kings pleasure dropster - Stories and Text Pastebin

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Kings pleasure dropster By fishy9890 on 29th August 2021 03:59:07 AM

“No Madame No!” her ladies in waiting cried, “You cannot! Not so late!”
“I must,” she replied in a passion. “I have no choice. Even now some young doxy will have his hands all over her. He ruts like a rabbit. I dare not leave him until after the baby!”
Yet she understood every reason for her ladies’ concern. For months she had appeared at the King’s side in ever wider-waisted gowns, ignoring the glances of the nobility scandalised at yet another mistress swelling with the King’s illegitimate child. Yet she could not retire to discreet seclusion as her predecessor had done. Not with her own example before her: she had, after all, finally enticed the King between her own eager thighs at a time when both her predecessor and the Queen were retired from court, great with child.
But there was a limit to what any woman might get away with. The church taught that even a husband might not consort with his wife for the month before the expected onset of her pains; not for nothing was it termed her confinement. There was therefore not even any respectable dress for a woman once she became very big in the belly.
She had tried, truly she had tried. It was several weeks since she last dined with the King. Afterwards she had undressed and taken his member from behind on all fours on the bed, while he held and stroked her swollen, low hanging tummy. But, in the time since, she had been tortured by accounts of the court as it hunted at Fontainebleau, and which of the virginal maids were at the King’s side, and where on their lithe, slim bodies his hands had lingered.
‘A woman begins to lose her bloom at twenty-two’: that was the accepted wisdom. At twenty-eight, the Countess Françoise Athénaïs de Montespan was glamorous, accomplished, witty but aging and very, very pregnant. Now the King had returned to the Louvre. A noblewoman would be in his bed tonight, of that she was sure. As she was equally sure that it must be her.
Her women looked stricken as they helped her dress. The once shapely handfuls of her breasts were now tense and swollen and drooping under their extra weight. She bade her women put a binding over her chemise to lift and support them. Next the gown; the only one cut to accommodate her later pregnancy, green to compliment her eyes and richly embroidered with gold. The bodice was tugged tight over her raised breasts; the catches would not meet. Athénaïs grunted with discomfort as the bodice was gripped and fiercely pulled to, crushing her tender teats. Below the enormous, tightly stretched belly protruded far out from the gaping opening of the gown.
With one lady at each edge of the gown they tugged it fiercely across her hard, round tummy. She cried out in pain as hands and elbows dug cruelly into the thin walls of her over-full womb. But in vain.
Finally: “Fasten it below,” she commanded. “Let my lord appreciate the lusty growth of the seed he has planted in me!”
There was a chorus of aghast cries. Several women burst into tears at the shame of their mistress appearing so. Hortense, oldest and most trusted among them looked painfully into her eyes.
“Do not do this, my mistress,” she pleaded, “It will be counted an outrage, a scandal. To be seen in public so late in your term, let alone in such a state of undress, it cannot be borne. The King must cut you dead. Please do not do it!”
Athénaïs was moved by the intense concern of her loyal friend. “Do not fret, good Hortense,” she murmured gently. “I risk all, but when have I not? And I know the King. This thing must be done, and I am equal to it.”
Hortense’s aging eyes welled with tears. “She is the bravest woman in France!” she sobbed.
“And the most foolish,” the scandalised eyes of the other women seemed to say.
She came upon the king in the royal stateroom. The immense paneled walls gleamed in the light from the chandeliers. In the corner several musicians were maintaining discreet background music. The courtiers lounged comfortably in ornately carved and upholstered chaises. The women wore exquisitely coloured silken gowns, bodices emphasising their narrow waists and the high apples of their breasts, sleeves and skirts luxuriant in pleats and ruffs; the men even gaudier with their heavily embroidered waistcoats and knee breaches. But none would be foolish enough to rival the King for opulence of attire. His majesty sparkled in crimson and gold, his waistcoat comfortably open to give room for his sated belly, an informality not permitted to anyone else in the room.
But Athénaïs had eyes only for his companion, the fifteen-year-old Charlotte-Eléonore de la Motte Houdancourt. She perched on the arm of Louis’ chair, slender and fragile, the King’s arm around her resting on her thigh and her pale auburn hair tumbling over him as she leant forward giggling at an unheard remark. Athénaïs would not be supplanted by such as her!
The companionable hubbub in the room weakened and died as all eyes turned to the apparition at the door. There were gasps of horror as they saw her standing there. Athénaïs was elegantly tall with, normally, just a touch of shapeliness in her figure. As the years passed she could sometimes be thought of as having a somewhat pinched look to her narrow, bold features, but pregnancy had plumpened her face giving her a new youthfulness which survived, thanks to the cosmetic arts, the tiredness which was these days ever present. Her glossy black hair fell in copious ringlets to her bare shoulders.
Her bodice, cut fashionably low, strained to the utmost but could barely contain her heavily swollen bosom. Great plump mounds of lush, translucent flesh sprang out above the lacy top framing a long, deep cleavage, the broad expanse carpeted with a tracery of thick, blue veins attesting to the churning productivity developing within her breasts.
But most eyes were drawn, scandalised, below. Many had seen her green gown when, some weeks ago, it had tightly encased her shamefully rounded belly. Now, at the extremity of her gestation, a single catch, stressed to near breaking point, clasped it tautly to the upper slope of the huge globe of her womb, beneath, a similar catch, hidden in the low overhang, clutched it together again. Between, the gown gaped yawningly to show a broad expanse of white undergarment drawn skintight over her ripened mound, the stiff stalk of her outthrust navel poking shamelessly through the fabric.
The King’s voice cut through the deafening silence: “Well, my dear this is—unexpected,” he said, amused and calculating. “Shouldn’t a woman in your condition be in bed—resting?”
“I find my bed has been of late lonely and—unsatisfying,” she replied. There were suppressed gasps and then a deathly hush. Breaths were held.
The King chuckled softly, his cruel considered laugh, but the tension eased abruptly. Athénaïs, her eyes flashing, waddled carefully across the room towards the King, trying to ignore the incessant pressure deep within her tummy. A pointed glare at the confused Charlotte-Eléonore was sufficient to send the maiden scurrying. Another glance at one of the servants silently standing at the walls was sufficient to bring cushions for her to sit on at the King's side; she was much too far gone to contemplate sitting on a chair arm and, indeed, lowering herself to the floor was achieved only at the cost of an unbecoming flush of effort and with bare avoidance of a humiliating grunt of discomfort.
But the King was hers and with the combination of her conversation and the tantalising view down her cleavage she would keep him so for the evening. Remind him of why she was the one carrying his child.
As he laughed, more genuinely, at her witticisms he leaned towards her. “I like it in you, ma chère Athénaïs, that you keep me from boredom. I am so often bored these days.”
“Anything to please your majesty.”
“Anything?” he goaded, his cruel smile returning.
“I am at your command, always,” she lowered her immaculately coiffured head submissively.
He leaned closer: “Then there is a something you can do for me that no one else has,” he hissed.
“Name it, sire.”
“I would watch you in the process of birth, watch the baby emerge from between your glorious thighs.”
Athénaïs’s heart lurched and she looked quickly around to be sure that they had not been overheard. “Your wish is my command,” she responded uncertainly.
“It should be an easy enough time for you,” he continued sardonically, after all you have given two children to your late husband already.
Athénaïs simpered resentfully at that slur on the size of her cunny. It was, after all, narrow enough to have drawn a regular spend from the Royal prick and to have got her in her present condition, at least until now: she didn’t want to think about how stretched she might be after this, her third childbed.
The King leaned closer. “You mentioned the loneliness of your bed,” he whispered. “Is it then still possible for you to consummate the act of love?”
“As much as ever,” she breathed in reply.
“Then you have my permission to come to my bedchamber,” he said, eyes devouring her lush gravid curves.
Even knelt at the side of the King, Athénaïs found herself rapidly tiring and so she was glad when Louis made an early announcement of his intention to retire to bed. She clambered to her feet, her face turned from the room so that the courtiers would not see the strain on her face from the effort, but she was rewarded by the triumph of having them, one by one, take their leave of her: she still held the power of the King’s regard.
Late that night she padded awkwardly down the private corridor connecting her rooms to the bedchamber of the King. Candles provided a dim and flickering light in which Louis’ eyes gleamed as he followed her progress into the room. She undid the buttons which secured her tent-like retiring robe and stood only in her fine shift, her body clearly outlined beneath. Then she began to draw her shift up and up, baring the lushly rounded thighs, the outthrust belly and then lifting it high up to clear her head and leave her panting softly, naked before the King.
