You go with the chief

“I…Would be honoured to,” you say humbly. Yes. Surely this is the right way. You both will need the chief on your side, and no doubt his young will prove strong and great. You let the wug lead you away from Brigette and towards the hut, feeling deep within you that it was the right thing to do. The stilts of the hut are low enough you can climb up easily into the building, and inside you find a wide dark space lit only by the dim glow coming through the open door. A large metal tank sits in the center of the room, built into the floor so that only a small lip rises over it. A cauldron you realize abruptly, one no doubt stolen from a passing ship and brought to the village with great effort. But, perhaps not. You eye the steel of the wug’s trident, and wonder how great their metallurgy truly is.

You look into the pool of water within the cauldron. It nearly reaches the brim and the water is so clear you can see to the dented bottom, where something that looks like a plug is set.

The wug carefully moves around the lip of the cauldron, his bulbous eyes riveted to you. “This is the tank you will birth the clutch into,” the wug says. “It is to your liking?”

“It’s lovely,” you say tactfully.

“She-who-speaks,” the wug says, drawing nearer. “I would add your milk to the birth waters. It will make your clutch strong to swim in the milk of the goddess’s chosen.”

A thrill works through you at the prospect. “Yes,” you say throatily. You take hold of you palm filling tit flesh and present them to the wug. “Milk me. Milk the voice of your goddess.”

The wug croaks and his fins click in eagerness. “Bend forward, she-who-speaks. We will begin.” You follow his command at once, dropping your hands and knees. His webbed fingers take hold of your hair and gently lead you forward. You follow, willingly, the servile position sending a thrill through you. First being taken before a crowd of monsters, now being led around by the hair, naked and on all fours to be milked like a cow? You moan faintly, feeling warm and light headed. Goddess, how can you enjoy this so much?

The wug chief positions you over the pool. You grip what were once handles and bend your arms, pushing your heaving breast over the clear waters. The wug grunts his approval and releases your hair. He comes along your side, his webbed hand running along the gentle curve of your back. You shiver through the fabric of the robe as he stops near your head and kneels at your side.

You gasp and moan as he expertly takes hold of your breasts sending waves of delight rolling through your body. As he had been during the ceremony, your amphibian lover is gentle, seeming to know the exact way to coax your mewls from your mouth and the milk from your breasts. His webbed fingers are smooth but insistent, rolling your nipples against his thumbs, massaging the overflowing titflesh in just the right way. Milk spurts from your heavy breasts, spilling into the pail beneath you. Your arms shake with the effort of keeping yourself from falling in. You stare at your reflection, marvelling at what you have become. Your immense breasts jut from your body, your face flushed and hair matted with your sweat and wug cum. Is this, then, the sister who has come to deliver the sword of the saint to Gerlangren? Has it really been but two days since you were a poor neophyte, mindlessly repeating prayers, preparing for the honour of being a paladin? How could that woman be the woman you see before you, squatting over a cauldron as a monster milks her, a clutch of its eggs sitting in your belly?

The wug is breathing heavily, his fin throbbing red, his fins clicking. He suddenly takes his hands from your breasts. Ignoring your groan of protest, he speaks to you. “She-who-speaks. I would rut with you now. As my mate. Please. Allow me to seed you again.”

“Goddess yes,” you say. “Take me. Defile me!”

The wug chief nods, something like a grin on his lipless face, and vanishes from your line of sight. You shiver as you feel his webbed fingers throw aside your robe, baring your pert ass. His hands run over the womanly curve of your hips and down your thighs, coming back around to stroke the lips of your dripping cunny. His fingers rub your slit gently, wetting his claw in your juices. Your knuckles turn white as your grip tightens when his claws find the nub within your folds. You moan, leaning back. Encouraged, his smooth fingers roll and stroke your nub as he had your nipples, coaxing bursts of pleasure to sear through you.

His fingers leave your parted fold, sliding up your ass to grip your hips as he again enters you. You squeal, feeling his cock part your insides once more. You are more accustomed to him now and take him easily. As he thrusts into your box you rock forward and back, matching him movement, your lurid breasts swaying pendulously above the pool. The thick slap of flesh against flesh soon fills the dark hut, accompanied by your frantic moans and the grunting of the wug. There is a gentle splash as your breasts smack into the pot, squirting milk from your much abused nipples into the pool.

“Harder,” you gasp. “Please! Harder.”

“Your flesh is eager for me, she-who-speaks,” the wug gasps. “You will carry many clutches for me.”

“I will,” you cry heatedly, bouncing against his rutting cock. “Oh goddess I will! Fill me again!”

The wug croaks and stiffens. You moan, feeling the heaviness of his cum erupt into your eager channel. The wug leans against your shapely ass, plugging you until he feels certain his seed has taken. He slowly pulls out and you collapse, as though only the stiffness of his cock had held you up.

You lie, panting on the floor of the hut. There is a heaviness in your stomach, or perhaps just below it. You look down and see that your stomach has a slight distended bulge. Idly, you stroke it, feeling pleasure race through you as you do so.

“The seed has taken has begun to form the eggs,” the wug croaks. “Soon your clutch will be ready to be released.”

“Ah.” You caress your stomach, love for the children growing within you spreading through your body. You look up at the wug crouched above you and smile. “They will be an honour to your tribe. A gift from the goddess.”

The wug nods. “As you say, she-who-speaks. But you should rest. The birthing will come, and you will need your strength. Rest now. I will wake you when it is time to lay your clutch.”

You frown, a thought tickling the corner of your mind. “But…the feast?”

“You absence will be understood, my mate. Do not fear.”

Worry for Brigette and yourself asserts itself at once. To leave yourself open to whatever the wugs may desire to do, warring with the exhaustion that has finally found you. It has been a long day, and the last session of rutting seems to bring that home. You ache both inside and out, your stomach heavy with your clutch, your breasts sore and drained, and the thought of simply curling up and sleeping is enormously tempting.