Rosaria must bear the eggs alone.

You frantically drum your fingertips atop the black leather cover of your grimoire. You had only practiced binding spells on the weakest of demons while training with the cult warlocks. With no clear knowledge of what type of demons waited inside the eggs, you were taking a big risk. However, no person of greatness earned their place in history through caution. Your knees crack as you rise from your cross-legged seat by the dim campfire. It was naught but embers by this point. You could add more kindling, but the work ahead came easiest in darkness. Beatrice snores soundly, a strand of drool dangling from her gaping maw. In this position, her heaving tits must have jostled in her sleep. One bronzed melon rolled up, granting you a scant view of the edge of her nipple. Oh how you eagerly await seeing those breasts tripled in size, weighing down the barbarian with more milk than a cow. She would feed the first of your minions. Helen lies curled in a foetal position, her knees up in front of her small chest. Such a slender girl. You would enjoy sculpting her flesh when you gain more powerful magics.

And then there was Rosaria. Even in sleep she bears a scowl, her dark brows furrowed beneath a messy mop of black curls. You're almost surprised she doesn't sleep with crossbow in hand. With soft steps you circle around her like a predator stalking its meal. You cannot be certain how the other women will respond with Rosaria's absence, but you can worry about that later. Now was the time for you to pay homage to not one but two demon lords. Book in hand, you tilt up your chin before the statue of Dagon and recite the vile, tenebrous words of your cult's patron demoness. Words dripping with darkness crawl from your lips as you grasp the first of the eggs. It almost slips through your fingers, but you wrap your hand around it and kneel before the sleeping Rosaria.

You hiss the final word of your wicked invocation, and a puddle of black light forms on the floor beside you. Swirls of twisting smoke rise up before coalescing into physical tendrils of inky, dark flesh. An abyssal servitor no larger than a house cat pulls itself up out of the puddle with its nine tentacles, before scuttling toward you. Its singular, violet eye stares at you unblinking. Unsettling as ever, you hold out the egg, and it extends a tendril. The dripping, black limb hovers before the offering, as if to inspect it. And then the tendril's tip flares like a gaping sphincter and slurps the egg out of your fingers. You watch the small bulge travel up the limb before disappearing into the creature's spherical body. It shivers once before looking up to you expectantly.

"Good," you remark aloud for no one but yourself. If the beast did not spit it out, then you likely have Grevakhnu's blessing to continue with the ritual. Wasting not another moment, you toss Helen's slimy pouch of eggs to your servitor, and it greedily gobbles them all up, slurping the ovum into multiple tendrils at once. Though this familiar made the oviposition process easier, you would not be robbed of all satisfaction. Your eyes stare hungrily at Rosaria's shapely, slumbering figure. You feel a tug at the hem of your robe and discover your familiar packed to the brim with the two dozen gelatinous eggs. You nod to the dark beast and crouch down above the sleeping bandit. Your fingers deftly unfasten her belt and you unbutton the fly of her hip-hugging trousers. It surprises you how difficult it is to peel the pants off over Rosaria's thick ass and thighs, and you suspect she would certainly have awakened if not for your Sleep spell. However, your efforts are successful. The bandit's flawless, caramel thighs lie bare in the cool darkness of the temple. You smirk at the sight of her trimmed pubes. An adorable little strip of black.

"Begin," you murmur, and the servitor drags its egg-filled body toward the bare-bottomed Rosaria. Two of its tendrils stretch and coil around the bandit's thick thighs, slowly prying them apart. She huffs a sigh in her sleep, but you barely make out a small blush playing at her cheeks. You suspect the Sleep spell may have triggered a naughty dream, and you stifle a chuckle. Your servitor flops into position and slaps down a tendril atop Rosaria's mound. Its inky secretions smear across her mocha flesh, leaving it slick and slimy to the touch. All the easier to deposit Grevakhnu's gifts. You watch with amusement as the bestial tendril at last finds purchase, pressing up against Rosaria's glistening slit. Penetration at last, and you hear Rosaria gasp with pleasure, her knees trembling in delight. The tentacle pulls out some before pressing in farther, continuing its lubricaion of the bandit's flesh, inside and out. When it at last reaches her cervix, you raise your hands in preparation.

A small bulge forms at the base of the tendril and travels along its length. It pauses at her entrance, and you see Rosaria's scowl return again, but with a flick of your wrist, her blush deepens and she throws back her head. The egg lump slips inside, and you feel that familiar, abyssal spark of magic as it deposits inside her fertile womb. One down, twenty-three to go. Though not nearly as exciting as the first egg, you return to your recitations and gesticulations. Ritual casting is more of a marathon than a sprint, so you pace yourself and recite one line of the abyssal chant for each egg that drops into Rosaria. Not even halfway done and she already looks six months pregnant. Her soft breaths hasten as the eggs draw nearer and end in a whimpering squeal, signaling a slumbering orgasm with each egg dropped into her quickly-cramping womb. You note that your calculations about dividing the eggs between the three women would have been accurate, but quickly lose your train of thought as one of her shirt's buttons pops off and smacks you in the cheek. A pity Rosaria drew the short straw. Her thighs quiver, slick with the beast's secretions and her own juices.

Crouching beside her, you place a hand upon her taut, swollen middle. Rosaria's flesh suffers some at the rapid expansion. Deep, crimson stretchmarks wreathe the underside of her domed tummy, and thick veins snake across its surface. You press an ear up to the warm flesh. A deep, roiling slosh churns within and you hear Rosaria groan softly before letting out a quiet belch. Likely running out of room in there. You glance at your servitor, noting the final egg rising up its shaft. Her belly juts out an increment more before settling into a quivering bulge likely larger than a third-trimester pregnancy with triplets. You doubt Rosaria could walk on her own at this point. And that's when your blood runs cold. How would you move her away from the camp? You hadn't thought about that yet, and now a severely bloated woman lies before you. With its purpose fulfilled and the magic binding it to the mortal plane waning, your servitor offers a tentacled salute before sizzling into black smoke. It's in that moment that you hear voices coming from one of the side hallways and see the telltale dim glow of distant torchlight. How could things get any worse...