He saw before him a sight that was not meant for any man: the body of a woman on the verge of childbirth. Her breasts were enlarged and they hung long and plump and heavy on the firm shelf of her belly. The nipples, somewhat down-pointing, were thick and dark and protruded a finger nail’s length from her shockingly large areolae, equally dark and ragged at their edges where the colour seemed to bleed out into the pale flesh of her paps. But it was below where his eyes lingered, on the great, taut mass of her straining abdomen, distended by his child until her flesh seemed hard and almost ready to burst from the impossible size of her womb. Her navel was a stretched, hard lump and up the very centre of this enormous, thrusting boulder she was carrying ran a fat dark line from the shadow between her legs to her ribcage. His pecker stood fiercely.
Athénaïs came to the bed and turned back the covers, displaying the royal torso, flagstaff raised. With a subdued huff of effort she climbed onto the bed and straddled her lord. She knew she must control this encounter. Her tummy was now too huge and tight to risk other than a very careful bedding. So she rode the King, panting and perspiring as she forced her massively swollen abdomen up and down, up and down the King’s rigid organ. She leaned forward to support her weight on her hands, her breasts swaying and wobbling before him with her movements, her nipples becoming longer and stiffer with her arousal. He reached up to grasp the ripe, chocolate fruit, cruelly pinching her delicate, sensitive nubbins and then kneading and milking the dense, tender glands behind them until little droplets sprang up on the ends of her aching, throbbing teats and glistened in the candle light.
Athénaïs’s breathing was becoming ragged, her excitement overcoming her; it had been some time since her vagina had received a pleasuring and she could feel the familiar tension building in her tummy, so tightly stretched by her child. Her wet, sloppy sheath was sliding so easily now and she was puffing hard and moaning as she sought the extra swiftness and forcefulness she needed. But the King’s hands ravaging her breasts were breaking her control and sending hot waves of pressure down to her loins: pressure and more pressure until suddenly she cried out in surprise as a deep cramping gripped her, rippling around her tightly packed womb making it stand out, hard and sore, then clutching and shivering down her cunny.
At Athénaïs’s passionate cry, Louis had the sudden and unique feeling of the sheath holding his prick clenching fiercely. He was thrust immediately over the edge and, with a great roar, he thrust upwards into Athénaïs’s hot cunny and unloaded a teeming flood of royal seed into his gravid mistress.
Panting hoarsely, Athénaïs rolled her ungainly body off the royal prick and thumped heavily on her back. Her hands cupped her aching belly where that awful pain was slowly ebbing. Her thickened thighs were splayed apart and it seemed that Louis had spent more copiously than usual as she felt thick globules ooze out of her plundered cunny and trickle down her bum crack to the waiting sheets. Even reclining, the pressure of her babe deep between her hips was intense.
Forcing herself to her feet she tugged her garments roughly about her swollen body and, ignored by her monarch who seemed to have fallen into a pleasured sleep, she waddled painfully back to her own bed,
Her dreams were troubled. Again and again she woke clutching with alarm at a stabbing, gripping pain in her distended abdomen.
By morning she knew herself to be suffering the early pangs of childbirth. She deeply regretted her actions of the night before which had brought this upon her. All the world must know that she had spread her legs in the royal bed last night and what fragment of reputation she had left could surely not survive the suspicion that the King had been sullied by lying with a parturient woman not only within a month of her confinement, as the church taught, but literally as her body began to push her babe into the world. She must pray that her pains would fade and allow a decent interval before the royal offspring emerged.
As they dressed her, she felt the eyes of her ladies appraisingly upon her. Her shift, sweat-dampened as a result of her disturbed sleep, was hurriedly cast aside with the broad stains, evidence of copious fluids seeped from her cunny, tactfully ignored. As the new shift was tugged down over the belly, huge, taut and low-hanging, she was seen to catch a sharp breath. She looked anxious and her hands flew to her straining womb.
“Madame ...” asked Anne-Lucie solicitously. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all,” she managed to gasp. “Just the babe moving. It ... oohh ....”
She was unable to finish. The babe was moving true enough, but not quite in the way she implied.
She clung fiercely to her belly, the pain now become a fiery band tightening around her middle.
“Madame should return to bed,” Anne-Marie pronounced, to murmurs of assent, “The doctor should be summoned immediately!”
“No!” Athénaïs proclaimed anxiously. “It is nothing. See, already it passes!” She forced her hands away from her still painfully cramping mound. Forced herself to breath steadily. She held out her arms imperiously for her gown to be fitted, casting an appealing glance to Hortense. Her faithful friend immediately lifted the heavy fabric to her tense body, anxiety etched on her well loved face.
Anne-Lucie looked in mute appeal to the others. Several had calculating expressions on their faces. They understood the implications of their mistress’s clenching belly and were wondering how much longer loyalty to her would bring reward.
Athénaïs bit her lip and sweat started up on her furrowed brow, but she rode out the cramping of her womb until she could once again relax and move more easily. She observed that the others held back from supporting Anne-Lucie.
Athénaïs’ gown flowed loosely about her hugely swollen belly in shimmering folds of finest silk. She sat, her mind in turmoil, distractedly embroidering a tiny gown for the infant in her tummy. Her ladies, engaged in the same task, were subdued and watchful. There was a wariness in the air. Fortunately her gown hid from them how wide apart she held her thighs in response to the pressure she was feeling and how low her tight, straining belly pressed between them.
Every so often she sucked in a deep breath and schooled her face to calmness as a burning pain spread around the wide circumference of her tummy. She tried to tell herself that the pains were not coming more quickly, that the pressure in her loins was not increasing.
The morning passed. Her back was aching and she welcomed the opportunity to stand and move to the luncheon table.
“Aahh! ... Aahhh!” she gasped as she struggled to her feet. Her legs felt strangely insecure as though something was pressing its way between them. She was between pains but she could not hold her legs together and the pressure of the fetus on her unsupported bottom was distracting. It was grown much stronger since she had sat.
Her women crowded around her sympathetically, offering arms in support. She could waddle the short distance to the table without trouble.
But then she was conscious of an aching cramp building in her back. Surely it was too early to be another pain?
“Whoo ... Whoo ...” she puffed. But it was spreading around her sides and flaring into that familiar burning feeling ...
“Nooo! Not so soon! ...” she realised she had said it aloud! She was nearly at the table; but this one was coming so fast and so hard! Suddenly she was staggering the last steps and bending at the waist, one hand gripping the table edge, the other clutching the gown to the under-swell of her belly. Her head dipped, her curls tumbling hiding her face which was screwing up in pain.
“AAAaaawwwwwwngggg!! ...” she moaned. Her fierce wail rang about a room in which all chatter had suddenly stopped. Her women were looking at her with varying expressions: shock, horror, concern, calculation. For all recognised the hard, groaning cry that comes from deep within, unique to a woman gripped by the agonies of childbirth.
“Hhhaaagghh! ... Hhhaaagghh! ...” she panted hoarsely, trying to recover her composure. Her condition was now too patent to be denied. But it might be many hours yet, even days before her child finally squeezed into the world. Her remaining chance was to persuade her ladies to secrecy. She looked wildly around the room, but Anne-Marie was already gone.
Athénaïs was seated at the table, still breathing heavily. A group of her women clustered about her fanning her face with lacy handkerchiefs or rubbing her arm soothingly. Another group had withdrawn to the corner of the room as if dissociating from her in her extremity. She determined that she would see that they suffered.
Two attendants entered, Anne-Marie beaming triumphantly behiind them.
“You must accompany the servants,” she said, “The King requires
it!”
In a daze Athénaïs got clumsily to her feet. There was something she had said last night that whispered at the back of her mind, Something she had agreed to.
The attendants led her away from her rooms, down corridors which led to another part of the palace altogether. This was not where she had planned to be delivered of the King’s child. Servants and minor functionaries bustled to and fro averting their eyes from the puffing, waddling woman. Once she had to stop, doubling over and clutching at her sharply contracting abdomen. She felt humiliated that she should be seen in such a delicate state by such people.
Finally they entered a large paneled room. It contained a large bed, a sideboard, and a chamber pot in one corner. The room was brightly lit by two huge chandeliers. Along one wall was hung a massive tapestry. Gazing in astonishment she could see holes in it through which darkness was visible beyond, just like peep holes. She remembered now what it was she had agreed to. But she had thought to be on shameful show for the King’s eyes only. It was obvious from the size and number of the holes in the tapestry that it was designed to accommodate more than one set of eyes. Many more than one set. She realised with angry embarrassment that she was to be humiliated in front of half the court.
The attendants helped her out of her robe, then bent and began lifting her shift up her legs.
“No!” she cried with alarm.
