Donuts and Duchesses

[Batman76]

Interested in seeing how long Stacey can go before she takes the plunge.

[maxis192]

On 2/18/2019 at 8:13 PM, flyer33 said:

(...) Happy to hear your thoughts on whether Alicia (or Yvette) should be bigger yet?

I imagined Yvette is still a bit bigger overall, but on the other Hand Alicia gets stuffed from all sides with the clear intention to let her gain weight. Not just to enable her gluttony but actually to put plentiful soft pounds on her (right?), so the other girls probably make sure she is served foods that go straight to her thighs for weeks now. Since Alicia is described bottom heavy in your sidenote (and in contrast to her Douchess) she maybe has the wider "derriere" than Yvette already 😉 at least i like to think so^^

[greg]

Yes, really want to see Stacey take the plunge, to the extreme!

[maxis192]

I hope Stacey manages to pass the majority of calories thrown-at-her to Alicia instead. I like the growing contrast between them. 

[flyer33]

Chapter 7: Diets and Dieticians

 

There were many traditions in the Empire that Staceline Voluptua-Fuller Demoore didn't get. Number one on today's list was the crowd of wide-bottomed debutantes – young noble ladies and rich girls her own age or less – blocking Patissiers' Street so that she'd had to slow down to ride around them.

The debutantes were queuing to buy discounted baskets of out-of-date pastries so that they could spend the rest of the morning gorging themselves and their circles of friends even further into obesity at an affordable price. Surely, Staceline asked herself, if you wanted to bulk up that badly there must be better ways than binging on slightly-rancid creams and dry cakes? Still, she admitted it probably got their tummies accustomed to the kind of food poisoning hazards they were likely to encounter in some of their gala dinners...

Staceline had attended four of these galas in the last week, in between a load of other social and business engagements. The royal season built towards its climax, and Staceline had mainly been accompanied to the galas by her honey-blonde friend, Lady Alicia Remonte. Alicia, ignoring the possibility that sampling 78 desserts in an evening might give her a tummy ache even if every forkful was pristinely fresh, had twice blamed her extremely bloated and uncomfortable post-gala belly on bad cream. Staceline hadn't been affected, and had enjoyed the twin opportunities to give the bulging blonde a long belly rub. The dark-haired Duchess had tried to conceal the erotic pleasure she had derived from kneading her companion's grossly overfed abdomen through her luxurious silk dresses was... Staceline had been left trying to suppress dark thoughts about funnel-feeding Alicia with slightly out-of-date cream until the blonde cried for belly rubs, and it had taken an ice bath and a hard session riding her favourite courtesan to forget about it.

Number two on Staceline's current hit list of imperial traditions was the junk science. Naturally, as a gentlewoman, Staceline was not legally allowed to study at the University, but since she was also a super-rich patron of the academy... that rule got bent out of shape. She was important enough to go anywhere she wanted, and men wanted to please her. And if anyone got in her way she had a choice of weapons available: enough cleavage to strike any warm-blooded male dead with a heart attack at ten paces; enough upper body strength to punch any survivors through a thin wall; or – more boringly but with far more general utility – enough money to bribe virtually anyone out of her loose change; or just buy whatever she wanted. Anyway, she'd used these things to abscond from finishing school and learn history and philosophy at the university. (Completely incidentally, she'd also used these things to get a sex education that only a world-famous courtesan could ever find a use for.)

Staceline therefore considered herself possibly the only alumna ever to graduate from Harrietshire Ladies' College with a passably honed mind, and she had been pretty unimpressed by some of the 'scientific facts' on offer from the school. A typical example of one was: “If a young lady manages to develop a fifty-inch bottom before her nineteenth birthday, it will remain bouncy and never sag!” This was an old and well-established titbit of biological wisdom that the Harrietshire mistresses drilled into their students at length... And most of the students actually believed it! It was also deductively bollocks – Staceline had pointed out to Alicia after the class that every living duchess in the Empire who was over 19 had exceeded the fifty-inch bottom standard by the end of her debutante season, and yet almost all of them were obviously heavy users of shapewear and corsetry. Alicia had been unimpressed by this line of logical reasoning, and had countered that Stacey would still be well advised to follow the conventional wisdom supplied by the school and eat more so she could bulk up to a healthy weight... Otherwise young men might harbour doubts about her constitution and fitness. Staceline had darkly replied that any young man to whom she ever wanted to prove her fitness would be left with zero doubts... Assuming he survived the demonstration.

Anyway, the 'science' on offer to the girls at Harrietshire Ladies College, junk as it was, was not radically worse than some of the teaching provided to medical students at the university. The idea that 220 pounds was the minimum healthy weight for a 5'9'' duchess such as Staceline, and that anything under 200 lbs was alarmingly thin (but quite acceptable for a gentlewoman in the lesser nobility) was – in Staceline's basically heretical view – a junk concept that had caused her a lot of irritation during her teenage years. When combined with the doctrine which stated that visible muscle tone anywhere on a noble lady's body was a sign of an underlying problem, medical training tended to produce doctors who gave advice Staceline did not like. Once, a famous dietician had been invited to give a seminar to the girls at the Harrietshire LC, which had left Staceline in a furious sulk and it had taken Alicia half the night to calm her down.

All in all, the prospect of an upcoming medical exam – in which she'd have to take off her top and be lectured for an hour about the need to bury her prominent biceps, lats, traps, glutes, and most shockingly of all her visible abdominal muscles under a respectable, thick layer of flab – tended to put Staceline into a seething mood. And this was the appointment towards which Staceline was riding her very expensive horse this morning.

Now, within the Empire's huge and reputedly talented population it was actually possible to find decent medics. Staceline had looked hard for doctors who wouldn't give her a hard time about weighing far under 200 lbs, and through sheer persistence she'd tracked down half a dozen with proper qualifications who not only gave her a clean bill of health but actually certified her as extremely healthy. Unfortunately her errand this morning involved a medical exam with a doctor appointed by the Senate, one Dr Gerhart Globus, whom she suspected would be one hundred percent committed to the orthodox glorification of obesity.

Dr Gerhart Globus had achieved considerable fame and favour within the Empire's upper crust for his successful sanatorium – a sort of medical hotel – located on a scenic island in the south. Older noble ladies flocked there, allegedly to take in the island's “clean air,” but in reality because Globus had reputedly invented a cure for gout that did not involve lightening his obese patients' vast calorie intakes. This medical marvel had earned him the gratitude of no few nobles, accompanied by lots of honours and prestigious sinecures. One of these sinecures was the post of Doctor Senatoralis – a job which normally involved plenty of pay for zero work, except a few odd tasks, such as assessing the health or sanity of incoming peers in the rare instances when the Senate expressed a doubt.

Staceline was heading to see Dr Globus because the Speaker of the Senate had especially asked the prestigious man of medicine to investigate whether Staceline was fit and healthy enough to assume her peerage. Staceline had inherited her far-flung estates, assets, and titles years ago, after her parents were declared killed by an explosion on an archaeological expedition, but the Senate seat which accompanied her Duchy had a minimum age of eighteen and she was just now eligible to be admitted at the opening of the next senatorial term.

The existence of a health check for incoming senators, Staceline admitted, was not something she could be angry about. It was extremely sensible for the Senate to try minimising the number of insane people (not uncommon, in the nobility, in Staceline's view) with a vote in the Imperial Senate. And, since it was nearly impossible to throw out a serving senator, it seemed sensible to have the option of a medical check to keep them out in the first place. What did annoy Staceline was the knowledge that Countesses who were so fat they could barely stand were nodded into the senatorial dining rooms without so much as a glance at their health, whereas she – an eighteen year old young woman with excellent health and the strength of an ox – was asked to submit to a detailed physical exam.

Staceline was pretty sure she could scheme her way around senate law on the minimum weight allowed for noble ladies without sacrificing her pert bottom – there were plenty of loopholes in senate law, even without considering extreme options like trial by combat... But there was no way to ignore their request for a medical exam. It was a perfectly legitimate request that could be made to any new peer. At least Staceline had successfully demanded to bring her own favourite doctor to the exam to provide moral support.

Staceline's horse had picked up on her tension as she'd ridden him to her destination on the great city of Lonporto's western periphery. She felt bad for him, and tried to soothe him with some attention once she dismounted.

“There, there, Hades. Good boy. It's Okay. I'm calm, see. Calm.”

The black stallion snorted angrily when a stableboy arrived to take care of him and it took time for Staceline to soothe him again. She felt surprisingly better after she did.

“Good boy, Hades.” She told her horse.

Staceline made her way into the gabled limestone house that served as Dr Globus's official surgery. It didn't seem to get much use. The wallpaper was old and the rooms smelled strongly of cigar smoke. Her personal doctor, the lanky old Professor Roundwell from the University, popped into the waiting room to offer a cheery hello and to promise everything would be fine, and then Staceline busied herself critiquing the awful paintings of seascapes which decorated Dr Globus's surgery until a nurse arrived to show her through to the celebrated Senatorial doctor's office.

Staceline headed in through the heavy white door.

Dr Globus's office occupied the back quarter of the large house, and the ceiling was one and a half levels high. Despite its size, it's owner had somehow contrived to fill the room to bursting with stinking cigar smoke, which spilled out the door as she opened it. The massively corpulent, grey-moustached Dr Gerhart Globus was busy chain smoking, and wheezed as he and the tall Prof Roundwell rose from their armchairs to greet her. But what struck Staceline the most, as he put down his whisky tumbler to offer to kiss her hand, was the prestigious medical doctor's first question:

“Ah, Lady Demoore. A pleasure to meet you! Would you care for a glass of portwine, or sherry? I'm afraid I don't offer whisky to lady clients before noon! Or I can offer you a good stein of bier if you prefer?”

“Erm.”

How the fuck do you answer that question? Stacey thought.

“Is that a trick question, doctor? I mean, the answer is: no thank you. That's right, isn't it? I mean, those are all really unhealthy before lunch, aren't they.”

Professor Roundwell beamed encouragingly. “It is often said that ladies shouldn't imbibe before lunch. Good thing that advice doesn't apply to medical men, eh, Gerhart.”

“Oh! Indeed!” Globus waved his cigar in agreement.

“In fact,” Dr Roundwell added, “I think I'll open the window by our chairs. It's a nice summer day, and we wouldn't want our patient to be overstimulated by that potent tobacco of yours!”

