You choose to stay

“Tell her.” You shudder as you feel the eggs harden in your womb. “Tell her, I am happy.”

The chief smiles, his wide mouth consuming his face. He pats your swelled stomach prompting a groan of pleasure and leaves you on the floor to deliver his message. Alone, you coo affectionately and stroke your swelling flesh.

Surprisingly, it takes little to convince Brigette to stay. She seems almost satisfied, as if she knew this would be your decision, and you love her all the more for that. Never has the tribe seen a woman take better to being bred than you, and in time your first clutch hatches in the birthing pools, tadpoles growing into wugs unlike any before. They are larger, stronger and far more intelligent than your mindless sister’s in the breeding hut. You feed your spawn of your milk and they grow strong at your feet. Your mate beams with pride at your triumph.

Thanks to you the numbers of the tribe swell. Soon enough the lonely swamp village is not enough. Your children spread across the whole shoreline and the marshes, penetrating even into the forests. Towns are razed, their men slaughtered, their women of breedable stock brought to the house of Tokonga. They are **** at first, but once Brigette feeds them her milk, they see the light, and like you, accept their destiny as wug cows, coming to it quickly beneath your caring tutelage.

It is thanks to you as well a more material wealth comes to the wugs. No ship dares near the cape now thanks to the massive amount of wugs only too willing to take their vessels, but your whispers in the chief’s ear as he bends over, rutting his newest clutch into your greedy womb takes hold, and in exchange for tribute, vessels may pass.

Your mate rewards you with a golden necklace bejeweled with rubies, bracers like shackles and a chain girdle which settles on your voluptuous hips and hides none of your assets from the prying eye. You hardly mind. You are the chief’s alone, though desired by many, and flaunt his treasures as merely decorations for his greatest possession. When captains come to meet your mate, you smile as they greedily devour your curvaceous figure standing beside him, amused at how they hate your chief for having such a ****, and horrified at the sight of your gravid belly gestating the next clutch of wugs.

Sometimes you question the new girls as they are brought in. You learn the war is hard fought between the demons and the realm. It matters little to you, personally. They are not your people anymore. They are not of your faith. Your worship is only to Tokonga, and when you watch, lurking in the shadows of the hut, smiling as Brigette takes the new girl on her throne and feeds her a green scaly breast, your fingers slide into your cunny as the girl’s struggle fails, that moment you’ve seen so often when hate turns to worship and love.

One day, a vessel of sisters of the Burning Rose is caught by your tribe. They sail to war against the demons they tell your chief. It is only then you remember the sword. They are shocked, they fail to recognise you, and cannot help but accept your deal for the blessed weapon. They leave with the sword in hand, and a half dozen warrior sisters stripped to the skins and leashed to the hands of the wugs. They will birth fine broods for your masters.