“It is the King’s instruction, Madame,” they replied impassively.
“Not yet,” she pleaded, “Not before the doctor ... uunnngghhhh!!” She clutched at the nearest of the two attendants for support as she hunched over her cramping belly. The pains were coming so strongly now.
“HHhhooooooo! ... HHhhooooooo! ...” she panted frantically. She straightened painfully, sweat already heavy on her brow. She must look a fright she thought distractedly. She staggered to the bed and gripped the bedpost with both hands, slumping against it.
The attendants followed and swiftly stripped the shift up over her lush, mature thighs, baring the thick, copious growth foresting her mound and straggling up the slope of her protruding belly. The belly itself was a huge globe, low hanging and tightly stretched so that the straining flesh was shiny and gleaming in the light of the multitude of candles.
“Noooo!!” she moaned, but she had no strength to fight, or even to take her hands from the bedpost. The attendants tugged the shift up her back and over her head and she had no choice but to stand defiantly as they took it from her unresisting arms. She could imagine the glittering, lascivious gaze of the King and courtiers as they gazed on her plundered charms. Choked with fury she lumbered awkwardly towards the tapestry. Let them see in closest detail the body which carried the royal child. Let them ... Oh no! It was coming again!
“OOhhhhhnngggg!! ...” she groaned, her eyes going wide with shock.
Oh dear God this was a hard one, the worst yet. She longed to reach for the tapestry, to tear it from the wall and expose the audience ogling her so lewdly, but she was rooted to the spot, legs parted and knees wobbling wider from the awful pressure.
“UUUUuunnnnngggggghhh!! ...” she wailed, both hands clapped to the great round bowl of her belly. Right in front of them, so close they could see every ripple of her tautly stretched tummy as it clenched and stood out, hard and low, so close they could see the first spurts trickle out of her bush and run, glistening down her thighs.
“AAaaaaaggghhhh!!... Hhooo!... Hhooo!...
UUUUuunnnnngggggghhh!! ...” she wailed again, spreading her thighs and sending the contents of her baby’s torn bag splashing to the polished floor between them.
Behind the curtain, half a dozen avid pairs of male eyes drank in the shockingly distended body of the famous beauty displayed so wantonly before them. The pain and distress plain in that arrogant face sent audible frissons of excitement through the watchers. Hands pressed into breeches and found stiffened peckers. Then gasps as she spread those Junoesque thighs. So close did they bend to those holes in the tapestry that the gushing waterfall, when it came seemed as if it would splash into their very eyes. With cries of alarm they reeled back then fell into fevered whispers. One or two had just experienced their first spend of the show.
For some time she lay sprawled on the bed to which she had staggered with the help of the attendants for her limp, ungainly body. They had spread her legs and wiped away the messy, bloody fluids which had gushed from her maternal gash, leaving her hairy lips gaping a little, tender and inflamed.
The doctor finally came to examine her. With a sign to the attendants he had them pull her into sitting position on the side of the bed. He firstly probed with his hands her huge, tight belly.
“Hmmf,” he said. “It’s certainly a big one this time. You have some work ahead of you Madame!”
Next he pushed her thighs apart and dove two thick fingers into her throbbing tunnel. Athénaïs winced with pain at the rude invasion.
“You don’t want to worry about a couple of little fingers,” he cackled. “You’ll have something a lot bigger than these stretching you out before too very long!”
Athénaïs fixed him with a steely glare. How dare he humiliate her so in front of not only the attendants but the assembled watchers of whom he couldn’t be ignorant. But just then his probing seemed to trigger something inside her and she was seized with a greater pain, a very profoundly greater pain. She doubled over clutching at her belly, his fingers still buried within her squeezing vagina.
“HHhhhhaaaaaaggghh! ...” she groaned, “HHhhooooo!! ... HHhhooooo!! ...” as her tummy became a hard fiery sheet clamping down on the baby within.
The doctor hastily tugged his fingers free. “Walking!” he commanded the attendants. “Get her up and walking!”
For many hours Athénaïs plodded the room. The attendants had taken pity on her and thrown a drape across her bowed, exhausted shoulders, but it did not come near covering her distended, low-hanging belly. She tried to be proud and brave in front of the unseen watchers whose eyes occasionally glinted from behind the tapestry hanging but her pains were coming more and more frequently, forcing her to cry out and buckle, clawing at her convulsing uterus and sagging in the arms of the attendants as her knees spread uncontrollably in response to the heavy pressure building between them. Each time her pants and moans grew a little stronger and she needed to spend longer gasping for breath supported by the attendants before she could pull herself wearily upright and waddle awkwardly forward once again.
The day had waned in the room beyond the tapestry. Watchers had come and gone, spending some time gloating or marveling over the tortured form of the King’s mistress, then leaving to attend to other business. The court had repaired for an early dinner, so as not to miss the evening’s entertainment, and servants were set to spy upon the agonies of Athénaïs’ labour and report progress to the King.
Now, replete from his repast, the King led the favoured courtiers back to the room beyond which the Countess was now into her tenth hour of labour. Her urgent cries carried into the viewing room as the King settled down with a grunt of satisfaction to resume his watch. The doctor had assured him that the moment of crisis was approaching.
Her pains were coming hard and often now and she could feel the cruel cannonball which was her baby’s head grinding lower and lower into the bones of her hips. Her knees were wobbling wider apart she was feeling a fierce searing urgency between her hips.
“It’s time!” she gasped. “The baby is coming! I need the chair!”
Wildly she looked about the room, registering for the first time the absence of the birthing chair: the chair in which she would sit in order to bear down and force the baby those last terrible inches through her womanly passage.
“Oh Lord!” she gasped. “Hurry, I’m ready for the chair!” Surely they couldn’t be intending her to sit on the edge of the bed, she thought in panic, with nothing for her back and arms to hold and push against?
“No chair,” said the chief attendant firmly as they tugged her towards the bed.
“No chair?” she cried.
“Monsieur the King’s orders.”
Athénaïs was bewildered and cast a beseeching gaze at the tapestry.
The attendants pushed her onto the large bed, Athénaïs huffing and gasping with the effort of hauling her sore, swollen body on hands and knees onto the lavishly embroidered counterpane.
“AAaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiii!! ...” she wailed as the twisting of her body compressed her enormous tummy and set off a savage, cramping contraction. “HHHoooooo!! ... HHHoooooo!! ...” she panted, sweat pouring into her eyes from her fevered forehead. She knew her lush, rounded rump was quivering lewdly in the air before the avid gazes of the onlookers, her thick, hairy vulva perhaps already beginning to push open with the urgency of her contraction, but she could do nothing other than bury her head in the bed and moan with pain, her low hanging belly tight as a drum as she pushed and pushed, willing her child to move down her tunnel, to cease stretching the tenderest parts of her sexual organ.
So oblivious was she in her desperation that she barely noticed the attendants push her over. Suddenly she was on her side, and then rolled, with considerable effort on behalf of the attendants, onto her back.
Agony crashed through her body.
“HHHHAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEIIIIII!! ...” she screamed, as suddenly the cramping of her belly muscles forced her babe not down her waiting channel but back against her spine. Her legs kicked desperately in the air trying to ease the pain caused by her birth canal being bent at such an awkward angle upwards, closing her child’s route to the outside world.
Frantically she struggled, twisting and bucking, trying to turn her ungainly body over into a position from which she could resume her urgent pushing.
The attendants grabbed her arms, twisting them cruelly and forcing her to remain on her back.
“We will need to tie her,” the chief one muttered.
“Noooooo! ...” Athénaïs howled. “… For the pity of God, noooo! Let me up. The baby can’t come like this! … My Lord!” she cried out in the general direction of the tapestry. “You imperil the baby! I can’t push it out like this!”
There was no reply. Grimly the attendants tied her arms and legs to the four posts of the bed, spreading her wide so that the best possible view was afforded the holes in the screen.
In the room beyond, the King bent forward, a wolfish smile on his face. In this position he could look directly down the velvet sheath of his mistress as it stretched to accommodate his child.
Athénaïs’ tortured body gleamed with sweat in the flickering evening candlelight as she squirmed and strained against her bounds. In moments an awful contraction seized her belly, brought on by her desperate struggle.
“HhhhaaaaaaiiieeEEE!! …” she screamed. She pulled her knees up towards her burning tummy as far as she was able and simultaneously dragged ferociously down on the bonds holding her wrists above her head. The force of her efforts was transmitted to her huge labouring abdomen making her womb stand up, high and hard. Her belly was a sheet of pain, her face was twisted in agony, the tendons in her neck standing out like straining ropes. On either side of her glistening torso hung her plump, blueveined breasts, their fattened nipples standing up dark and long as result of her terrible exertions.
