Broodsow

Your gutteral cries of pain and pleasure echo across the abandoned cellar. Though the invasion saw most of the Abbey razed to ruin, your master laid claim to what once served as the sacramental wine cellar. Filth and daemon spunk hung in dried, crusty streaks along the upper walls, and tattered cushions and other salvaged furnishings decorated the half of the subterranean lair where you now wallowed in elated anguish. The Gluttony Daemon that marked you forever as his prized breeding sow now commanded a flock of greedy vulture daemons. Each hour they flapped down through the sundered stairwell to deliver a heaving sackful of food pillaged from nearby storage sheds and homes.

Your eyes dart around the chamber, and you grit your teeth as another contraction ripples across your bloated belly. Each breath jiggles your engorged, veiny teats. Even now, one small, hog-like daemon infant suckles at each of your teats, and a third crawls with awkward shuffling through the sea of stained pillows and blankets strewn about you. Your first litter squeezed and squealed their way out of your puffy quim only three months after master claimed you.

The contractions grant you a moment's rest, and you breathe heavily, resting on your side in the linen nest. The squallor that has become your home has left its mark on you. Your eyes follow the latest screeching vulture daemon as it deposits a heaping pile of food atop the battered dining table. Just in time, you think. One of your hands circles the broad girth of your fecund tummy. On the far underside of your jutting gut, the Cambion's mark thrums red with fiendish power. You notice, however, that the pattern has changed to bear the image of a crude, tusked maw, the runic symbol for Gluttony.

Raising your eyes from the food, you catch sight of yourself in the dirty, cracked mirror in the far corner. Your sinful indulgence has not gone unpunished. Your sausage fingers feel the supple, doughy flesh that coats your distended tummy. All along your fattened figure you bear red and white stretch marks, most prominently ringing the expanse of your middle. Your pale face bears a softness beyond feminine. Your full cheeks are just shy of qualifying as jowels, and you sport a distinct second chin. Your arms no longer show the firm and slender sinew of a warrior beneath the wobbly layer of flab. Your thighs lie dimpled with the cellulite of indolence and each slight movement rubs them together. Even your bright, red hair hangs in dirty clumps about your shoulders. But still, you love what your master has done to shape and mold you into the perfect sow.

"Gyaaah!" you cry out again as the contractions begin anew. A stern grunt rises from a nearby wooden throne constructed from salvaged wood and iron from around the Abbey. The huge and crude seat held aloft her magnificent master. He sat atop it and gorged on a sack full of pilfered grain while stroking his long, throbbing shaft. He'd begun shortly after your contractions started, and you knew by now that he was preparing you for the final phase of the unholy birthing ceremony. Between ragged breaths, you lower your gaze to see a squat imp holding aloft a goblet as large as your head. With one last grunt your voracious master aims his cock low and erupts his load into the goblet. It swirls with a sizzle and immediately corrupts the sacramental wine within. You think for a moment how horrified that would have made you only a half a year ago. You would laugh at how foolish you used to be, but another surge of agony hammers into your belly. "Please... hurry!"

The last of your master's seed dribbles into the cup, and the imp scrambles over to you. He arrives beside you and gives the goblet a swirl before offering it out to you. You nod your gratitude and take it in one hand, allowing one of your sons to hang from your fat teat like a chubby leech. You bring the rim to your lips and slurp eagerly at the serum. Some of it splashes across your cheeks and runs down your flabby neck and chest, only adding to the numerous stains that coat your porcine form. Immediately the sigil softens over your womb and you feel a rush of pleasure blot out any remnant of pain. Master's seed tastes so wonderful, you think between each loud gulp. As expected, your belly trembles for a moment before jiggling outward another inch.

You throw your head back and gasp, eyes rolled back in your head. The first head begins to crown and pushes forth with wet and soggy squirming. The porcine face slides free from your slavering quim and a blissful spiking orgasm sends a rippling shudder throughout your decadent form.

"Ohhh, I love you, Master! I'll never leave you!" you wheeze and flop over onto your back to better spread your legs. Your belly and breasts wobble, but your hungry, daemon piglets remain latched in place. With a wet pop, the first newborn slips out of your puffy, filthy quim and onto a mound of blankets. It squeals and rocks itself side to side before almost immediately rolling onto its hands and knees to crawl towards your spurting teats.

Judging by your increased size and appetite since the first litter, you expect another four piglets before the night's end. You intend to enjoy every indulgent moment of it while your master feasts and feeds your his fattening cum. Though you have not yet grown completely immobile, you expect you won't be leaving the cellar of your own volition after your next litter, maybe two. Though you once would have wailed in hopelessness at your fate, you welcome it with rapacious, gluttonous excitement. The next birth begins with a wave of sopping, trembling pleasure, and you squeal like a sow in heat, the cries echoing off the walls.

BAD END