“OH! Very well!” Said Globus. “Now please be seated, my Lady, by zer open window of my superfluous colleague Professor Roundwell, and we shall begin this morning's medical examination. Don't worry though, I am nothing to be afraid of: I am a medical doctor with your best interest at heart. I have had many, many patients, including many young noble ladies, and I care very much for the gut health of zem all equally! Please do be callink me Gerhart if you like to.” He cleared his throat,

Dr Gerhart Globus proceeded to explain that he had, in essence, been asked by the Speaker of the Senate to put Lady Staceline on a weighing scale to decide if she was fat enough to endure the rigours of senatorial office.

“What, like the seven bodice-busting meals served there every day, on top of snacks on the hour?” Stacey had quipped before she could stop herself, and earned a warning eyebrow raise from Prof Roundwell.

“Exactly!” Dr Globus had smiled after a quick puff on his cigar. “And the many other physical and mental demands of office. The imperial senate is not for zer faint hearted or flimsy of constitution!”

Staceline managed to behave herself and not talk back much after that.

“Have you,” puffed Dr Globus, “breakfasted until feeling very full this morning? As I always suggest ladies do before a medical appointment, and indeed as well they should as part of their normal regime.”

“Yes, Doctor.” Staceline stated meekly. “A four course breakfast at my townhouse, including croissants, a half loaf of thickly buttered toast with marmalade, two pounds of chopped bananas and cream, a dozen eggs, six fried tomatoes stuffed with rice, bacon, and mushrooms and then baked beans, mashed swede, a treacle tart, a lemon meringue pie, a chocolate cake, and lots of pancakes.”

“Zer gut! A fine breakfast. And how many pancakes, may I inquire?”

“Seven stacks, Doctor Globus. That's about, erm, forty-two pancakes. About this size,” Staceline gestured with her hands. “Mrs Apfel, my day cook, makes them quite large.”

Gerhart Globus licked his lips as he scribbled detailed notes with a grin.

“Do you take your pancakes with syrup, chocolate sauce or cream, Staceline?”

“Oh, drenched in all three if I can get it. You know what us girls are like when it comes to rich, fattening sauces, Doctor.”

Globus beamed into his notebook.

“And is zis breakfast typical for you?”

“Yes Doctor, it's my usual fare since I moved to my townhouse, and pretty similar to what I ate back at Abimere, except I had some game pie back there as well.” Staceline lied. She'd just been making up answers based on how much Alicia could eat without being incapacitatingly bloated afterwards. Her high metabolism meant Staceline could eat all that as a snack following her real breakfast if she wanted to. (That said, Staceline thought, there were actually quite a few days she didn't eat much more than she'd just told Dr Globus, not because she was full but just because stuffing herself past satiety didn't hold as much appeal for her as it did for the average imperial lady.) But she'd agreed in a prior meeting with Professor Roundwell not to give Dr Globus answers that would be out of the ordinary for a young Duchess.

“Gut! Now, what about a typical mid-morning snack, and then the lunch...”

Stacey continued answering the medical questions as if she was Alicia, except for removing any of the parts that would have involved saying “And then my best friend, Lady Staceline, force-fed me five trays of scones, muffins, cream cakes and eclairs until I felt very sick and then she rubbed my poor swollen tummy until I fell asleep.”

“Well, zat has completed the dietary questions, Lady Staceline! Unt I am delighted to say I am quite satisfied with you so far. I am also content from your answers and from your reference from Harrietshire Ladies College that you are very good at always digesting your meals naturally, and you do not have any bad habits such as zer purging or stronk laxatives!”

“What laxatives?” Stacey couldn't help herself.

“Stronk. Oh! Do pardon mein League accent! I mean to say: strong. But you do not, as zer prune juice and castor oil that you sometimes take are only weak laxatives that should be a part of every gentlewoman's regime. Especially when she attends four gala dinners in a week, as I was delighted to hear zat you are doink this week. I mean doing.”

“Oh, good.”

“And you also do not use any potions, which is good, because alchemy is a junk science zat is having no proven value whatsoever. Excellent.”

“I'm glad you're happy, Doctor Gerhart”

“Ah! Not so fast!” Globus raised a finger. “We have still to come to the most important parts of the exam: zer topless examination and zer naked weighing!”

Now, if there was one regard in which Lady Staceline Voluptua-Fuller Demoore was a pretty conventional imperial noblewoman, it was the enthusiasm and practiced speed with which she could strip to her provocative lacy lingerie when an enticing opportunity for parading herself semi-naked (for the enjoyment of a discreet companion or two) presented itself. Unfortunately, the chain-smoking doctor from the Northern League and the aging university Professor were very far from the type of man Staceline would willingly strip for. Still, there wasn't much room for refusing – the whole exam was a Senate request, i.e. a demand, and Gerhart Globus even seemed like a nice enough person, who might not even grope her boobs that much...

Stacey headed behind the indicated changing screen and shrugged off her white riding dress. That left her wearing provocative black Aquitanian lingerie: flimsy silk shorts, and a matching bra with heavy duty straps for riding – riding horses, that was.

Stacey had, in fact, glutted herself at breakfast, until she'd looked six months pregnant and couldn't look at another hard boiled egg. And while she'd hate to admit that she had a limit for how many pancakes she could consume, she'd come close to that too. Alicia had had to stop watching as her friend gorged herself on multiple times what she'd just admitted to Dr Globus, because the level of gluttony was too scary for the traditionally-minded imperial blonde. Staceline had stuffed herself stupid because she knew her metabolism would have over two hours before she'd had to strip for her medical exam, and if she'd eaten any less there was a high chance she might now be showing off an inward-curving belly with prominent abdominal muscles. As it was, Stacey still felt a bit bloated. Her upper belly, hard to notice beneath her overflowing breasts, puffed out across the full width of her abdomen. Her lower belly bulged quite prominently over her Aquitainian knickers, and made her look a good three months pregnant. Meanwhile, her legs, arms, shoulders, and back still displayed yards of hard muscle, and she gave her biceps a proud flex and patted her firm ass before emerging to exhibit herself to the doctors. Doing so with a sexy strut that wobbled her gravity-defying boulders, however, might have been a little mistake.

The effect of seeing Lady Staceline in her underwear, of which she only possessed styles designed to raise the heart rate of the most athletic male to near its upper limit, was, on reflection, something about which she should have forewarned the very unathletic Dr Gerhart Globus.

With a gasp and a choke, the enormously fat foreign doctor inhaled a chunk of his cigar and swooned heavily to the floor. It was fortunate indeed that Professor Roundwell was present to advise on an antichoking technique as soon as Staceline and a cute young male medical assistant dragged Gerhart Globus into an amenable position. By the time smelling salts and a stimulant injection had been administered to Dr Globus, and a light dose of opiate had been given to calm the medical student who was both mortified and acutely aroused by seeing Stacey in her underwear and then being braced by her as they heaved Dr Globus into an upright posture for the anti-choking manoeuvre, hours seemed to have passed.

Sitting in the large, empty office because no-one had asked her to leave, and entertaining herself by rifling through some private papers, Staceline was resigned to not being examined until after her metabolism had incinerated the last of the gargantuan breakfast she'd forced herself to eat. She guessed she could just assume the appointment was over and go home, but that seemed like a wasted opportunity. After all, ingesting and metabolising a massive dose of calories tended to leave her with a raging urge for erotic adventure, and after reading lots of Globus's private correspondence, Staceline had dreamt up a plan to really make that urge work for her.

So, instead of collecting Hades and riding home, she dressed, tried to make sure her boobs weren't spilling out too much, and went to check on the cute medical student who had helped her to lift the semi-conscious doctor. His name was Kal, she learned from a receptionist, and Staceline's high standards for 'cute' meant that he actually looked a lot like a classical statue of a young Archaean athlete. He was lying sleepily in a small upstairs room with a window open and no smoke. The female nurse had been reluctant to let Staceline in to see him, until she'd been bribed with some coins, at which point she'd left them alone with zero questions as to what Staceline intended to do to him.

Staceline took a deep breath and cleared her mind of cynical thoughts. It took a while, but staring at the cute medic helped. Then she closed her eyes and channelled the personality of her inner airheaded bimbo, who was usually kept chained up at the back of her mind. When she opened her eyes and smiled at Kal and brushed her fingers over his bare shoulder, she felt like she'd lost about half her IQ. But the effect of her dumbed-down demeanour was undeniable. Kal nuzzled her hand and stirred from his sleep. When he responded to her questions it seemed that the fact of lying beside a super-busty, super-rich young Duchess whom he knew to be wearing extremely provocative underwear, and who talked to him with the honeyed voice of a complete bimbo, seemed to pretty much suppress his rational brain entirely.

“Hey, Kal!” Stacey asked. “How are you feeling? I'm so sorry I startled you. But you were very heroic afterwards! You saved Dr Globus's life, after he nearly choked because he saw me in racy underwear, and I'm so grateful to you!”

Staceline moved the cotton bedsheet and stroked the medical student's bare chest. She could feel his heart pound satisfyingly fast. She guessed she'd instilled about the right amount of adrenalin to overcome the soporific drug Professor Roundwell had injected into Kal to relieve his brief spell of hyperventilation. Said hyperventilation had been caused either by seeing and feeling Staceline in her underwear; or by seeing the prestigious Dr Globus have a near death experience. Stacey had chosen to believe it was entirely down to the first cause.

“Mmmfph...”

“Hey, Kal! It's Okay, don't try to speak. Save your energy...”

Cynical Staceline felt slightly bad about doing it, but she let Airhead Staceline lean over the med student so that her boobs squashed against his pillow and let them briefly spill so far they touched his face.

“Mmmn.”

“I just wanted to thank you Kal, for saving Dr Globus. I know you were stressed by seeing me semi-naked, then because I squished my boobs into you while I was helping you to lift the doc... And I know that the way I squeezed you from behind in a sort of bear hug to help you lift him, and the way my boobs pressed into you so hard they bulged out beyond both sides of your cute, athletic chest must have been really difficult to process...”

At this point, the cynical core of Staceline's mind added that: and if you dare tell me you didn't faint from seeing me semi-naked, but because you were shocked about having to save your boss from nearly choking, retribution will follow and you will live to regret destroying my self esteem.

Fortunately, Kal seemed dazed and tried to roll across his pillow towards Staceline's inviting boobs. She leaned to pull them back, inch at a time, and watched him with amusement.

“Mmph!”

“I know, Honeybuns.” Staceline stroked his toned chest some more, for good measure, and also because it felt good. She was kind of aware that the cynical majority of her mind was going to hate the airhead part forever for using the word Honeybuns, but there was a reason for all this...

