

Clever fingers swirled through the rough grey fur, swishing and rustling, her hands circling his pregnant middle. The imp traced a claw around the distended navel, drawing a sharp line down the rat’s lower belly and back up. Slowly she worked up the ribs of the mage, coming to his heavy breasts. Pink nubs of quivering delight stood erect through the grey fur, thin trails of milk trickling down those heaving orbs. The imp took one breast in her claws, her thumbs working into the tender flesh, eliciting a moan of contentment from the rat. 

“Ah, Ebilith,” Blackthorne groaned. “That’s perfect.”

The imp swirled around the rat’s areola, circling the firm bud, flicking and pinching. The rat stirred below her, shifting his wide hips as the imp plucked at his erect nipple. Clasping the tender nub between thumb and forefinger, she twisted, gaining a sharp cry from Blackthorne. The rat rolled to his side, his hip rising up to greet her. Ebilith placed her hand on his hip, drawing her claws down his flabby cheek. Blackthorne continued to roll over, his fat ass now thrust up towards the ceiling. The imp cupped his full buttocks, her fingers kneading the flesh like fresh dough. Blackthorne sighed, pleasure sweeping over him like a warm, gentle wave. 

“How long have we done this, Ebilith? How many nights now?” he said. 

“Every night since you became the carrier of the King’s seed,” said Ebilith. “And I have had the privilege of watching you grow so round and so very beautiful.” A blush suffused her cheeks. Had she just spoken so openly to the rat?

“Tell me truly, Ebilith. Is that all that this is to you?” asked the rat. “To play the nursemaid to the spawn of the King?”

Ebilith stopped, her hands gripping firmly the furry flesh. Was that the only reason, she wondered? Her attention was drawn at that moment to the deep cleft between his cheeks, her thumbs dipping down deep into that jiggling canyon, parting him wide, revealing the dark, tight ring of his button. The rat gave a start as the cool air of the room kissed his ring. Ebilith circled his anus with a finger, her mouth descending. Her hot, wet breath blew against his ring, the rat’s body trembling with anticipation. His flower bloomed, growing wet and slack, eager to be taken by the imp’s wanting mouth. Ebilith placed her lips to his ring, stealing the breath from his lungs in a kiss which opened the gates of his womb. Her tongue slithered deep, nuzzling his quivering prostate, lapping the crumbling edifice of his fortress. The rat dug his claws into the sheets, searching for something, anything, with which to cling to lest he find himself swept away on that giddy sea of utter jubilation. The demon pulled back, her tongue curling, sliding along the walls of his rectum. 

Meanwhile, her hands had seized his thighs, spreading his legs so that she could grasp his throbbing cock. The rat’s pink manhood rose, a veined pillar of hot, quivering flesh, his balls churning. Faster, she pumped, her nostrils flaring. Blackthorne hugged a green silk pillow to his breast, whimpering softly, his body aflame with the mounting desire to be taken by the imp. His flower blossomed, growing wider, opening fully before Ebilith. The imp pulled back, her face flushed, her breath ragged. Though she had desired nothing more than to please the rat, it was the imp who found herself filled with an unbridled passion. Her chest ached, her heart thundered in her ribs to lay her eyes upon the sweetly rounded form of Blackthorne. Ebilith licked her lips, covetous eyes falling to the fleshy spear of the rat’s manhood. Though he could not see it, the rat knew then that a bead of vibrant violet was beginning to well up from the imp’s gaping urethra. 

Ebilith came to place her hands on his hips, guiding him so that he now lay on his back. Her muzzle fell between his legs, her breath hot on his throbbing member. Her kisses traveled up his shaft, her tongue swirling around his tip, lapping the glimmering precum which shimmered so seductively. The rat clapped the pillow tight, whimpering into the shining silk while the imp wrapped her lips around his cock. A sigh slipped from her nose as she plummeted down the rat’s shaft. The tangle of pubic fur, white as his hair, tickled her nose, making the imp giggle. She pulled back, her lips closing around his rod, milking his cock. Her tongue slithered along the plump undershaft, licking the sweat from his flesh. The natural scent of Blackthorne’s musk seeped into her nostrils, the imp’s head swimming with the pungent aroma of the rat. Her hands worked down his balls, squeezing softly, coming to caress the fat perineum. The rat shuddered, his thighs spreading wider, giving himself freely to the demon who shared his bed. 

“A-Ah, Ebilith,” Blackthorne cried out in a strained tone. “I do not believe that I can last much longer.”

The imp plucked her lips from his cock, leaving his shaft slick and shiny. 

“Then, my dear Blackthorne,” the imp purred. “Shall I truly please you?”