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I've seen a lot about royalty knocking up the court jester (I've even indulged in the fantasy myself), but considering historically a court jester was considered an advisor, meant to keep the king's ego in check (some of the time), a spokesperson for the common people, it would be more accurate for the jester to knock up the royals. (Sorry if this reads a bit awkwardly, every time I went to proof read I got, uh... distracted 👀)

Word count: 1,856

NSFW

Themes: breeding, hyperpreg (heavily implied), royalty, dom/sub dynamics, humiliation, lactation

Imagine the King trying to look intimidating and regal on his throne, but his face keeps turning bright pink as the Royal Jester gently roasts him about how he's so fertile and fecund that his baby-filled belly and milk-clogged tits are already threatening the seams of his newly tailored royal garb. Everyone can clearly see the intricate embroidery and beadwork on the King's tunic warp as one of his large restless heirs-to-be shifts and kicks inside, the King barely able to bite back a groan as he tries to soothe the cramped life within him. The Jester is quick to comment on how there are so many royal bastards in there, that the King's hand struggles to reach the spot. Already laughing at their own joke, they challenge the King to see if he can still manage to reach his… belly button. The smug glance down to the King's lap makes some in the royal court gasp, but the King ignores the Jester's attempts to rile him up, his face simply turning a deeper shade of pink, and continues to address court business while he gingerly massages circles into the side of his overburdened womb.

When the topic of planning festivities for future holidays comes up, the Jester makes sure to loudly warn the King against committing to any royal appearances, he already looks so painfully pregnant that they wouldn't be surprised if he spread their legs and popped out a royal baby right that very moment. The King's jaw tenses, his face burning, and the court is secretly unsure if his grunt is a frustrated answer to the Jester's taunts, or if the Jester's prediction is about to come true. A brave courtier brings up the possibility of a few public appearances before the King gives birth, only to be shot down by the Jester before the King can speak. “Can't you see he's gotten so rotund he can barely sit on his throne without losing his breath?” they argue. “Look at him, the poor King couldn't possibly handle being paraded out in front of the public with that litter of his crushing his lungs as they are,” the Jester continues. This time the King's growl of frustration is unmistakably directed at the Jester, who sits back down, an unapologetic shit-eating grin spreading across their face.

The King's final straw breaks while discussing alliances with the numerous neighboring kingdoms at their borders, and the possibility of further solidifying those alliances through the future marriages of the King's heirs-to-be. “Why not arrange marriages with all of them,” the Jester asks. “I mean, it's clear as day the King shall have heirs to spare, just look at him!” they exclaim, clapping a hand on the King's belly, the sound of solid smack resounding throughout the royal halls. Ignoring the King's shout of protest and the sounds of offense from the court, the Jester begins to roughly shake the King's stretched globe of a belly for emphasis. “Hells, by the look of things there'll even be spares left over, I can't imagine this shall be the only litter our dear King has with such a fertile womb and hungry-”

“Jester, a private conversation!” The King shouts over what lewd remark Jester was about to say. “After you, my King.” the Jester says, as they lean on one hip and patiently pick at their nails. Clearly flustered and upset beyond words by the Jester's abysmal conduct, the King's face has turned beet red. The members of the court politely pretend to avert their eyes as the King struggles to get up from his throne. The Jester's rough shaking has gotten the babies in the King's seemingly overripened womb riled up, their movements impossibly warping the surface of his belly, threatening to break the threads of intricate time-consuming embroidery and bead-work in an instant. The violent movement of the King's belly also clearly affected not just the offspring in his belly, but the heavy breasts shelved atop it as well. The fabric that seemed to already barely contain the melon-sized sacks of flesh was rapidly beginning to soak through from the inside out, threatening to bounce through the seams as the King angrily, incrementally, scooted out of his throne.

Terrified of making even more of a scene, no one thought to move to help the King out of his predicament. And the Jester had decided to be of no help either, occasionally asking the deathly silent court if anyone had a sun dial on them. Cursing in a way most unbecoming of the royal family, the King made progress by obscenely spreading his thighs to leverage himself against the sides of his throne, giving up on any semblance of decorum as the room heard the unmistakable sound of a seam ripping. Eventually he was able to stand, panting for breath, quickly putting an arm on his lower back to brace his woefully unbalanced core, his other arm struggling to hold up even just a small bit of his overburdened womb to relieve some pressure from his overworked back muscles. The Jester smugly grinned as they mockingly bowed and gestured for the King to lead the way. Too out of breath to do more than growl in annoyance the King began the arduous task of slowly, laboriously, waddling out of the room, to more private meeting chambers deeper inside the castle. Any hopeful gossipers and nosy nobles who were brave enough to attempt to follow were quickly rebuffed by the Kingsguard, who fell in line behind their painfully gravid King and his cruel royal Jester.