“Lady Staceline Vol...”

“Voluptua-Fuller Demoore. Yeah, that's me. Call me Stacey.”

“I'm sorry that I touched you without your permission, Stacey...”

“That's Okay Kal. There was a very urgent reason, and...” Staceline's eyes widened in shock as she realised both the competing halves of her mind agreed firmly on the next bit, “I actually very much enjoyed it.”

“Thanks, Stacey.” Stacey roughed up the medic's cute blonde hair as he talked. “I was actually kind of scared you might sue me... You know, since you're a high ranking noblewoman and I'm just the second son of a baronet...”

“Really?”

“Yeah. People do sue doctors, and big Senate doctors always blame their assistants, so I could lose my job... And I actually need my job! No offence, Stacey but it's possible a Duchess might not appreciate that, especially a really young, hot Duchess like you.”

Hot. Noted.

“No, Kal. I mean, really, are you really from a family with a peerage?”

Cynical Staceline had already known that he was, based on the small crest embroidered on the collar of the linen shirt he'd been stripped out of, but it hadn't been obvious enough that she would have to admit noticing. She was certain Airhead Stacey had not noticed.

“Yeah, but just a baronet. It hardly counts.”

“I know. Don't care. It means you can take me on a date!”

“Wha-!”

“One date. There's a masquerade feast this Friday at Malision Palace. You will be escorting me. I will let you feed me all night, heavily, and because I'm the most eligible Duchess in the Empire that will get you very much noticed and I guarantee you will get attention from some fairly rich, quite desirable girls. We won't be dating permanently. But, if you are really nice, as well as cute which I can already see you are, and if you do me one small favour, I will take you on two more dates, and at the end of the third I may choose to fuck you to within an inch of your life. Do you accept my offer, Kal?” Asked Cynical Staceline.

Kal's jaw had hung open until he'd heard the word “favour,” at which point something had made sense to him. It was still felt like a once-in-a-lifetime offer and if he could only make himself speak he would have accepted in a heartbeat.

“You do have to say something, Kal.” Staceline had mostly dropped the seductive voice.

Kal managed to move his tongue enough to say, “Yes, Lady Staceline. It would be my pleasure to do whatever you want.”

“Good. As it should be.”

Staceline ruffled his hair before getting up to leave.

“Stacey?”

“Yes?”

“This favour isn't something you were ever going to let me have a choice about, is it?”

Cynical as well as cute.

“Nope. See you Friday, my place.”

 

* *

 

“Professor Roundwell. Does this medical document say what I am sinking it says?”

The Professor had come by to check on Dr Globus, as a courtesy to check that the lardy League doctor was not suffering any lingering effects from his earlier collapse, and also to polish off the paperwork from the morning's appointment with Duchess Staceline.

“Oh look, it looks like your assistant finished off the measurements and the weighing while we were in the recovery room.”

“Yes, but look what that idiot has written!”

Globus jabbed a finger at the page, leaving a tobacco smudge.

“Oh. That is a bit surprising.” Said Roundwell. “It says, ahem. Height: 5'9'', which I assume we agree with. Weight: 221 lbs. It's a bit higher than I'd expect, but you know, Gerhart...”

“By Zeus! There is no way she is a pound over 160, and she is dangerously underweight, in my medical opinion. Which is ze opinion that matters!”

“Hmm. I was going to say: maybe those boobs are even heavier that they look.”

“Not zat much! Zey would have to be made of solid bronze.”

“Well, that's your opinion then. They did practically give you a heart attack though.

“Zey did not! I just swallowed a bit of cigar zer wrong way!”

“Right. I'd prescribe you a prophylactic whisky once a morning, but I think you already take one.”

“Humpph!”

“Well what about the fact that she did manage to lift you while Kal was doing the Henrik manouever on you. And you weigh, what?”

“One hundert fifty kilos. Exactly zer same as when I was at college.”

“I'll take your word for it. I was just going to say, you're a fair weight and she can lift most of you, so you can't hardly argue she's too weak for the rigours of office...”

“Hmm. Not in that way, but it is still inappropriate for a lady to be zat skinny.”

“Okay. Can we look at this another way. We've got this form pretty much complete here, and we could just sign it off, including your notes about her diet, which I think you'll agree is exemplary. It'd save us some effort.”

“True.”

“And it would be easier than explaining to the Speaker of the Senate that you want another appointment with Lady Staceline because you choked on a cigar in the first one.”

“Ah. There is zat.”

“And she did help save your life. One good turn, Dr Globus...”

“Hmm. I think you are quite right, Professor. We'll sign it off and forget about it. And if anyone asks why we said she's 221 lbs when she obviously isn't, we'll just say she was today, and she must have lost weight.”

“Or that they're mistaken because she's wearing a tight corset which gives the illusion of slenderness to the untrained eye.”

“Exactly, Professor!”

“Well, it a pleasure to see you again, Gerhart. I must be off. A Professor's work is never done!”

“Oh, mine neither! And my next client is Lady Katelette Foir-Grasse. She is of healthy weight, but I don't mind telling you I'm looking forward to seeing her much less than Lady Staceline!”

“Oh, why so?” Asked Professor Roundwell, picking up his walking cane

“I am led to believe she is a firm believer in potions! Unt, as you vell know, I hate zer bunkum of alchemy!”

 

* * *

 

Chapter 8, The Cream Crisis

 

Meanwhile, across town, on Hill Street...

[Batman76]

So happy to see this back again!

 

Stacy is such a joy of a protagonist.

[John Smith]

We're sailing in hazardous waters... 🍿🍿

[flyer33]

20 hours ago, Batman76 said:

So happy to see this back again!

 

Stacy is such a joy of a protagonist.

Thank you! You've written some great stuff recently, so I hope you enjoyed this in return. 

[flyer33]

Chapter 8: The Cream Crisis

Meanwhile, across town, on Hill Street.

 

Amid a stylish limestone plaza lined with orange and lime trees, upmarket cafés and bistros were doing a roaring brunch trade. At one such café, surrounded by the cream of society who were gorging their new girlfriends and mistresses on – well, on lots of cream, among other things – the young and eligible Lord Bingley Bonkley, the tenth Earl of Westix, luxuriated in his wicker chair. His mind wandered as he contemplated how dashed lucky he was to have secured a brunch date with such an attractive blonde debutante. And to add the cherry on top, she was displaying a most impressive appetite as she ploughed through serving after serving of calorific dishes with the work ethic of a draft horse. Yes, indeed, Bingley Bonkley was one lucky man to have obtained the delightful company of the curvaceous Lady Alicia Remonte.

Of course, Bingley mused as he twirled his fashionable moustache and waved for the waitress to bring yet another refill of sweet lemonade for Lady Alicia's pint glass, to accompany her latest course of pastries, it was a blessing he wasn't feeling a bit miffed...

He had, after all, attended yesterday's art gallery dinner with the intention of offering his company to Duchess Staceline Demoore. The eye-wateringly rich Duchess had been invited, the previous year, to sit for a portrait by the celebrated painter Van Clomp. The work had been unveiled yesterday, to considerable applause from the arty-farty audience at the gallery. Bingley himself didn't know much about art, but he knew what he liked and could certainly agree that Van Clomp had captured Duchess Staceline's astonishing beauty and gargantuan bust with great accuracy. Well, that was, allowing for the fact the Duchess had obviously gained quite a lot of inches around the bosom in the intervening year and had clearly struggled mightily to squeeze herself into the same skimpy blue dress she had modelled in the painting. In fact, Bingley had suspected that her frequent excursions to touch up her makeup were in large part to scoop herself back into the dress from which she was spilling delightfully over the top.

Anyway, the portrait had been billed as an homage to a famous masterpiece – Alura's Aphrodite, by Van Grossenbuste – for which Duchess Staceline's olive-skinned ancestor Duchess Alura Voluptua had been the old master's muse ages ago. To be precise, that painting was a hundred and fifty years old – Bingley knew this, because he had boned up on the subject in order to impress Duchess Staceline. Duchess Alura Voluptua had apparently been the greatest beauty of her day, back when her state of Sisilea had been a backwater that had recently joined the Empire. She'd gone on to marry into the rich Fuller family, and blah, blah, blah... Now, Alura's Aphrodite had been on display beside the new work, and the arty-farty folk had spent ages drooling over the comparison. From Bingley's point of view, Alura Voluptua was certainly beautiful, but not as much as many modern ladies... It was clear, to Bingley, that while Alura's famously large bust was indeed enormous, and competitive with the bustiest ladies of today, of whom her descendant was certainly now one, her other assets were merely quite impressive. Her voluptuous hips, for example, must not have been more than a smidge over 50 inches. And although she had a round belly – as one would expect of the woman who was famous for popularising the Chocissa brand of chocolate and hazelnut spread, her middle tapered to a rather narrow waist that couldn't be over 34 inches. By comparison, there wasn't a single place where the dishy Lady Alicia's body narrowed to anything like so tight a measurement. And Alura Voluptua had been in her late thirties after three pregnancies when she posed for her Aphrodite, which added more arty-farty complexity to the comparison. Certainly, she was a very slim woman by modern standards, which perhaps explained whence Duchess Staceline had inherited her scandalous slenderness. The talented Van Clomp had done his best, of course, augmenting Lady Staceline's hips and thighs and adding an alluring belly roll, but in Bingley's final analysis Staceline's Aphrodite was a virginal young lady of only fourteen stone or so.

Anyway, by the time Bingley Bonkley had been introduced to Lady Staceline, and opened his mouth to show off how much he had learned about her family and say how interesting it was, she seemed to already be having a whale of time talking about old painters with Van Clomp. Bingley hadn't really been able to shine in that conversation – other than a rather witty pun about how Van Grossenbuste had obviously been a connoisseur of enormously busty women, which he had struggled to convert into a compliment about Lady Staceline's truly tectonic titties. Really, in her dress that evening, he should have said voluptuously volcanic, but he hadn't thought of it. So, he had not been too disappointed when Lady Staceline excused herself to adjust her top, departing with the suggestion that perhaps he would get on well with Lady Alicia Remonte while she was away.

Lady Alicia was wonderful. A true society beauty, with radiant blonde hair and a big appetite to match her fabulous figure! She had scarcely stopped drinking sweet lemonade and eating pastries once throughout the whole of the rest of the evening, as Bingley introduced himself and lavished admiration for her looks upon her. And she'd shown a remarkably quick recall of some of his friends' nicknames, which he had rattled off – complex names such as Stodger Bodger and Plumper Humper Humphreys, that most girls found hard to recall.