“AAAaaaaeeEEEEEIIIII!! …” she howled. Something was moving! Creeping down her constricted tunnel, but the effort it was costing her was insupportable.
“HHhhhuuuuunnngggg …” she groaned. “HHhhhoooofffff!! … Ohh Lord! … HHhhhoooofffff!! … HHhhhoooofffff!! …” and she was spent, slumping, gasping for breath, her sweat-drenched hair plastered wildly to her overheated body.
The intensity of the famous courtesan’s struggles, the pain etched on her still beautiful face and echoing around the room in her cries had stiffened the courtiers manhoods; however some of the selected women present were gasping queasily at the torture a woman must feel forced onto her back for the critical moments of delivery; the time at which she most needs the natural help of gravity to work her large burden through the narrow gate between her thighs.
The cadence of Athénaïs’ panting rose again. Again she twisted her hands in her bonds, seeking maximum grip for the agonising trial ahead. Her muscles rippled and contracted she took a deep rasping breath and then spread and pushed, a guttural groan bouncing eerily about the room as she pushed and pushed, almost lifting her body off the bed with the impossible effort.
Excited gasps sprang up among the courtiers as they leaned eagerly towards the tapestry. The lushly furred gash of the court beauty was bulging outwards! The round outline of something shockingly large could be discerned pushing at her womanly slit!
“AAaaaaaaeeeiiiiii!! …” Athénaïs gave a long keening cry. The despairing wail of a defeated woman. “I can’t! … I can’t! … Too big! … Too hard! …” she sobbed.
How had it come to this, she thought wildly? How could she, the most powerful woman in the land, after the Queen, the woman bearing the King’s child, be straining impossibly and alone before the gaze of her enemies at court to birth in such an unnatural position?
The humiliation and defeat of the arrogant royal mistress drove the eager courtiers to yet greater heights of excitement. Wads of thick creamy spend were gushing from fevered pricks, hands were groping boldly up the dresses of any nearby woman.
The King looked around. Ah, there she was: the pale slender beauty Charlotte-Eléanore. Her eyes were wide with shock, her lips parted. Reaching over, Louis drew her to his side. “Is it not a stimulating sight ma chèrie,” he murmured. “The miracle of life! The task of every loyal woman to bear offspring to her lord!”
Charlotte-Eléonore’s heart was beating furiously. She saw the terrible ravages pregnancy had wrought on the mature body of Athénaïs; the unbearable agonies with which her body was wracked in the attempt to be delivered of her child. She shuddered at the thought that one day this would be her fate also.
Athénaïs was in a fog of pain She knew in her heart that she could not produce her child in this terrible position, but she was allowed no choice; her pains gripped her violently, relentlessly and she could only push, haul against her bonds with every ounce of her strength and push.
Her bones were stretched and creaking now, she could feel the huge cannonball of her babe’s massive head battering cruelly at the delicate membranes of her bottom. She cried and pushed and pushed and screamed with the searing pain in her distended womanhood.
The assembled courtiers could now clearly see the big bony outline of her baby’s head sending her bottom bulging out between her gaping thighs. Her gash, which seemed not properly aligned with the path the child was taking to the outside world, was nevertheless spreading slowly open, assuming first a teardrop shape, and then something even rounder; the skin becoming so thinly stretched it was bloodless and shiny.
Hands were now buried recklessly in furry grooves, the women’s eyes were glazing over as the smell of male semen began them oozing hormone-charged lubricant over the invading fingers.
The tired, gasping cries of the woman writhing on the bed were beginning to be matched by the urgent gasps of the aroused onlookers.
Athénaïs was moaning with agony, she was sure she must split open with the pressure now assailing her with every cruel contraction. This child felt so much larger than her previous births, or was it just the terrible position?
“HHhhhooooo!! … HHhhhooooo!! …” she gasped urgently sucking air into her lungs and trying desperately to take pressure off her ravaged tissues. The doctor had finally returned to the room, she noticed, carrying a tray of evil looking implements which he put on the sideboard. “Well, at least the King’s child will be preserved even if I have to ripped apart to achieve it!” she thought.
“HHhhhaauuuuuunnnngggggghhhh!! …” she groaned, as the next pain hit her and she clenched her muscles anew. She could feel her womanhood stretching; she could feel painful little tears as her muscles controlling her lower orifices reached the point of no return and broke apart. She felt herself opening wider, her unsupported cunny lips beginning to burn and sting.
From his vantage point looking straight down his mistress’s widespread thighs, King Louis watched as the plump, hairy lips so familiar to him, stretched out thinner and thinner until at last they formed a hard, tight O, and framed in that O was a slick bony plate which he knew must be the head of his child. The harsh screams of his mistress as her body began to split open with the results of the breeding given her 9 months before made his pecker swell and throb.
Charlotte-Eléanore gazed in astonishment as the king pulled open his breaches and tugged forth the big, knobbly royal weapon. He put out a strong male arm and pulled the uncomprehending girl against him. She stumbled and found herself astride his knees. Suddenly she understood.
Rough male hands lifted her skirts up her smooth slender legs.
“No! My lord, no!” she gasped. “I am pure! Please my lord, NO!”
Her mind was in turmoil. The tortured, gasping cries of the woman in crisis on the bed were a terrible reminder of the costs of being invaded by the organ which now threatened her. Soon his hands would be at her delicate untouched crevice. Surely he didn’t mean to shred her precious young maidenhead!
Athénaïs’ plump limbs were now bucking and snapping at their restraints as she writhed and twisted in her efforts to free the huge body of her child from her terribly stretched cunny. Her howls of agony echoed heartrendingly about the chamber. The doctor approached the bed with a pair of large gleaming forceps in his hands.
“NOOOOOOOO!! …” screamed the labouring woman, and she screwed her face up and pushed with every ounce of energy in her body, with every muscle fibre that would still obey her exhausted brain.
“NOOOOOOOO!! …” echoed Charlotte-Eléanore from behind the tapestry as the terrified girl felt her petite, lightly-furred furrow pushed open by the wide, rubbery bulb which was the head of her monarch’s breeding wand.
Athénaïs screamed, sucked in a ragged breath and screamed again. It seemed impossible that she wasn’t splitting apart, so fiery was the pain in her ravaged labia, so big was the solid unforgiving girth of her baby. But bit by bit the bones of her baby’s skull were sliding painfully through, and suddenly its entire head popped out amid a fountain of hot bloody fluid which splashed and spurted down the doctor’s gown, to his intense horror.
No such relief was vouchsafed Charlotte-Eléanore as her sweet virginal cunny was simultaneously and irrevocably torn open and stretched by the king’s thick manhood.
Athénaïs had collapsed, panting and gasping, on the bed. Her child’s head protruded from her gaping vagina but the rest remained inside, there being no gravitational pull to slip it from her traumatised body. Slowly she realised she had yet more work to do. A need to summon the energy to drive her child’s body fully out between her legs.
She gasped, a wheezing terrible breath, screwed up her face, stretched her knees as wide apart as possible and began to push anew.
Behind the tapestry, appalled women had straddled their men, pumping their vaginas up and down rampant pricks in an effort to shut out the terrible torture being visited on the king’s mistress; but CharlotteEléanore was sobbing softly as her sensitive young sheath learned to accommodate the girth of a mature man on the cruelly swollen weapon of the king. She imagined herself scorned and shamed as her tummy began to push unmistakably out beneath her virginal gowns; she saw herself alone and shunned in a nunnery, her belly huge and swollen with a bastard child; and she saw herself screaming in agony like the slut in the next room as her baby was torn from her ravaged body.
Athénaïs writhed and rolled her hips crying out with effort. Her knees were aching from being held so far apart. “Get it out! … Get it OUT!! …” she screamed. One of the attendants took pity on her, seeing that the doctor was still preoccupied with getting her birth fluids off his gown, and knelt between her thighs.
“AAAAuuuuugggghhhhhh …” Athénaïs ground out, feeling herself pulled impossibly wide as the attendant tugged roughly at her baby’s head. For a moment there was a little tug of war as Athénaïs’s tortured labia fought to hold the baby and then she gave a shriek as the resistance gave way and the whole long slippery body of the King’s lusty son slid free.
At that very moment the King gasped and drove triumphantly upwards into the slender, fertile body of the deflowered Charlotte-Eléanore. She felt a hot copious wetness spread through her loins. She had been seeded—and a new fashion in childbirth had been established.

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They say if its too[...]

Raw Paste

“No Madame No!” her ladies in waiting cried, “You cannot! Not so late!”