In the King's Chambers, the Jester reclined against the dragon's hoard of plush pillows on the King's bed, relaxed, hands behind their head, as the King panted and whined like a beast in heat, desperately trying to ride their cock. “I wonder what the court would think if they knew you'd let yourself get knocked up with the bastards of a dirty commoner,” they teased. “And what's more, that you enjoy being knocked up by a dirty commoner, get off on it, that you're such a shameless whore that you practically soak your trousers when said dirty commoner simply makes a polite acknowledgement of your pregnant state,” the Jester continues with amusement. The King moans needily, tears of frustration building in the corners of his eyes as he barely manages more than to aggressively cock-warm his Jester, the impossibly heavy weight on his hips and his quickly fading energy making it nearly impossible to achieve more than occasionally grinding down and clenching desperately around their girth.

“King,” the Jester says with faux mockery, “I think you'd have been better appointed to the title of Royal Bitch in Heat. Or, even the Kingdom's Dairy Cow with udders like these.” The King cries out, their legs already trembling, as the Jester reaches up and roughly flicks a still steadily leaking nipple, a thick squirt of milk splattering across the King's chest and belly. “I imagine sooner than later you'll be employing servants round the clock just to keep you milked like one at any rate. By the Gods, these teats seem to grow bigger by the hour,” they continue, squishing the King's overfull breasts together, pressing hard and passively watching the painfully forceful streams of milk shoot out to run in rivulets down the sides of the King's gravid womb. The involuntary cry to the heavens that comes out of the King is beastial, his eyes rolling back into his head, as he clenches down so hard around the Jester's cock that they momentarily drop their facade and briefly moan, their hands quickly gripping the King's irreversibly fattened hips as if to ground themself, bruises in the shape of their fingers already beginning to blossom on his soft pliable flesh.

“Please,” the King manages to beg, panting for breath, exerting so much energy for such little movement, physically unable to get the friction they need to soothe the desperate needy tension building in their overburdened core. “Please what?” the Jester teases. “Your Majesty.” They add as a careless afterthought, mercilessly running their hands up the sides of the King's sensitive stretch-marked belly, back up to roughly rub their thumbs over his still profusely leaking nipples. The King begins to make needy cries, gnashing and baring his teeth as he pants for breath, his womb-squished lungs struggling for what little bit of air they can get, his overwhelmed mind desperately trying to form words but forgetting how each time the Jester's thumb pad presses hard against the sensitive elongated nub of flesh. Just when the King fears he might pass out, the Jester seems to take mercy, their hands lightly rubbing his sides, fingernails gently ghosting against his skin. “Please… keep me… like this…” the King finally manages between gulps of air. The Jester's hands rest on the King's hips again, gentle, teasing, promising… threatening.

“Is that a command, my King?” the Jester sneers in amusement, mockingly emphasizing the royals’ title. It takes several moments for the King to manage a sound that sounds like an affirmative, his mind wrapped in thick fog, his lungs burning, his thickened thighs already sore from tensing in anticipation for so long. “Quite a lucky decree Your Majesty,” the Jester condescends, “for I was already planning to do just that.” Before the King can gather his mind enough to reply, the Jester shatters it again as they tightly grip his hips again and thrust up as hard as they can with the weight of the overrippened King on top of them. The Kings vision goes white, their ears numb to the animalistic scream of relief tearing its way out of his chest, all of his weight bearing down on the Jester's cock.

“Tsk, tsk, you've gone and ruined the bedsheets,” the Jester chided, “soaked right through them.” They playfully slapped the Kings thigh, watched with unfiltered lust-fueled fascination as the flesh bounced in response. “Don't look at me like that,” they continued at the Kings half-hearted glare, "I haven't even gotten a chance to get my rocks off with all your whining and wiggling about on my lap you needy whore.” Despite just having been so violently released, the King felt the tense heat already returning to his core, his toes curling in excitement, a moan already climbing up his throat. “I bet you're not even finished are you?” the Jester said derisively, “you really should have been the Royal Broodmare, leave the ruling to someone who can go more than an hour without spreading their legs and begging to be bred full, when they've got an entire litter fattening up their belly already.” The King let out the building moan as the Jester clapped their hands into the sides of his impossibly stretched womb, once again riling up the cramped young still growing inside. “Alright fine,” the Jester chuckled, “I'll give you a choice, next I either fuck you on your hands and knees like the knocked up breeding bitch you are, or on your back with your legs spread to practice for when I fuck you through your labor… and pick quickly or I'll choose for you.”

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