All in all, although Bingley hadn't managed to charm the Empire's richest and most eligible young woman, perhaps it was for the best. Staceline Demoore had been, after all, very slender and lean other than in the bosom area. And while she was extraordinarily rich – well, so was Bingley Bonkley, albeit not in the same league, but still his family's Earldom was an extremely affluent one, and their three main stately homes and the old castle were enough to satisfy men of respectably modest ambitions like the Bonkley's. But, to return to the main point at hand, Bingley was not certain that a woman as slender as Lady Staceline would be satisfyingly lustful in the bedchamber. And he was probably much luckier that he had caught the eye of Alicia Remonte, whose obvious gluttony signalled a sexual appetite he was certain must be far more voracious and unstoppable than Lady Staceline's.

Brunch in a Hill Street café was a truly bodice-popping affair, at which the Imperial tradition was followed in full: the gentlemen would display their wealth, generosity, and manliness by ordering platters of rich food for their girlfriends and mistresses with the apparent relentlessness of a mythical hero trying to complete the endless task of filling up a bottomless pit. And the girlfriends and mistresses would give their all to eat everything up until their poor tummies could stretch not a thousandth of an inch further: greater gluttony and weight gain would be taken as signs of their insatiable desire to indulge in pleasure and of their carnal hunger for their gentlemen companions. The dishes served to the guests were huge and fattening, and the menus were very long to guarantee every guest would be able to find several courses to enjoy. These days, with economic progress bringing affluence to many young ladies, a bottom measurement under 50 inches was considered small, and girls from richer common families or from the middle of the nobility upwards had to spend whole days every week glutting themselves into sugar comas so that they could obtain more curvaceous figures than their many dedicated competitors. That was the sort of gluttony which could be indulged in at a Hill Street café.

The dress code at brunch in summer time called for the ladies to wear short, light, floaty dresses. In the heat of the capitol, even in the morning, anything heavier would raise an unalluring sweat in the ladies as they ploughed through course after course of calorie-dense gourmet fare. Lady Alicia's cherry blossom white dress was a stylish example, and it revealed every little bulge of her swelling belly, charming bosom, and widening hips, without clinging indecently or revealing more than an occasional glimpse of her lacy underwear.

Alicia Remonte was only the fourth daughter of a country squire, and so she hadn't been brought up with the constant stream of fattening but expensive meals to which girls from Bingley's level of the aristocracy were accustomed, and which were served on Hill Street. Still, Bingley noted approvingly, she was certainly making up for lost time. She'd ploughed through a roast duck with all the trimmings and a three-fowl pie without raising a sweat – and this after a gluttonous evening gorging on pastries and cake the night before, and, so she said with obvious sincerity, quite a bit more breakfast than she should have indulged in before a brunch date. She slurped sweet lemonade – so sweet it left a sugary sludge in the bottom of the glass that she ate with a spoon between frequent refills – which only seemed to enhance her appetite rather than sate her. In between mouthfuls of a meaty platter of Sisilean pasta, Alicia mentioned that Staceline had asked Alicia to sample a number of weight gain shakes, in order to find the tastiest ones to recommend to her employer – it was this task, Alicia claimed, involving their maids mixing up four or more such shakes for her to try every afternoon, that was responsible for her widening hips and enlarging bottom. Apparently Alicia was currently a little wider than she was accustomed to, and apologised in advance in case her swaying hips should knock anything off a table on her way past.

Several pastries and slices of cake slipped into the blonde's greedy lips. She then claimed she couldn't manage a whole cheesecake, but when Bingley ordered one up anyway she managed three quarters of it, and eleven donuts, before leaning back in her straining chair and patting her engorged belly.

At last, the endless plates of pastry and cake won the struggle against Lady Alicia's seemingly unlimited stomach elasticity.

“Oooh! Lord Bonkley! I'm so stuffed I can scarce draw breath!” Exclaimed Lady Alicia.

“But, Alicia,” Bingley teased, “you haven't even looked at the icecream menu. And I'm sure you couldn't possibly want to finish without a nice big hot chocolate!”

“Oooooh” Alicia groaned.

* *

 

[John Smith]

Entertaining.

[Batman76]

Oh God yes.

[maxis192]

😊

[flyer33]

Chapter 8: The Cream Crisis (continued)

 

By midday, the hot sunlight filtering through the trees made the Hill Street cafés uncomfortably hot, and many of the patrons and their mistresses and girlfriends had squeezed themselves into their carriages and departed for cooler venues. Just a few ladies were greedily finishing one final dessert before they did so too, fanning themselves as they perspired due to the effect of the rising temperature combined with the extreme sugar rushes coming from their pudding-laden tummies. One of these ladies, who was desperately trying to impress her handsome date by finishing the second enormous icecream sundae which he was spoon-feeding to her, was Lady Alicia Remonte.

“Oh! No more, please, my Lord Bonkley... Uuurrrrrp!” Lady Alicia burped. This seemed to result in a stream of cold cream dribbling down her chin, but she was too stuffed to do much about it other than wipe her mouth with a chocolate-smeared napkin. She felt like she was going to be constipated for days – much longer than was really appropriate after a first date, but her appetite and desire to impress the very dishy and rich Lord Bonkley had got the better of her.

“But Alicia... Surely you can manage a third big icecream sundae... You only have a few more spoonfuls of this second one to go!”

Alicia lay back in her chair and pushed out her overstrained tummy as far as it would go. She felt more cold chocolate icecream dribble down her chin when she opened her mouth to pant a little, and exerted herself to push her blonde hair back so that it wouldn't get too messed up by the sauce.

Bingley gave Alicia's engorged tummy a pat and an affectionate jiggle. It felt drum tight all the way from her pussy to her bust, but that didn't dissuade him from pressing another spoonful of icecream between Alicia's willing lips. But she already had a load of the rich, creamy dessert in her mouth, so this mainly just made more of it dribble down her face.

“No, please... Hic! Uuurrrrrrrrrp! Burrrrup! Hiccup!”

“Are you almost full, Alicia?” Asked Bingley. “You only need to finish a little more!”

“Oh! Mmn, no! Hiccup. No more! My poor tummy doesn't feel very good!”

“But Alicia, you've had such a large appetite this morning! I'm sure you can manage a little more!”

“Hiccup! Buuurrrrp! Hic! Please, Bingley, no more! I wish I could manage another little something, but my tummy aches and I'm very constipated!”

Bingley beamed with pleasure. Alicia had undoubtedly eaten far more than any other young woman at the café, including the other ones whose gentlemen companions had opted to spoon-feed them a final dessert or two! Bingley had topped off Alicia's brunch with not one but two “duchess-sized” icecream sundaes, each made with seven scoops of gelato icecream swimming in cream and chocolate sauce.

“Alright, Alicia! You've done quite well. You may have a rest so that you can get ready for your lunch...”

Bingley gave Alicia's tummy a pat and tried to jiggle it again, but it was nearly rock hard and didn't move much.

“Urrp! Ohh!”

As Lord Bingley Bonkley strolled indoors to settle their enormous brunch bill, Alicia groaned and tried to summon the energy for the walk to Lady Staceline's carriage. She had borrowed it for the morning, since Stacey had decided to ride off on her imposing black horse to deal with some sort of Senate business. Alicia decided it would probably be best to get Bingley to send the carriage around to pick her up. After all, her tummy was extremely overfull, and it would be unwise to exert herself before she'd had a little nap to try and digest a few of the icecream sundaes and cream-filled pastries she'd just let Bingley gorge her with.

It was at this point that Lady Alicia first heard of the Cream Crisis.

A newspaper vendor, hawking copies of a special extra edition of the Lonporto Post, hove into the plaza and started circulating among the restaurant customers and shoppers.

“Extra! Extra! Read all about it! The Great Cream Crisis Thickens!”

“Tainted cream causing sickness all over the city!”

“Now even customers of Duke Creamer's dairy are becoming debilitated by Diarrhoea.”

 

“Read all abaarrt it in the Lonporto Post! That'll be a shilling, madam.”

The Cream Crisis! It sounded horrible.

Now that Alicia thought about it, there had been a lot of ladies getting sick lately – and she'd had two bad tummy aches herself in the last week. Of course, it made perfect sense that all of those things were all connected in some kind of city-wide crisis. Thank Zeus that the newspapers had figured it out.

But...

Alicia had just eaten two “duchess-sized” icecream sundaes, a huge platter of meaty pasta with a extra serving of a cream sauce, and several cream-filled donuts. As well as lots of dishes with lashings of straight cream poured on the top.

Alicia clutched her tummy.

Now, if she'd ever let Staceline's thought processes rub off on her, Alicia might have realised that the reason she could feel a huge tummy ache coming on may simply be that she'd just consumed enough brunch to make three women feel fat and bloated for days. But Alicia prided herself on her sensible, traditional thinking, and entertaining multiple alternative explanations at once was not her strongest attribute. Instead, she clutched her belly and winced at the agonising belly pain caused by the tainted cream she'd just heard about.

By the time Lord Bingley Bonkley returned outside, his coin purse noticeably lighter, he found Lady Alicia groaning incoherently. He realised he must act swiftly!

Lord Bonkley put on a stern expression and snapped his fingers for the waiter.

“What do call this, man?”

The waiter responded tactfully, glancing at Alicia. “I will bring a soothing laxative and a water jug for the Lady at once, Sir.”

“A water jug! Can't you see she needs more than that! Have one of your waitresses attend at once to give her a belly rub! And on the house too! There must be something iffy in one of your dishes!”

The waiter smiled obsequiously and decided not to argue that Lady Alicia's hearty overindulgence this morning was clearly the cause of her belly ache, and that the café's dishes were all excellent. After all, Lord Bonkley was a valued customer.

“At once, My Lord.”

“Haruumph! Be quick about it.”

Alicia groaned and burped.

“Lady Alicia.” Bingley knelt next to her. “Are you feeling unwell? Has one of today's dishes disagreed with your delicate, feminine constitution? Say which it is, and I shall have it struck from our bill immediately! And, furthermore, my lawyer will have it excised from this establishment's menu entirely.”

“Cream!” Alicia said, gesturing weakly towards the newspaper vendor, who obliged by striking up his sales pitch in Lord Bonkley's direction.

“Cream Crisis! Read all abarrrt it! Dozens of débutantes debilitated by dire dairy-derived diarrhoea!”