“I must,” she replied in a passion. “I have no choice. Even now some young doxy will have his hands all over her. He ruts like a rabbit. I dare not leave him until after the baby!”
      Yet she understood every reason for her ladies’ concern. For months she had appeared at the King’s side in ever wider-waisted gowns, ignoring the glances of the nobility scandalised at yet another mistress swelling with the King’s illegitimate child. Yet she could not retire to discreet seclusion as her predecessor had done. Not with her own example before her: she had, after all, finally enticed the King between her own eager thighs at a time when both her predecessor and the Queen were retired from court, great with child. 
      But there was a limit to what any woman might get away with. The church taught that even a husband might not consort with his wife for the month before the expected onset of her pains; not for nothing was it termed her confinement. There was therefore not even any respectable dress for a woman once she became very big in the belly.
      She had tried, truly she had tried. It was several weeks since she last dined with the King. Afterwards she had undressed and taken his member from behind on all fours on the bed, while he held and stroked her swollen, low hanging tummy. But, in the time since, she had been tortured by accounts of the court as it hunted at Fontainebleau, and which of the virginal maids were at the King’s side, and where on their lithe, slim bodies his hands had lingered.
      ‘A woman begins to lose her bloom at twenty-two’: that was the accepted wisdom. At twenty-eight, the Countess Françoise Athénaïs de Montespan was glamorous, accomplished, witty but aging and very, very pregnant. Now the King had returned to the Louvre. A noblewoman would be in his bed tonight, of that she was sure. As she was equally sure that it must be her.
      Her women looked stricken as they helped her dress. The once shapely handfuls of her breasts were now tense and swollen and drooping under their extra weight. She bade her women put a binding over her chemise to lift and support them. Next the gown; the only one cut to accommodate her later pregnancy, green to compliment her eyes and richly embroidered with gold. The bodice was tugged tight over her raised breasts; the catches would not meet. Athénaïs grunted with discomfort as the bodice was gripped and fiercely pulled to, crushing her tender teats. Below the enormous, tightly stretched belly protruded far out from the gaping opening of the gown. 
      With one lady at each edge of the gown they tugged it fiercely across her hard, round tummy. She cried out in pain as hands and elbows dug cruelly into the thin walls of her over-full womb. But in vain.
      Finally: “Fasten it below,” she commanded. “Let my lord appreciate the lusty growth of the seed he has planted in me!”
      There was a chorus of aghast cries. Several women burst into tears at the shame of their mistress appearing so. Hortense, oldest and most trusted among them looked painfully into her eyes.
      “Do not do this, my mistress,” she pleaded, “It will be counted an outrage, a scandal. To be seen in public so late in your term, let alone in such a state of undress, it cannot be borne. The King must cut you dead. Please do not do it!”
      Athénaïs was moved by the intense concern of her loyal friend. “Do not fret, good Hortense,” she murmured gently. “I risk all, but when have I not? And I know the King. This thing must be done, and I am equal to it.”
      Hortense’s aging eyes welled with tears. “She is the bravest woman in France!” she sobbed.
      “And the most foolish,” the scandalised eyes of the other women seemed to say.
      She came upon the king in the royal stateroom. The immense paneled walls gleamed in the light from the chandeliers. In the corner several musicians were maintaining discreet background music. The courtiers lounged comfortably in ornately carved and upholstered chaises. The women wore exquisitely coloured silken gowns, bodices emphasising their narrow waists and the high apples of their breasts, sleeves and skirts luxuriant in pleats and ruffs; the men even gaudier with their heavily embroidered waistcoats and knee breaches. But none would be foolish enough to rival the King for opulence of attire. His majesty sparkled in crimson and gold, his waistcoat comfortably open to give room for his sated belly, an informality not permitted to anyone else in the room. 
      But Athénaïs had eyes only for his companion, the fifteen-year-old Charlotte-Eléonore de la Motte Houdancourt. She perched on the arm of Louis’ chair, slender and fragile, the King’s arm around her resting on her thigh and her pale auburn hair tumbling over him as she leant forward giggling at an unheard remark. Athénaïs would not be supplanted by such as her!
      The companionable hubbub in the room weakened and died as all eyes turned to the apparition at the door. There were gasps of horror as they saw her standing there. Athénaïs was elegantly tall with, normally, just a touch of shapeliness in her figure. As the years passed she could sometimes be thought of as having a somewhat pinched look to her narrow, bold features, but pregnancy had plumpened her face giving her a new youthfulness which survived, thanks to the cosmetic arts, the tiredness which was these days ever present. Her glossy black hair fell in copious ringlets to her bare shoulders.
      Her bodice, cut fashionably low, strained to the utmost but could barely contain her heavily swollen bosom. Great plump mounds of lush, translucent flesh sprang out above the lacy top framing a long, deep cleavage, the broad expanse carpeted with a tracery of thick, blue veins attesting to the churning productivity developing within her breasts.
      But most eyes were drawn, scandalised, below. Many had seen her green gown when, some weeks ago, it had tightly encased her shamefully rounded belly. Now, at the extremity of her gestation, a single catch, stressed to near breaking point, clasped it tautly to the upper slope of the huge globe of her womb, beneath, a similar catch, hidden in the low overhang, clutched it together again. Between, the gown gaped yawningly to show a broad expanse of white undergarment drawn skintight over her ripened mound, the stiff stalk of her outthrust navel poking shamelessly through the fabric.
      The King’s voice cut through the deafening silence: “Well, my dear this is—unexpected,” he said, amused and calculating. “Shouldn’t a woman in your condition be in bed—resting?”
      “I find my bed has been of late lonely and—unsatisfying,” she replied. There were suppressed gasps and then a deathly hush. Breaths were held.
      The King chuckled softly, his cruel considered laugh, but the tension eased abruptly. Athénaïs, her eyes flashing, waddled carefully across the room towards the King, trying to ignore the incessant pressure deep within her tummy. A pointed glare at the confused Charlotte-Eléonore was sufficient to send the maiden scurrying. Another glance at one of the servants silently standing at the walls was sufficient to bring cushions for her to sit on at the King's side; she was much too far gone to contemplate sitting on a chair arm and, indeed, lowering herself to the floor was achieved only at the cost of an unbecoming flush of effort and with bare avoidance of a humiliating grunt of discomfort.
      But the King was hers and with the combination of her conversation and the tantalising view down her cleavage she would keep him so for the evening. Remind him of why she was the one carrying his child.
      As he laughed, more genuinely, at her witticisms he leaned towards her. “I like it in you, ma chère Athénaïs, that you keep me from boredom. I am so often bored these days.”
“Anything to please your majesty.”
“Anything?” he goaded, his cruel smile returning.
      “I am at your command, always,” she lowered her immaculately coiffured head submissively.
      He leaned closer: “Then there is a something you can do for me that no one else has,” he hissed.
“Name it, sire.”
      “I would watch you in the process of birth, watch the baby emerge from between your glorious thighs.”
      Athénaïs’s heart lurched and she looked quickly around to be sure that they had not been overheard. “Your wish is my command,” she responded uncertainly.
      “It should be an easy enough time for you,” he continued sardonically, after all you have given two children to your late husband already.
      Athénaïs simpered resentfully at that slur on the size of her cunny. It was, after all, narrow enough to have drawn a regular spend from the Royal prick and to have got her in her present condition, at least until now: she didn’t want to think about how stretched she might be after this, her third childbed.
      The King leaned closer. “You mentioned the loneliness of your bed,” he whispered. “Is it then still possible for you to consummate the act of love?”
“As much as ever,” she breathed in reply.
      “Then you have my permission to come to my bedchamber,” he said, eyes devouring her lush gravid curves.
      Even knelt at the side of the King, Athénaïs found herself rapidly tiring and so she was glad when Louis made an early announcement of his intention to retire to bed. She clambered to her feet, her face turned from the room so that the courtiers would not see the strain on her face from the effort, but she was rewarded by the triumph of having them, one by one, take their leave of her: she still held the power of the King’s regard.

Late that night she padded awkwardly down the private corridor connecting her rooms to the bedchamber of the King. Candles provided a dim and flickering light in which Louis’ eyes gleamed as he followed her progress into the room. She undid the buttons which secured her tent-like retiring robe and stood only in her fine shift, her body clearly outlined beneath. Then she began to draw her shift up and up, baring the lushly rounded thighs, the outthrust belly and then lifting it high up to clear her head and leave her panting softly, naked before the King.
