Changeling Broodmother

((As a warning ahead of time, this is going to be pretty fetishist. Impregnation and birthing will abound.))

Where did it all begin? Perhaps one of the gods sought ****. Maybe a mad wizard was experimenting with the forbidden. It might have even been as simple as someone with just enough authority wanting to play out a fetish. You don't know where you came from, but you do know you're a strange existence in this world: a creature capable of mating and bearing children with any species, be it player or monster. Your body can morph to whatever form they'll find attractive, your body can be as elastic as necessary to accept even the largest insertions but still squeeze tightly on the smallest prick.

Probably the fetish one, you've decided.

Unfortunately, the less fetish-inclined were revolted by your existence. Though they could not purge you entirely, you've been isolated--quarantined, really--for your entire life. Every day you face nothing but an empty house, locked tight from the outside and surrounded by (what you assume are) impassible barriers. If utter loneliness weren't bad enough for other creatures, it's several times worse when the one thing you want to do, that you've been created to do, is fuck the living semen out of every dick you find and bear it a child.

Today is just another day of waking up in a comfortable bed that smells like sex. Your nether lips are leaking worse than the kitchen faucet after you broke it (that was one wild inflation session, though). The only thing you can do to try to appease that insatiable craving is to find your favorite food--an eggplant that was turned into an immortal, unaging object so it would never rot--and stuff it inside. You let out a muffled cry as you are filled, the space inside you stretching out to accommodate the insertion. Getting a firm hold on the oversized berry, you begin to rapidly piston it in and out. Sparks shoot across your vision and you don't even try to suppress your moans. Ecstasy bubbles up and soon overtakes you. With a scream you climax, your entire body shuddering and your passage tightening hard around the eggplant.

But it doesn't spurt.

Dicks need to spurt. To shoot massive streams of thick, virile seed and paint your womb. To fill you with baby-batter and let you finally fulfill your calling in life.

Fuck, you need a baby. Bad. And faux-vegetables just aren't going to help with that.

Not that anything else in this house will. At least doing this a couple more times might take the edge off your libido.