 

“Give me one of those!”

Lord Bonkley snatched at a copy. He scanned the front of the news-sheet, and his lips moved as he puzzled out the meaning of the words.

“That'll be a shilling.”

“Bah!” Bingley fumbled with his purse.

Alicia moaned with indigestion as Bingley directed a waitress to provide her with a soothing tummy rub, and simultaneously scanned the Lonporto Post for evidence that poor restaurant management was involved.

“Where did you say you got your cream from?”

“We only use Duke Creamer's Freshest, My Lord. The finest brand in the capital!” The waiter answered.

“Aha! Well, it says here, in the Post, that even Duke Creamer's dairy is affected now! Look, see, there's a list here of cream brands that ladies have gotten sick after eating! It lists: Standard Dairy; Happy Bull Icecream; Thicker Dairy; Aunt Betty's Delight; Duke Creamer's Finest Reserve... By Bacchus! Ladies are getting sick after eating cream from over half the dairy businesses in the city!”

The waiter, evidently a stronger reader than Lord Bonkley, responded with a relieved look as he reached the bottom of the article.

“But not, My Lord, after consuming Duke Creamer's Freshest Express, which is the brand we favour here, at the Golden Trough Café!”

“Harumph! Then how do you explain the state of my beautiful young lady companion?” Demanded Bingley.

The waiter oozed tact.

“It may be the effect of the day's rising heat, My Lord, perhaps combined with a natural desire to impress a young gentleman companion to whom she is most attracted, which might have caused her to slightly overindulge.”

“Hmm.” Bingley mused. It seemed plausible. Still, it was too bad if true: he'd felt sure Lady Alicia could have packed away a few more scoops of something without ill effect. She'd eaten so ravenously, after all. So, all in all, Bingley suspected the waiter was lying about his café's use of the freshest cream... There was rumoured to be a lot of cream counterfeiting about these days. And a careless chef might not even know the difference. But this was difficult to prove, and the chivalrous thing to do would be to fetch Lady Staceline's carriage to escort the alluring, but rather chocolate-stained, blonde back to her home to rest. He would then write a note to her – or, better yet, have his butler write the note – suggesting a future engagement, perhaps for lunch next time. After all, she was clearly perspiring heavily and suffering badly with a tummy ache, so it was probably about time to conclude their date.

The waiter hustled off, having been dispatched by Bingley to fetch the carriage.

He admired Lady Alicia's ravishing beauty while they waited, especially the charming chocolate smudges around her plump lips...

Engrossed in thought, Bingley was confused for a moment when a shadow fell over them. It took him a few moments to recognise the familiar shape of a cavalry horse's shadow. He turned around, got dazzled by the sun, and stood to attention in case it turned out to be ridden by a fellow officer from his regiment.

Its rider was not an a fellow officer. The black stallion, a fine beast of over sixteen hands with solid musculature and poise, wasn't even being ridden by a man at all. In fact, it felt like rather a waste of horsepower to discover that his rider was a slender woman with lean thighs in a light dress... Bingley held up a hand as his eyes adjusted to the sunlight, but before he could make out the face he recognised the unforgettably full bustline of Lady Staceline Demoore. Well, he thought, that explained how a woman could afford that expensive a cavalry horse.

“Your Grace!” Bingley said.

The stallion snorted in his direction. Mucus splattered over Bingley's face.

“Hey, watch it, Hades! My apologies, My Lord Bonkley. Hades is eight, but I don't think he's every going to grow out of doing that.” Staceline bit her lip to suppress a laugh.

Bingley, fortunately, was accustomed to horses. And-

“Alicia! What's up with you?”

“Ohh! Urrp.” Alicia groaned.

Staceline jumped off her horse and instructed him to stay put while she knelt next to Alicia.

Bingley found himself engrossed by the way Lady Staceline's breasts bounced once as she landed on the ground, then rebounded with preternatural buoyancy as if their titanic bulk was suspended in the air before her by some sort of industrial pressure equipment.

“Alicia. Are you okay?”

“Oh, Stacey! My tummy feels bad!”

“Hmm. Did you eat so much you've given yourself a huge tummy ache, Alicia?” Staceline inquired. Then she added, under her breath, “for someone else?”

“No!” Alicia complained.

The blonde reached for the newspaper Bingley had left on the table.

“See! It's bad cream, Stacey! Oh, my tummy!”

Lady Staceline glanced at the Lonporto Post. Bingley wasn't certain, but from the way her eyes flicked from side to side he suspected that she might be a significantly stronger reader than he was himself. Also, her lips didn't move while she read, not even for a complicated word like “debilitated” which had taken Bingley a few attempts.

“I don't know, Alicia. You shouldn't believe everything you read in the papers... But let's get you home and you can sleep this off.”

“Mmm. Nap time.”

“So, you're worried this cream is bad?” Staceline scooped a dessert spoon into a glass dish that still hadn't been cleared away.

“No, My Lady!” Bingley tried to interject, as he realised that Lady Staceline was going to risk a tummy ache – surely a real danger for a woman of such flimsy litheness – by sampling the potentially-tainted cream. But he was too late! She'd ignored his warning entirely...

Bingley's jaw dropped and he felt himself drool a little at the electric eroticism with which Lady Staceline was able to lick a scoop of clotted cream from a long spoon with her fully extended tongue.

“My Lady!” Bingley wanted to say “Don't eat it!” but the words died in his throat. Generations of cultural conditioning conspired to make him think of offering to buy Staceline a big bowl of pure clotted cream to eat, just like she'd slurped that first spoonful.

“Tastes fine to me, Alicia. You probably just ate too much. Again.”

“Oooooohh!” Alicia groaned, and rubbed her swelling belly as she began to have an attack of gas.

Staceline seemed to be on the verge of blaming someone for something, as soon as she could figure out who, and for what. Eventually, she settled for ordering Bingley about.

“Go hail a carriage.”

“My Lady. I've already sent the waiter for, well, for your carriage, actually.”

“Oh. Well, I guess we'll just wait here for it then.”

Bingley couldn't think of much to say. He tried remembering something about the painting of Staceline's Aphrodite from the gallery last night, but the details were becoming hazy in his memory. He eventually came up with something to ask.

“So, have you had that blue dress for long, My Lady? The one which your bosom is far too ample to squeeze into any more.”

“Erm.”

Staceline was rescued from having to field that question by an almighty commotion from within the kitchen of the Golden Trough café. There was a crash, and shouting.

“What the hell was that?”

It had sounded like a crash of saucepans, followed by a tower of crockery being thrown, and a clash of metal on metal, all accompanied by furious shouting. It sounded like a robbery!

Staceline, Hades, and Bingley all looked around towards the shopfront. Bingley, although not a fast-thinking or clever man, was in his element when it came to action, and interposed himself in front of the ladies. As he did so, he noticed in his peripheral vision that Lady Staceline appeared to have produced a switch knife from somewhere. Damn – he really should have thought to wear his cavalry sabre.

“I don't suppose?” He started asking.

Staceline handed the knife to Bingley. It had a nice leather grip, and a decent solidity, and he held it firmly.

The shopfront door burst open, and a cook's assistant burst out. He started running down the street. It looked like he'd been in a fight with the chef, who emerged yelling at the top of his lungs, brandishing a copper saucepan and sporting a cut on his head where his white hat had been knocked askew.

“I'll kill you!” The chef shouted. “Stop that blackguard! I caught him tampering with my cream pantry! Stop him! He's an imposter, and he had some sort of poison on him! He must be the cream poisoner!”

“Wha-” Stacey started asking. Then she glanced at her not-technically-a-cavalry-horse-but-only-because-the-cavalry-couldn't-afford-him, Hades. Bingley had the same idea.

“I'll bring him back, My Lady!” Bingley started saying.

“The hell you will! He won't let any one else ride him, or at least he'd better not.” Staceline yelled pointedly as she vaulted onto Hades who was already quivering with excitement. Boobs like steel watermelons, Bingley thought involuntarily. “You chase him on foot in case he turns; I'll run him down if he stays on the street!”

“My Lady, it's far too dangerous!” Bingley complained as Staceline rapidly accelerated Hades down the street.

 

* *

[Batman76]

I'm sure it was poison. no way eating gallons of ice cream gives you a stomach ache.

 

And anytime Stacey eats something drives me nuts.

[>_< 0_0]

I think I have a crush on Stacy 💪🦵👀

[flyer33]

Chapter 8: The Cream Crisis (part 3/3)

Bingley Bonkley gasped for air as he sprinted around the semicircular edge of the Candy Market. He wished he had consumed a lighter lunch, but fortunately he'd only had four courses and so it wasn't his greatest wish. His number one wish – apart from the seemingly impossible hope that Lady Staceline's violent horse riding would shake her gargantuan titties free from her flimsy white riding dress... but alas they clung to her chest, each time she leaned and swerved, with the rock solidity of heavy boulders such as might be used to anchor a sea wall... one could more accurately say that the riding dress clung on to their gravity-defying bulk, rather than held them in – was that the Candy Market wasn't quite so large in circumference. But, then again, there were literally thousands of sugared delicacies to find room for, from crystallised figs and bunches of sugar grapes to barrels of chocolate pumpkin seeds and towers of cappuccino cake and banana bread. This meant the Candy Market was huge, and if you had to run around the edge it was a much longer distance than running directly through. Unfortunately – and Bingley's number two wish would have been that matters were otherwise – the market was doing a roaring trade even under the noonday sun, and cutting through the crowd was proving difficult.

Catching up with the villain he was chasing – the spring-heeled Poisoner dressed like a kitchen assistant who was responsible for adulterating the dessert of his latest paramour, Lady Alicia Remonte, and giving her a terrible tummy ache – was simply not possible by following him directly through the Candy Market. This was because every time Bingley got close, the crowd of pleasingly plump young ladies patronising the stalls seemed to surge into his way and block the route. And Bingley Bonkley – who found the press of ladies with well-rounded, heaving bosoms very distracting, especially when they were cooing over thick syrupy sauces and sating themselves with lashings of sugary samples – had found it impossible to close the gap before his quarry took another sharp turn and made his escape.