      He saw before him a sight that was not meant for any man: the body of a woman on the verge of childbirth. Her breasts were enlarged and they hung long and plump and heavy on the firm shelf of her belly. The nipples, somewhat down-pointing, were thick and dark and protruded a finger nail’s length from her shockingly large areolae, equally dark and ragged at their edges where the colour seemed to bleed out into the pale flesh of her paps. But it was below where his eyes lingered, on the great, taut mass of her straining abdomen, distended by his child until her flesh seemed hard and almost ready to burst from the impossible size of her womb. Her navel was a stretched, hard lump and up the very centre of this enormous, thrusting boulder she was carrying ran a fat dark line from the shadow between her legs to her ribcage. His pecker stood fiercely.
      Athénaïs came to the bed and turned back the covers, displaying the royal torso, flagstaff raised. With a subdued huff of effort she climbed onto the bed and straddled her lord. She knew she must control this encounter. Her tummy was now too huge and tight to risk other than a very careful bedding. So she rode the King, panting and perspiring as she forced her massively swollen abdomen up and down, up and down the King’s rigid organ. She leaned forward to support her weight on her hands, her breasts swaying and wobbling before him with her movements, her nipples becoming longer and stiffer with her arousal. He reached up to grasp the ripe, chocolate fruit, cruelly pinching her delicate, sensitive nubbins and then kneading and milking the dense, tender glands behind them until little droplets sprang up on the ends of her aching, throbbing teats and glistened in the candle light. 
      Athénaïs’s breathing was becoming ragged, her excitement overcoming her; it had been some time since her vagina had received a pleasuring and she could feel the familiar tension building in her tummy, so tightly stretched by her child. Her wet, sloppy sheath was sliding so easily now and she was puffing hard and moaning as she sought the extra swiftness and forcefulness she needed. But the King’s hands ravaging her breasts were breaking her control and sending hot waves of pressure down to her loins: pressure and more pressure until suddenly she cried out in surprise as a deep cramping gripped her, rippling around her tightly packed womb making it stand out, hard and sore, then clutching and shivering down her cunny. 
      At Athénaïs’s passionate cry, Louis had the sudden and unique feeling of the sheath holding his prick clenching fiercely. He was thrust immediately over the edge and, with a great roar, he thrust upwards into Athénaïs’s hot cunny and unloaded a teeming flood of royal seed into his gravid mistress.
      Panting hoarsely, Athénaïs rolled her ungainly body off the royal prick and thumped heavily on her back. Her hands cupped her aching belly where that awful pain was slowly ebbing. Her thickened thighs were splayed apart and it seemed that Louis had spent more copiously than usual as she felt thick globules ooze out of her plundered cunny and trickle down her bum crack to the waiting sheets. Even reclining, the pressure of her babe deep between her hips was intense.
      Forcing herself to her feet she tugged her garments roughly about her swollen body and, ignored by her monarch who seemed to have fallen into a pleasured sleep, she waddled painfully back to her own bed,
      Her dreams were troubled. Again and again she woke clutching with alarm at a stabbing, gripping pain in her distended abdomen.

By morning she knew herself to be suffering the early pangs of childbirth. She deeply regretted her actions of the night before which had brought this upon her. All the world must know that she had spread her legs in the royal bed last night and what fragment of reputation she had left could surely not survive the suspicion that the King had been sullied by lying with a parturient woman not only within a month of her confinement, as the church taught, but literally as her body began to push her babe into the world. She must pray that her pains would fade and allow a decent interval before the royal offspring emerged.
      As they dressed her, she felt the eyes of her ladies appraisingly upon her. Her shift, sweat-dampened as a result of her disturbed sleep, was hurriedly cast aside with the broad stains, evidence of copious fluids seeped from her cunny, tactfully ignored. As the new shift was tugged down over the belly, huge, taut and low-hanging, she was seen to catch a sharp breath. She looked anxious and her hands flew to her straining womb.
      “Madame ...” asked Anne-Lucie solicitously. “Is something wrong?”
      “Not at all,” she managed to gasp. “Just the babe moving. It ... oohh ....”
      She was unable to finish. The babe was moving true enough, but not quite in the way she implied.
      She clung fiercely to her belly, the pain now become a fiery band tightening around her middle.
      “Madame should return to bed,” Anne-Marie pronounced, to murmurs of assent, “The doctor should be summoned immediately!”
      “No!” Athénaïs proclaimed anxiously. “It is nothing. See, already it passes!” She forced her hands away from her still painfully cramping mound. Forced herself to breath steadily. She held out her arms imperiously for her gown to be fitted, casting an appealing glance to Hortense. Her faithful friend immediately lifted the heavy fabric to her tense body, anxiety etched on her well loved face.
      Anne-Lucie looked in mute appeal to the others. Several had calculating expressions on their faces. They understood the implications of their mistress’s clenching belly and were wondering how much longer loyalty to her would bring reward.
      Athénaïs bit her lip and sweat started up on her furrowed brow, but she rode out the cramping of her womb until she could once again relax and move more easily. She observed that the others held back from supporting Anne-Lucie.
      Athénaïs’ gown flowed loosely about her hugely swollen belly in shimmering folds of finest silk. She sat, her mind in turmoil, distractedly embroidering a tiny gown for the infant in her tummy. Her ladies, engaged in the same task, were subdued and watchful. There was a wariness in the air. Fortunately her gown hid from them how wide apart she held her thighs in response to the pressure she was feeling and how low her tight, straining belly pressed between them.
      Every so often she sucked in a deep breath and schooled her face to calmness as a burning pain spread around the wide circumference of her tummy. She tried to tell herself that the pains were not coming more quickly, that the pressure in her loins was not increasing.
      The morning passed. Her back was aching and she welcomed the opportunity to stand and move to the luncheon table.
      “Aahh! ... Aahhh!” she gasped as she struggled to her feet. Her legs felt strangely insecure as though something was pressing its way between them. She was between pains but she could not hold her legs together and the pressure of the fetus on her unsupported bottom was distracting. It was grown much stronger since she had sat. 
      Her women crowded around her sympathetically, offering arms in support. She could waddle the short distance to the table without trouble.
      But then she was conscious of an aching cramp building in her back. Surely it was too early to be another pain? 
      “Whoo ... Whoo ...” she puffed. But it was spreading around her sides and flaring into that familiar burning feeling ...
      “Nooo! Not so soon! ...” she realised she had said it aloud! She was nearly at the table; but this one was coming so fast and so hard! Suddenly she was staggering the last steps and bending at the waist, one hand gripping the table edge, the other clutching the gown to the under-swell of her belly. Her head dipped, her curls tumbling hiding her face which was screwing up in pain.
      “AAAaaawwwwwwngggg!! ...” she moaned. Her fierce wail rang about a room in which all chatter had suddenly stopped. Her women were looking at her with varying expressions: shock, horror, concern, calculation. For all recognised the hard, groaning cry that comes from deep within, unique to a woman gripped by the agonies of childbirth.
      “Hhhaaagghh! ... Hhhaaagghh! ...” she panted hoarsely, trying to recover her composure. Her condition was now too patent to be denied. But it might be many hours yet, even days before her child finally squeezed into the world. Her remaining chance was to persuade her ladies to secrecy. She looked wildly around the room, but Anne-Marie was already gone.
      Athénaïs was seated at the table, still breathing heavily. A group of her women clustered about her fanning her face with lacy handkerchiefs or rubbing her arm soothingly. Another group had withdrawn to the corner of the room as if dissociating from her in her extremity. She determined that she would see that they suffered. 
      Two attendants entered, Anne-Marie beaming triumphantly behiind them.
“You must accompany the servants,” she said, “The King requires 
it!”
      In a daze Athénaïs got clumsily to her feet. There was something she had said last night that whispered at the back of her mind, Something she had agreed to.

The attendants led her away from her rooms, down corridors which led to another part of the palace altogether. This was not where she had planned to be delivered of the King’s child. Servants and minor functionaries bustled to and fro averting their eyes from the puffing, waddling woman. Once she had to stop, doubling over and clutching at her sharply contracting abdomen. She felt humiliated that she should be seen in such a delicate state by such people.
      Finally they entered a large paneled room. It contained a large bed, a sideboard, and a chamber pot in one corner. The room was brightly lit by two huge chandeliers. Along one wall was hung a massive tapestry. Gazing in astonishment she could see holes in it through which darkness was visible beyond, just like peep holes. She remembered now what it was she had agreed to. But she had thought to be on shameful show for the King’s eyes only. It was obvious from the size and number of the holes in the tapestry that it was designed to accommodate more than one set of eyes. Many more than one set. She realised with angry embarrassment that she was to be humiliated in front of half the court.
      The attendants helped her out of her robe, then bent and began lifting her shift up her legs.
“No!” she cried with alarm.
“It is the King’s instruction, Madame,” they replied impassively.
      “Not yet,” she pleaded, “Not before the doctor ... uunnngghhhh!!” She clutched at the nearest of the two attendants for support as she hunched over her cramping belly. The pains were coming so strongly now. 
      “HHhhooooooo! ... HHhhooooooo! ...” she panted frantically. She straightened painfully, sweat already heavy on her brow. She must look a fright she thought distractedly. She staggered to the bed and gripped the bedpost with both hands, slumping against it. 
      The attendants followed and swiftly stripped the shift up over her lush, mature thighs, baring the thick, copious growth foresting her mound and straggling up the slope of her protruding belly. The belly itself was a huge globe, low hanging and tightly stretched so that the straining flesh was shiny and gleaming in the light of the multitude of candles. 
      “Noooo!!” she moaned, but she had no strength to fight, or even to take her hands from the bedpost. The attendants tugged the shift up her back and over her head and she had no choice but to stand defiantly as they took it from her unresisting arms. She could imagine the glittering, lascivious gaze of the King and courtiers as they gazed on her plundered charms. Choked with fury she lumbered awkwardly towards the tapestry. Let them see in closest detail the body which carried the royal child. Let them ... Oh no! It was coming again!
      “OOhhhhhnngggg!! ...” she groaned, her eyes going wide with shock.
      Oh dear God this was a hard one, the worst yet. She longed to reach for the tapestry, to tear it from the wall and expose the audience ogling her so lewdly, but she was rooted to the spot, legs parted and knees wobbling wider from the awful pressure.
      “UUUUuunnnnngggggghhh!! ...” she wailed, both hands clapped to the great round bowl of her belly. Right in front of them, so close they could see every ripple of her tautly stretched tummy as it clenched and stood out, hard and low, so close they could see the first spurts trickle out of her bush and run, glistening down her thighs.
“AAaaaaaggghhhh!!... Hhooo!... Hhooo!...

UUUUuunnnnngggggghhh!! ...” she wailed again, spreading her thighs and sending the contents of her baby’s torn bag splashing to the polished floor between them.
      Behind the curtain, half a dozen avid pairs of male eyes drank in the shockingly distended body of the famous beauty displayed so wantonly before them. The pain and distress plain in that arrogant face sent audible frissons of excitement through the watchers. Hands pressed into breeches and found stiffened peckers. Then gasps as she spread those Junoesque thighs. So close did they bend to those holes in the tapestry that the gushing waterfall, when it came seemed as if it would splash into their very eyes. With cries of alarm they reeled back then fell into fevered whispers. One or two had just experienced their first spend of the show.
      For some time she lay sprawled on the bed to which she had staggered with the help of the attendants for her limp, ungainly body. They had spread her legs and wiped away the messy, bloody fluids which had gushed from her maternal gash, leaving her hairy lips gaping a little, tender and inflamed.
      The doctor finally came to examine her. With a sign to the attendants he had them pull her into sitting position on the side of the bed. He firstly probed with his hands her huge, tight belly.
      “Hmmf,” he said. “It’s certainly a big one this time. You have some work ahead of you Madame!”
      Next he pushed her thighs apart and dove two thick fingers into her throbbing tunnel. Athénaïs winced with pain at the rude invasion.
      “You don’t want to worry about a couple of little fingers,” he cackled. “You’ll have something a lot bigger than these stretching you out before too very long!”
      Athénaïs fixed him with a steely glare. How dare he humiliate her so in front of not only the attendants but the assembled watchers of whom he couldn’t be ignorant. But just then his probing seemed to trigger something inside her and she was seized with a greater pain, a very profoundly greater pain. She doubled over clutching at her belly, his fingers still buried within her squeezing vagina.
       “HHhhhhaaaaaaggghh! ...” she groaned, “HHhhooooo!! ... HHhhooooo!! ...” as her tummy became a hard fiery sheet clamping down on the baby within.
      The doctor hastily tugged his fingers free. “Walking!” he commanded the attendants. “Get her up and walking!”

For many hours Athénaïs plodded the room. The attendants had taken pity on her and thrown a drape across her bowed, exhausted shoulders, but it did not come near covering her distended, low-hanging belly. She tried to be proud and brave in front of the unseen watchers whose eyes occasionally glinted from behind the tapestry hanging but her pains were coming more and more frequently, forcing her to cry out and buckle, clawing at her convulsing uterus and sagging in the arms of the attendants as her knees spread uncontrollably in response to the heavy pressure building between them. Each time her pants and moans grew a little stronger and she needed to spend longer gasping for breath supported by the attendants before she could pull herself wearily upright and waddle awkwardly forward once again.
      The day had waned in the room beyond the tapestry. Watchers had come and gone, spending some time gloating or marveling over the tortured form of the King’s mistress, then leaving to attend to other business. The court had repaired for an early dinner, so as not to miss the evening’s entertainment, and servants were set to spy upon the agonies of Athénaïs’ labour and report progress to the King.
      Now, replete from his repast, the King led the favoured courtiers back to the room beyond which the Countess was now into her tenth hour of labour. Her urgent cries carried into the viewing room as the King settled down with a grunt of satisfaction to resume his watch. The doctor had assured him that the moment of crisis was approaching.
      Her pains were coming hard and often now and she could feel the cruel cannonball which was her baby’s head grinding lower and lower into the bones of her hips. Her knees were wobbling wider apart she was feeling a fierce searing urgency between her hips.
“It’s time!” she gasped. “The baby is coming! I need the chair!”
      Wildly she looked about the room, registering for the first time the absence of the birthing chair: the chair in which she would sit in order to bear down and force the baby those last terrible inches through her womanly passage.
      “Oh Lord!” she gasped. “Hurry, I’m ready for the chair!” Surely they couldn’t be intending her to sit on the edge of the bed, she thought in panic, with nothing for her back and arms to hold and push against?
      “No chair,” said the chief attendant firmly as they tugged her towards the bed.
“No chair?” she cried.
“Monsieur the King’s orders.”
Athénaïs was bewildered and cast a beseeching gaze at the tapestry.
      The attendants pushed her onto the large bed, Athénaïs huffing and gasping with the effort of hauling her sore, swollen body on hands and knees onto the lavishly embroidered counterpane.
      “AAaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiii!! ...” she wailed as the twisting of her body compressed her enormous tummy and set off a savage, cramping contraction. “HHHoooooo!! ... HHHoooooo!! ...” she panted, sweat pouring into her eyes from her fevered forehead. She knew her lush, rounded rump was quivering lewdly in the air before the avid gazes of the onlookers, her thick, hairy vulva perhaps already beginning to push open with the urgency of her contraction, but she could do nothing other than bury her head in the bed and moan with pain, her low hanging belly tight as a drum as she pushed and pushed, willing her child to move down her tunnel, to cease stretching the tenderest parts of her sexual organ.
      So oblivious was she in her desperation that she barely noticed the attendants push her over. Suddenly she was on her side, and then rolled, with considerable effort on behalf of the attendants, onto her back.
Agony crashed through her body.
      “HHHHAAAAAAAEEEEEEEEIIIIII!! ...” she screamed, as suddenly the cramping of her belly muscles forced her babe not down her waiting channel but back against her spine. Her legs kicked desperately in the air trying to ease the pain caused by her birth canal being bent at such an awkward angle upwards, closing her child’s route to the outside world.
      Frantically she struggled, twisting and bucking, trying to turn her ungainly body over into a position from which she could resume her urgent pushing.
      The attendants grabbed her arms, twisting them cruelly and forcing her to remain on her back.
“We will need to tie her,” the chief one muttered.
      “Noooooo! ...” Athénaïs howled. “… For the pity of God, noooo! Let me up. The baby can’t come like this! … My Lord!” she cried out in the general direction of the tapestry. “You imperil the baby! I can’t push it out like this!”
      There was no reply. Grimly the attendants tied her arms and legs to the four posts of the bed, spreading her wide so that the best possible view was afforded the holes in the screen.
      In the room beyond, the King bent forward, a wolfish smile on his face. In this position he could look directly down the velvet sheath of his mistress as it stretched to accommodate his child.
      Athénaïs’ tortured body gleamed with sweat in the flickering evening candlelight as she squirmed and strained against her bounds. In moments an awful contraction seized her belly, brought on by her desperate struggle.
      “HhhhaaaaaaiiieeEEE!! …” she screamed. She pulled her knees up towards her burning tummy as far as she was able and simultaneously dragged ferociously down on the bonds holding her wrists above her head. The force of her efforts was transmitted to her huge labouring abdomen making her womb stand up, high and hard. Her belly was a sheet of pain, her face was twisted in agony, the tendons in her neck standing out like straining ropes. On either side of her glistening torso hung her plump, blueveined breasts, their fattened nipples standing up dark and long as result of her terrible exertions.