In fact, if it hadn't been for Lady Staceline shouting directions to him from a distance with a precision Bingley would have been pleasantly surprised to receive from a light cavalry officer, and for the fact that her horse was insanely fast, Bingley was sure he would have lost his quarry four or five times already. As it was, the blackguardly Poisoner had evaded Lady Staceline's pursuit through a narrow alleyway the very moment she shouted a command to a passing guard patrol to arrest him, and he'd instantly realised he was being followed. But she'd been able to trail him on some higher roads and overpasses while directing Lord Bonkley to pursue him on the capital's lower terrain. It had been an epic chase, first through the upmarket Chocolatiers' district and the new Bakers' quarter, and culminating in the Candy Market. Bingley would not be surprised if there was a small medal in it for him, now that they had the miscreant cornered and he could hear the approaching whistles of the city watch. Although... there had been quite a mess when a barrel of liquid chocolate had been upturned a few streets back. So, maybe not a large medal.

At last, with an uncharacteristic moment of guile, Bingley ducked into the shadow cast by an exceedingly plump young lady in a puffy pink dress, and awaited his moment as he glimpsed the elusive Poisoner who had – Bingley was sure – sped up his flight in the hope that he'd left the stalwart Lord Bonkley far behind.

“Got you, you Bounder!” Bingley exclaimed, kicking his leg out in an immensely strong sweep so as to trip up the Poisoner and send him flying.

The villain, however, possessed dexterity beyond what was humanly natural. He caught sight of Bingley at the last moment, and hopped clean over the mighty cavalryman's kick. But it was to no avail for the Poisoner. Agile he might be, but the man's most important quality – his luck – had run right out. He landed from his hop and slipped – skidding, Bingley saw with satisfaction, on the discarded skin of a candied banana. The kitchen assistant's hat was knocked from his head by a hard blow against a wooden spar as he spun around on the slippery cobbles and then flew head first into a pyramid of rock-hard imported coconuts.

“Hah! Take that!” Bingley cried. Then Bingley slipped on something slippery and landed painfully on his rump on the cobbled plaza.

By the time Bingley had got back up and eased the pain in his backside, he had not had time to inspect the comatose form of the villainous Poisoner – who had clearly been knocked out by the blow to his head from the coconut pile – before Duchess Staceline Demoore appeared in front of him and dismounted with a vault.

Bingley felt his jaw drop and his eyes lost focus momentarily at the sight of Staceline's breasts reacting with their single bounce with beyond-perfect suspension when she landed on the very hard cobbled ground. Her tight riding boots struck the ground as if the were one, and Bingley was sure he felt a shockwave through the ground... It could only be from the titanic heaviness of her breasts, because the rest of her was so lissom, although her thighs were strong and firm...

“At ease soldier!”

Bingley felt himself relax automatically before he realised he had just taken an order from a woman – albeit a very sexy one, and an important one in the aristocracy to boot.

“Is this him?” Staceline asked.

“It is indeed, My Lady. But wait, stay back: he may be dangerous!”

“Hmm. Have you checked if he even has a pulse?”

Bingley watched like a hawk as Staceline rolled up the poisoner's sleeve. She frowned at something on his arm, but then confirmed.

“Yeah, he has a pulse but it's pretty weak. And he's breathing, but you should get the guard to call a doctor when they get here. I don't think he's waking up too soon. Not that I want you to think I'm an expert in semi-conscious men or anything.”

“Heavens! The thought never crossed my mind, My Lady!”

“Okay. Take this – this is evidence...”

Staceline's breasts had been hovering and straining at the limits of her dress as she leant over the unconscious form of the poisoner and frisked through his shirt, which she seemed to have opened very quickly without ripping. Bingley glanced up in order to take the leather case which she handed to him. He then returned to admiring the curvaceous jiggle and bulge of her chest, while trying to pretend in his increasingly feverish imagination that she had at least the 50 inch hips and well-rounded thighs that her slim-by-modern-standards ancestor had sported in the old painting last night. Bingley was delighted that he could see her boobs, clad in thin, stretched white fabric, bulging extensively to both her sides, even when she was leaning away from him with her back turned to him. That was awesome, he decided – it made it much less likely she would catch him drooling very much.

“Mmm, I...” Bingley closed his mouth and swallowed hard twice as Staceline turned around to face him, with a serious look.

“Okay, that's all he was carrying that's interesting. What's in it?”

“Er. In what?”

“In the case, Bonkley!”

“Oh. Erm.”

“You have looked though the case?”

“Erm.”

“Well?”

“I thought that you would want to open it with me, your Ladyship.” Ladyship? That wasn't the correct term of address for me to use. I'm an Earl, dammit.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Well that's very sweet and thoughtful.” Bingley felt his heart accelerate. “So do you want to open it?”

Bingley gingerly opened the leather case, his fingers a little sweaty. There were some apothecary type things, and a piece of paper with tiny handwriting which looked like a challenging read.

“What's the note say?”

“Ahem.” Bingley cleared his throat as Staceline peered over his shoulder. She was tall, but not so tall as him, and he enjoyed making her stand on tiptoes and leaning the side of her bust into him a little so that she could reach a position to read. In fact, Bingley felt himself becoming very aroused at the realisation that Staceline leaning her bust into him just a little bit was something he could feel all the way from just below his shoulder to just above his waist. She didn't seem to notice – she was probably leaning into things with her boobs all the time, given their size... Anyway, Bingley read the crabbed handwriting as follows.

To P.

1. The steel vial with the green cross: four drops to a gallon to make a bad tummy ache and gas.

2. The scented philter in the glass vial. Open the top for a maximum of three seconds in a crowded room to ensure all ladies present are struck with a ravenous appetite.

 

“Phil... Fil-ter.” Read Bonkley, slowly.

“Shit!” Lady Staceline swore. “He really is a poisoner!”

Bingley was pleased to see he was ahead of the quick-thinking Duchess on this topic.

“Well, of course he's a poisoner, Lady Staceline. The chef at the Golden Trough café said so!”

“I know, but I didn't think he was credible.”

“Erm. Oh. Well, also, on top of that, My Lady, we knew he was poisoning the cream because Lady Alicia was struck down with a bad tummy ache!”

“No, Bonkley, that's not evidence.”

Bingley beamed, as he realised he could refute the too-clever Lady Staceline.

“I believe it is what that famous detective calls deductive proof, my Lady. You see, such a bad tummy ache as Lady Alicia was struck down by could only be caused by a potent poison.”

“No...” Staceline denied.

“Yes, My Lady. I feel sure of it.”

“No, Bonkley. She's a fucking glutton. You put food in front of her and she'll eat until she has a tummy ache so bad she passes out. I know, because I've been doing it to her for weeks.”

“Wha-”

“Hey, be careful!”

Too late.

The run of the conversation had totally distracted Lord Bingley Bonkley. Talking about Lady Alicia's gluttony was about the best thing he could imagine. But the concept that Stacey might have been plumping up her friend via duplicitous force-feeding – although why Stacey would admit this to Bingley, other than because he had annoyed her by querying her logical reasoning, it was difficult to say – struck him like a revelation from the Gods. He'd be pleasuring himself at the notion for weeks, at the very least, he thought... Unfortunately he did not have enough spare mental capacity to retain a proper hold on the leather case, which he'd been gripping with two fingers underneath the note. And his fingers were sweating quite a bit. So it was at that moment that one of the vials rolled free of the leather strap that retained it in the case.

Shatter.

An intense scent of delicious cinnamon, strong enough to overpower every other aroma in the entire Candy Market a dozen times over, blasted into the air as a splash of mist.

There was a moment of calm, as Bonkley looked up. It would only be seconds before the Candy Market devolved into a riot, with hundreds of plump young ladies attacking the cornucopia of calorific sweetmeats and syrups with a violent single mindedness induced by a near-fatal dose of something that would later be identified at the University as a powerful airborne appetite stimulant. The guard would have to be called to drag the young ladies away before they ate themselves sick – or, at least, sicker than they already were by the time that even the authorities in their gluttony-glorifying city thought they might have a eaten a bit too much.

Staceline Demoore calmly closed the leather case in Bingley's hand and fastened it with the note inside. She then used one index finger to prise his chin up so that he had to face the full force of her accusing glare instead of gazing into her magnificent cleavage. She had a hard, serious look on her face, and Bingley found it hard not to look away. He imagined he was finding out how an icecube might feel if it was able to look up and see an approaching river of lava from some long-anticipated volcanic eruption. He shuddered a little, and wondered why her pupils were dilated.

“Bingley. That was the glass vial, that you just dropped, right? And not the steel one, which is in the case?”

“Erm. Yes, I think so.”

“Fuck you, you idiot!” Staceline snarled, blinking and shading her eyes from the sun, uncomfortably, even though the canopies of the Candy Market made the place quite shady already.

“Erm, sorry!”

“Sorry? Go explain this to the guard. I can't, I'm...”

Staceline doubled up and gasped in pain. Her boobs swelled over the top of her dress, but somehow didn't spill out. She stood up straight and heel turned away from Bingley. Bingley started to notice a number of nearby young ladies hurling themselves greedily at the displays of candied fruits and barrels of sweet syrup and lemonades. For a moment, he thoroughly approved of their healthy natural appetites, before realising that, perhaps, he might be slightly wrong in this assessment.

Then there was a roaring sound, of the type Bingley associated with stories of dinosaurs. Bingley's inquiring mind raced to a question.

“Erm, was that your tummy rumbling, Stacey?”

The Duchess looked back over her shoulder to snarl at him. “No!” She denied, although Bingley wasn't quite sure if she was telling the truth.

Staceline found time for one final hard glare at Bingley, and he wilted a little as he saw her turn to stalk, wearing a scowl of indomitable willpower, past a stall covered with a hundred and forty-four types of chocolate bun. Bingley had a thought as to how he might make amends for the situation for which he felt partly responsible. 

“Er, My Lady Staceline?” He called.

“What?”

“Would you like me to buy you a muffin?”

The yell which Bingley received in reply to his thoughtful offer was at a volume level which might actually have frightened one of the dinosaurs in the adventure stories. And it was followed up a stream of invective that Bingley, on reflection, thought was rather un-ladylike.

“No, I don't want a fucking muffin, you fucking fatheaded God of the king morons! I'm fucking going home!” Staceline yelled at him, her voice icy with stress and fury.

“Hades! Come, boy. Good boy. We're going home. Except we're stopping for burritos on the way. And calzone. Also cheesy chips. And meatballs. And cake, lots of cake. And if Bonkley tries to follow you, fucking kick him in the balls!”

* * *

[Batman76]

fucking glorious

[flyer33]

Chapter 9: Cuisines and Cakemixes

 

Fifi Duchomp fanned her perspiring face and blew out her cheeks theatrically as she finished loading drop scones into the cake oven in the basement kitchen of the Demoore townhouse. Then she leaned back and congratulated herself on a job well done.

“Oof! I didn't know learning to cook would be such hot work, Mrs Apfel.”

Frau Apfel took a break from stirring her goulash to direct a disapproving tut towards her latest kitchen assistant. Fifi was a young maid, and training her up to cook was part of Frau Apfel's duties, but she was barely competent, and nothing like as much fun to work with as her favourite underchef, the rather handsome and very obliging young Klaus. Nor was Fifi as uncomplaining as young Maria, the girl who was busily mixing bowls of cake batter without making much fuss.

“The Demoore townhouse has one of ze airiest and lightest kitchens on the Hill, Fifi!” Frau Apfel admonished. “And zer work of a good chef is constant, so stop dawdling over there and get on with peeling some potatoes! I always like to have a good supply ready for when Lady Staceline asks for some mash. It is my job to look after her, and that means getting plenty of starch into her as soon as she asks for it. She's not as lucky as some of us Fifi: you, for example, only have to eat six or seven chocolate buns before you're practically bursting out of your knickers. She, on the other hand, has to eat like Hercules just to maintain her weight, and I won't tolerate your idleness being responsible for her getting even slimmer!”

“Yes, Mrs Apfel.” Fifi said, before sluggishly moving off to the vegetable pantry.

Frau Apfel busied herself with the goulash, until the next call on her attention as Yvette, Lady Staceline's noticeably plumpening personal maid, descended the stairs.

“Allo, Frau Apfel! Ow are sings coming along zis afternoon?”

“Yvette! I thought I heard the carriage. Has Lady Staceline returned?”

“Non. Not yet. It is Lady Alicia only, who is retournee from her lunch with Mister Bingley Bonkley – ee is zer handsome but slightly stupide-looking one.”

“Oh. Maria! Bring Lady Alicia's afternoon snacks.”

“Ah, non! Wait a moment. She is as a bloated as a tick, and I shall only take her one tray of honey cakes and eclairs. Otherwise I sink she will be sick! She will have to ave zer rest as a midnight snack.”

Maria efficiently arranged the tray for Yvette to collect, and then quietly asked the older Aquitainian maid a question.

“Would she like her four weight gain shakes as well, Miss Yvette? I made them with extra peanut butter like you said.”

“Err.” Yvette's brow creased with an expression of uncertainty and calculation, until she realised she was pulling the sort of face that might give her wrinkles and forced herself to relax.

“I sink I had better take her only one of zem. Oh, and a jug of her sweet lemonade. And some of those chocolates zat keep arriving. We're all going to get very sick if we don't get rid of more of zem into Lady Alicia.”

Maria set the requested jugs, glasses, and a huge platter of choccies on another tray and put it on the table beside Yvette.

No sooner had Yvette ascended back upstairs, Frau Apfel was again distracted from her goulash by the opening of the back door. It was, however, a most welcome distraction, as she was delighted to see her mistress, Staceline Demoore, let herself in by pushing open the door with one foot because her hands were occupied holding the last of a beef burrito and a slice of carrot cake. In the background, her horse walked off towards the stable on his own.

“Lady Staceline! How nice to see you!”

“Oh, hey, Mrs A! Erm, do we have any food? I'm kind of super-hungry...”

The question “do we have any food?” was not one that really needed asking in the spacious basement kitchen of the townhouse belonging to one of the empire's richest women. Frau Apfel could have fed thirty guests until they expired from overconsumption, at zero notice, at any time of the day or night. Indeed, the kitchen tables and counters were currently laden with dozens of cakes, pies, fruit bowls, and cold collations simply because Frau Apfel was stocking up on fresh snacks in case any guests happened to arrive.

It was, Frau Apfel thought, simply part of Lady Staceline's courteous and polite demeanor that she asked if there was food available rather than just digging in to the vast array of comestibles on display like any normal young woman.

“Of course, Lady Staceline. Please help yourself to everything here!”

“Thanks, Mrs A!” Staceline's quick eyes had already surveyed the room. “I'm not sure if I could eat quite everything...” She headed towards Maria, who backed away shyly.

“Hey, Maria. How are you?”

“Well, milady.”

“That's nice. Is that cakemix you have in that bowl?”

“Yes, milady.”

“Could I have it, please?”

Maria nervously held out her mixing bowl. It was very heavy, and her arms trembled a little as she offered it to the Duchess. Maria's eyes then seemed to widen in fear as she realised she'd handed her mistress a bowl containing a huge wooden mixing spoon.

“Thanks, Maria! I'm so hungry. Oh, this looks... So... Very... Good...”

Stacey slurped the spoon. Then she somehow managed to use it to devour entire scoopfuls of cakemix without getting any on her face. Maria looked on with awe as Staceline demonstrated the almost-unhinged-jaw technique which rich noble ladies were trained to perfect at finishing school. “This ish really, really, good, Maria. What's in it?”

Maria whispered an answer shyly.

“Coffee, walnut, and banana?” Gulp. “Oh, it's so good! Thank you for making this, Maria.”

Maria squeaked, and curtseyed, having just realised that she probably ought to.

“Oh, you don't have to... do that in the kitchen, Maria... Look, this ish really good, but...”

Frau Apfel listened carefully.

“I'm not sure it's enough to satisfy me. Do you think you could make me some more? Like, maybe, twice as much, this time?”

Frau Apfel directed Maria to be straight about it, but Stacey interrupted with a raised finger while she finished swallowing another huge scoop of cake batter.

“Hey, Maria, look... I got these things...” Stacey put down the cake bowl long enough to stretch down the top of her riding dress, reach into her bra, and draw out a couple of small paper cards. “I got these from the burrito place on Hill Street. It says if you buy five burritos and get this card stamped then you get the next one free... But it has to be on another purchase, so they just gave me the stamped cards. Would you like them – they do lots of different kinds, so you can probably find one you like?”

Maria glanced at Frau Apfel, who nodded that it was OK to take the burrito shop loyalty cards in return for the cakemix. Maria gingerly took the cards, and almost dropped them when she realised that they weren't just warm – as she'd expected for something that had been carried in her busty mistress's bra – but felt scorching hot.

“But...” Maria asked quietly. “Do you really want to give me all three of them, milady?”

“Three?” Stacey looked confused. She put the bowl back down and reached into her bra cup again as demurely as was practically possible. “Sorry, missed a couple. Five. Enjoy!”

Maria's eyes widened as she took the cards, being careful not to burn her fingers on them this time.

Stacey used the wooden spoon to finish scraping the remaining cakemix from the bowl and looked around furtively. It seemed like she was trying to find somewhere she could lick the bowl without anyone seeing. Frau Apfel had a better idea. She removed the glass cover from a freshly-baked raspberry sponge cake and watched as the delicious vanilla aroma did its work.

“Would you like this sponge cake, Lady Staceline? There is also apple pie, blackcurrent and almond pudding, and my speciality cinnamon strudel?”

“Erm. Yesh, I would love those things, Mrs A.” Staceline replied, taking a huge bite from a cold roast turkey drumstick. “But could I also have some meat, please?”

“Fifi!” Frau Apfel called into the distance. “Bring a collection of cold cooked ham, beef, venison, chicken, and sausages from the larder!” She then lifted the pewter cover off another platter, revealing three-quarters of a six-pound meat pie, and added to Lady Staceline, “there is also a little pork pie here, My Lady, to tide you over while Fifi brings that.”

“Mmm, sank you, Mrs A.” Staceline responded, as she finished her turkey drumstick, lifted the cover from a bread bin, and selected a soft pumpkin-seed bun.

“And, Fifi! Bring butter, pork dripping, and chocolate spread.” Frau Apfel added happily, as she watched her mistress enjoying a well-deserved afternoon snack. And Frau Apfel fully intended to keep offering food to her favourite Duchess until her very-healthy appetite was absolutely totally sated. She was pretty sure there was enough on display already in the kitchen to last until dinner, but just in case she pulled on a service bell cord to summon Klaus down to the kitchen to help out.

“Thanks, Mrs A. You're the best!”

* *

[Guest fatlover123456]

this story is to be getting good now. I likey.

[Batman76]

Oh shit has this wait been worth it. You're a master at this.

[flyer33]

Oh alright, you lot. Feeding time...

 

Chapter 10: Cakes and Crushes (part 1)

 

Yvette Carte-Blanche puffed, panted, and sweated her way up the second flight of stone steps to the day-room overlooking the Demoore townhouse's shady garden. It was a sweltering afternoon, even within the thick walls of Lady Staceline Demoore's grand residence on the Mercantian Hill, and Yvette was starting to get out of breath from the number of trips she had made from the hot basement kitchen. If the Aquitanian lady's maid was honest with herself, she would admit it was not only the weight of the pastry-laden trays that was making her sweat, but also her own rather spoiled aerobic fitness, burgeoning plumpness, rubbing thighs, blatantly fat bottom, overweight breasts, hefty tummy, and the slightly-painful knee that had been caused by a combination of those things.

Yvette caught her breath once she reached the second floor, temporarily resting her tray of fattening treats on an antique mahogany sideboard that had been built to last by a master carpenter. She fanned her face and adjusted her glossy black mane of hair in a silver wall mirror. Then she pushed open the door to the day room.

Yvette was eager not to spend too long catching her breath, as Lady Staceline had been unusually hungry this afternoon, and as her personal maid it was Yvette's role to make sure her mistress's appetite was fully sated at all times! It was a challenging job, because Lady Staceline Voluptua-Fuller Demoore was an eighteen-year-old Duchess. Like most young ladies of the Imperial aristocracy, generations of careful breeding had equipped Lady Staceline with a truly gargantuan stomach capacity, and an appetite that didn't quit (in addition to perfect skin and a bosom that would make a mythic heroine or goddess's jaw drop with envy). Unlike other young noble ladies, Lady Staceline had also inherited, from somewhere, a metabolism that burned calories like a forest fire ignited by heat lightning during a severe drought in coal-mining country. Consequently, the young heiress sported a pert bottom and a scandalously narrow waist... This, in the minds of Yvette and Lady Staceline's other loyal maids, was a terrible burden which they hoped to help their mistress overcome. True, many previous guardians, cooks, and an elite finishing school had all failed in the same aim; but Yvette was hopeful that the truly enormous appetite with which Lady Staceline had returned from her morning ride was evidence that the young Duchess was finally setting her iron willpower to the task of packing on the kind of well-rounded curves a woman of her station ought to sport. Therefore, after Lady Staceline had finished frenziedly gorging herself in her kitchen, and headed upstairs to sleep off her colossally calorific meal, Yvette had decided that it would be a great idea to bring several further trays of cakes, pastries, and other afternoon snacks up to her mistress. And, so far, the strong-willed young Duchess had glared at each one with single-minded willpower, before devouring the entire serving. Yvette was very impressed.