      “AAAaaaaeeEEEEEIIIII!! …” she howled. Something was moving! Creeping down her constricted tunnel, but the effort it was costing her was insupportable. 
      “HHhhhuuuuunnngggg …” she groaned. “HHhhhoooofffff!! … Ohh Lord! … HHhhhoooofffff!! … HHhhhoooofffff!! …” and she was spent, slumping, gasping for breath, her sweat-drenched hair plastered wildly to her overheated body.
      The intensity of the famous courtesan’s struggles, the pain etched on her still beautiful face and echoing around the room in her cries had stiffened the courtiers manhoods; however some of the selected women present were gasping queasily at the torture a woman must feel forced onto her back for the critical moments of delivery; the time at which she most needs the natural help of gravity to work her large burden through the narrow gate between her thighs.
      The cadence of Athénaïs’ panting rose again. Again she twisted her hands in her bonds, seeking maximum grip for the agonising trial ahead. Her muscles rippled and contracted she took a deep rasping breath and then spread and pushed, a guttural groan bouncing eerily about the room as she pushed and pushed, almost lifting her body off the bed with the impossible effort.
      Excited gasps sprang up among the courtiers as they leaned eagerly towards the tapestry. The lushly furred gash of the court beauty was bulging outwards! The round outline of something shockingly large could be discerned pushing at her womanly slit!
      “AAaaaaaaeeeiiiiii!! …” Athénaïs gave a long keening cry. The despairing wail of a defeated woman. “I can’t! … I can’t! … Too big! … Too hard! …” she sobbed.
      How had it come to this, she thought wildly?  How could she, the most powerful woman in the land, after the Queen, the woman bearing the King’s child, be straining impossibly and alone before the gaze of her enemies at court to birth in such an unnatural position?
      The humiliation and defeat of the arrogant royal mistress drove the eager courtiers to yet greater heights of excitement. Wads of thick creamy spend were gushing from fevered pricks, hands were groping boldly up the dresses of any nearby woman.
      The King looked around. Ah, there she was: the pale slender beauty Charlotte-Eléanore. Her eyes were wide with shock, her lips parted. Reaching over, Louis drew her to his side. “Is it not a stimulating sight ma chèrie,” he murmured. “The miracle of life! The task of every loyal woman to bear offspring to her lord!”
      Charlotte-Eléonore’s heart was beating furiously. She saw the terrible ravages pregnancy had wrought on the mature body of Athénaïs; the unbearable agonies with which her body was wracked in the attempt to be delivered of her child. She shuddered at the thought that one day this would be her fate also.
      Athénaïs was in a fog of pain She knew in her heart that she could not produce her child in this terrible position, but she was allowed no choice; her pains gripped her violently, relentlessly and she could only push, haul against her bonds with every ounce of her strength and push.
      Her bones were stretched and creaking now, she could feel the huge cannonball of her babe’s massive head battering cruelly at the delicate membranes of her bottom. She cried and pushed and pushed and screamed with the searing pain in her distended womanhood.
      The assembled courtiers could now clearly see the big bony outline of her baby’s head sending her bottom bulging out between her gaping thighs. Her gash, which seemed not properly aligned with the path the child was taking to the outside world, was nevertheless spreading slowly open, assuming first a teardrop shape, and then something even rounder; the skin becoming so thinly stretched it was bloodless and shiny.
      Hands were now buried recklessly in furry grooves, the women’s eyes were glazing over as the smell of male semen began them oozing hormone-charged lubricant over the invading fingers.
      The tired, gasping cries of the woman writhing on the bed were beginning to be matched by the urgent gasps of the aroused onlookers.
      Athénaïs was moaning with agony, she was sure she must split open with the pressure now assailing her with every cruel contraction. This child felt so much larger than her previous births, or was it just the terrible position?
      “HHhhhooooo!! … HHhhhooooo!! …” she gasped urgently sucking air into her lungs and trying desperately to take pressure off her ravaged tissues. The doctor had finally returned to the room, she noticed, carrying a tray of evil looking implements which he put on the sideboard. “Well, at least the King’s child will be preserved even if I have to ripped apart to achieve it!” she thought.
      “HHhhhaauuuuuunnnngggggghhhh!! …” she groaned, as the next pain hit her and she clenched her muscles anew. She could feel her womanhood stretching; she could feel painful little tears as her muscles controlling her lower orifices reached the point of no return and broke apart. She felt herself opening wider, her unsupported cunny lips beginning to burn and sting.
      From his vantage point looking straight down his mistress’s widespread thighs, King Louis watched as the plump, hairy lips so familiar to him, stretched out thinner and thinner until at last they formed a hard, tight O, and framed in that O was a slick bony plate which he knew must be the head of his child. The harsh screams of his mistress as her body began to split open with the results of the breeding given her 9 months before made his pecker swell and throb.
      Charlotte-Eléanore gazed in astonishment as the king pulled open his breaches and tugged forth the big, knobbly royal weapon. He put out a strong male arm and pulled the uncomprehending girl against him. She stumbled and found herself astride his knees. Suddenly she understood.
Rough male hands lifted her skirts up her smooth slender legs.
“No! My lord, no!” she gasped. “I am pure! Please my lord, NO!”
      Her mind was in turmoil. The tortured, gasping cries of the woman in crisis on the bed were a terrible reminder of the costs of being invaded by the organ which now threatened her. Soon his hands would be at her delicate untouched crevice. Surely he didn’t mean to shred her precious young maidenhead!
      Athénaïs’ plump limbs were now bucking and snapping at their restraints as she writhed and twisted in her efforts to free the huge body of her child from her terribly stretched cunny. Her howls of agony echoed heartrendingly about the chamber. The doctor approached the bed with a pair of large gleaming forceps in his hands.
      “NOOOOOOOO!! …” screamed the labouring woman, and she screwed her face up and pushed with every ounce of energy in her body, with every muscle fibre that would still obey her exhausted brain.
      “NOOOOOOOO!! …” echoed Charlotte-Eléanore from behind the tapestry as the terrified girl felt her petite, lightly-furred furrow pushed open by the wide, rubbery bulb which was the head of her monarch’s breeding wand.
      Athénaïs screamed, sucked in a ragged breath and screamed again. It seemed impossible that she wasn’t splitting apart, so fiery was the pain in her ravaged labia, so big was the solid unforgiving girth of her baby. But bit by bit the bones of her baby’s skull were sliding painfully through, and suddenly its entire head popped out amid a fountain of hot bloody fluid which splashed and spurted down the doctor’s gown, to his intense horror.
      No such relief was vouchsafed Charlotte-Eléanore as her sweet virginal cunny was simultaneously and irrevocably torn open and stretched by the king’s thick manhood.
      Athénaïs had collapsed, panting and gasping, on the bed. Her child’s head protruded from her gaping vagina but the rest remained inside, there being no gravitational pull to slip it from her traumatised body. Slowly she realised she had yet more work to do. A need to summon the energy to drive her child’s body fully out between her legs.
      She gasped, a wheezing terrible breath, screwed up her face, stretched her knees as wide apart as possible and began to push anew.
      Behind the tapestry, appalled women had straddled their men, pumping their vaginas up and down rampant pricks in an effort to shut out the terrible torture being visited on the king’s mistress; but CharlotteEléanore was sobbing softly as her sensitive young sheath learned to accommodate the girth of a mature man on the cruelly swollen weapon of the king. She imagined herself scorned and shamed as her tummy began to push unmistakably out beneath her virginal gowns; she saw herself alone and shunned in a nunnery, her belly huge and swollen with a bastard child; and she saw herself screaming in agony like the slut in the next room as her baby was torn from her ravaged body. 
      Athénaïs writhed and rolled her hips crying out with effort. Her knees were aching from being held so far apart. “Get it out! … Get it OUT!! …” she screamed. One of the attendants took pity on her, seeing that the doctor was still preoccupied with getting her birth fluids off his gown, and knelt between her thighs.
      “AAAAuuuuugggghhhhhh …” Athénaïs ground out, feeling herself pulled impossibly wide as the attendant tugged roughly at her baby’s head. For a moment there was a little tug of war as Athénaïs’s tortured labia fought to hold the baby and then she gave a shriek as the resistance gave way and the whole long slippery body of the King’s lusty son slid free.
      At that very moment the King gasped and drove triumphantly upwards into the slender, fertile body of the deflowered Charlotte-Eléanore. She felt a hot copious wetness spread through her loins. She had been seeded—and a new fashion in childbirth had been established.