“'Allo, Lady Staceline! I 'ave brought you anozer leetle selection of snacks, as I sought you must still be 'ungry!” Yvette announced cheerfully to Lady Staceline, who was wearing just a short, thigh-length silk robe and standing next to a table laden with pleasingly-clean plates and bowls.

The hot, angry glare which Lady Staceline shot at Yvette in reply was, however, not really what Yvette had hoped for. Plus, she found it a tiny bit scary – Lady Staceline was young and affable, but she was tall, her bare arms were alarmingly firmly muscled, and she could switch on a look of intimidatingly icy resolve when she wanted to. As she was now doing.

“Yvette.” The young Duchess stated coolly.

“Yes, Lady Staceline?”

“Are you trying to stuff me until I'm sick?”

“Of course not, Lady Staceline! Ah am 'elping--” Yvette gasped.

“Then. What. Are. You. Holding. Yvette?” Staceline put a hand on her maid's shoulder. Despite being slick with sweat, Yvette suspected she wouldn't be able to slip out of the grip if she moved. So she stood rigid.

Yvette grinned helpfully at the tray, and sighed in relief as she slid it onto the table.

“Ah, zis, Lady Staceline? Ah. A few drop scones, and a leetle jug of a quart of milk, and a plate of your favourite apple pancakes, and...”

Staceline panted a little as she loomed over Yvette and examined the tray. On reflection, Yvette suspected that her mistress might be uncomfortably overstuffed. The only real evidence was that Staceline slurred her words when she wasn't speaking slowly, and that she had icing sugar smeared around the corner of her mouth, which, being a very tidy eater, was rare for her. If any other young woman had devoured everything on the well-stocked tables of Frau Apfel's kitchen, as Staceline had in about two hours after returning from her ride with an immense appetite, then there would be a dead giveaway... For example, any other young woman who hadn't passed out would be struggling to lift her gravid belly, which would look eight months pregnant. But the way Staceline's short robe of embroidered eastern silk draped from her epic bosom made it hard to tell... Then again, Yvette noticed the robe was tied very loosely, which was not the way her mistress normally dressed. And when she moved the robed definitely framed a belly that was swollen from her upper belly down to her crotch. Maybe seven months?

“Let me see, Yvette. Oh yes, this looks to me like there is also... An entire mouthwatering chocolate cheesecake; a plum pudding intended to serve eight, and I mean eight aristocratic fatties; a dozen pancakes, which should really be on two plates; twelve scones; more coffee; and a bowl of what I think is chopped bananas and apricots in a half-gallon of cream? Is that about right, Yvette?”

Staceline's breath was scented with oranges, probably from the large orange cake which Yvette was pleased to see had been completely devoured, as she breathed her question over Yvette while looming over the maid's shoulder. Yvette shivered.

“Exactly right, Lady Staceline!”

“Do you know what isn't in this mountain-range of artery-clogging, tummy-ache-magnifying calories, Yvette?”

“Erm, no, but Ah can fetch...”

“NO!” Yvette flinched as Staceline shouted. The net curtains swished as Staceline's yell temporarily overpowered the limited breeze from the garden.

“Lady Staceline?”

“The one thing that isn't here – and actually the one thing I asked you to bring, Yvette, with very specific instructions not to bring me anything else, because I am Oh Gods so fucking stuffed – is a glass of iced water!”

“Oh. I thought you would prefer a jug of milk, but Ah can go get zee water, eef you like, Lady Sta--”

“NO!”

Yvette flinched again. She tried to step towards the door, but felt her shoulder was locked in Staceline's vice-like grip.

“Oh.”

“Yes, Yvette. Oh.” Staceline said with finality. “Stay there.”

Yvette stood stock still, facing the table, while her mistress stalked behind her. A note of concern crossed the maid's mind. It was technically true that she'd fairly directly disobeyed her mistress's instructions about the most recent tray of food. And, technically, Yvette had also creatively added a lot of cakes and pastries to the other trays which Lady Staceline had explicitly yelled at her to stop bringing. On the grounds, Staceline had said, that she'd been splashed with some kind of dangerous appetite stimulant potion which had caused a riot in the city and caused Staceline to lose control and gorge herself until painfully stuffed as soon as she'd ridden back to her mansion. But Yvette had basically assumed – with Lady Staceline's best interests at heart – that this story was simply a demure way of Staceline saying “please bring me a lot more food, Yvette, as I am very hungry and could eat a horse.” She hadn't particularly believed the story about the appetite stimulant potion. It sounded like a silly cover-story that the young woman might have made – quite unnecessarily – to excuse the very healthy appetite she'd worked up on her morning ride.

The Duchess, however, didn't seem at all pleased by her maid's imaginative reinterpretation of her instructions, and it crossed Yvette's mind that other maids of high-ranking noblewomen routinely lost their sought-after positions for lesser annoyances.

“What am I going to do with you, Yvette?” Staceline inquired.

“Ahem--” Yvette suggested.

“Shut up, Yvette. I was thinking out loud.”

Yvette's spirits fell. Lady Staceline was actually a really good mistress... Yvette would be sad to lose her position as her personal maid, if, as she suspected, she was about to.

“Hmm.”

Yvette sniffed.

“I suppose I could be nice, Yvette? Should I be nice to you?”

“Yes please, Lady Staceline! Ah would be very grateful...”

“Okay, Yvette. I'm going to be nice to you, because I believe that you think I'm too skinny, despite my being around 160 lbs ish; and need feeding up; and that any time I happen to lose control of my appetite, for any reason, is a good time for you to help me bulk up like any normal girl my age. Right?”

“Zat's exactly ri—”

“Shh!” Staceline gripped Yvette's shoulder again, and pushed the unresisting maid a step forwards.

“And so, Yvette, I'm not going to have you...” Staceline breathed into her maid's ear. “Spanked for disobedience.”

Yvette felt a surge of relief... She actually quite liked being spanked. And if that was all Lady Staceline was thinking of, then all was well with the world...

“But I do think I should give you some sort of punishment for the brutal overfeeding you've done to me this afternoon, Yvette, since it was very contrary to my desperately telling you to stop bringing me so much fucking food.”

“Ah, eff you say so—”

“I say so, Yvette. And, because you deliberately overfed me this afternoon, Yvette... I'm going to make your punishment fit the crime!” Staceline grinned menacingly. “Does that sound fair, Yvette?”

“Ah---” Yvette thought.

“I thought so. Tell me, Yvette, have you eaten lunch today?”

“Of course, Lady Staceline!”

“Good. What did you eat? I hope it was a lot?”

“Um. Six pork sausages, and creamed potato with pepper and carrots, and a big slice of chocolate tart with cream, Lady---”

“Oh no! Yvette?” Staceline relaxed her grip patted her maid on the shoulder.

“Eet was very good, L---”

“Yvette! Such a small meal! You must be starving!” Staceline cooed, voice overflowing with sympathy and concern.

“Ah, no, Lady Staceline! I am pretty full, and my skirt is feeling a leetle too tight this afterno--”

“Well you'd better fucking take it off then, Yvette!”

Yvette was nonplussed. Confusion crossed her face. She was a former courtesan, and she'd be delighted to have sex with her gorgeous (even if slightly skinny) mistress. But it hardly seemed like a punishment for disobedience.

“But why, Lady Staceline?”

Staceline grinned wolfishly.

“Because, Yvette, you see that tray you've just put down? The one that has so much pastry, cake, pudding, and cream on it that you could barely carry it and you hadto take a break carrying it up here...”

“Ah, yes, Lady---”

“Your punishment for disobeying me, Yvette, is that you're going to eat every fucking crumb! And if I haven't watched you lick every plate spotlessly clean in an hour, I may just take back my idea about being nice, and have your bottom spanked raw! In fact I'll do it myself!”

Yvette gasped. Yvette had carefully selected the foods on the tray. They were all incredibly dense and calorie-rich. They were supposed to be enough to stuff a young Duchess! Yvette's poor tummy would ache very badly if she tried to eat it all!

“But, Lady Staceline! Eet iz impossible! No woman can eat that much after a big lunch!”

“Hah! Gotcha, Yvette! You were going to make me eat it – and I would have, except I think my metabolism has finally burned off the worst of that damn appetite stimulant... So now I'm going to make you eat it instead.”

“But Lady Staceline!” Yvette wailed.

“Grab a spoon and start eating, Carte-Blanche! You have fifty-nine minutes left. Oh, and don't waste time unpopping your skirt button – I'll help you out of it later when you're half way done.”

“Oh!” Yvette moaned, and picked up a large dessert spoon from the saucer.

Pretty soon, Yvette began to wish she hadn't craftily scooped and piled three-quarters of a gallon of bananas and cream into the half gallon bowl.

 

* *

[Batman76]

Ok that's pretty delicious

[flyer33]

This episode reveals a bit of plotting by some of the Empire's biggest cheeses. Next episode, Staceline gets to go on a dinner date...

 

Chapter 10: Cakes and Crushes (part 2)

 

Three hours later, the imperial capital baked under the strongest heatwave of the year so far, and Staceline (Stacey) Dolchetta Voluptua-Fuller Demoore stood in her bathroom, dripping with the icewater she'd just dumped over her head from a pitcher, and letting her eyes defocus with the pleasure of temporarily not feeling like she'd been locked in a sauna.

“Uhn. Yeah.” Staceline sighed.

The Empire's capital city of Lonporto had a bottomless thirst for ice, and getting hold of the stuff in a hot summer was difficult. It was a great deal easier if you happened to own the Demoore canal, the lucrative shipping route that connected the Porto river system with Aquitaine. Ice cut from the glacial lakes of alpine Aquitaine could be sold at high prices to the capital's vast dairy and meat industries. Or it could be dumped over the head of a seriously overheated rich girl... Staceline knew which option she preferred right now.

“Clothes... You'll definitely have to wear some clothes tonight... Dammit!” Staceline explained to herself, before reluctantly heading through her bedroom to her walk-in wardrobe. Once there, she looked unenthusiastically at the rails of skimpy summer outfits made from fabrics that varied from thin to gauzy, and decided all of them looked too hot. Still, she really did need to wear something if she was going to head out.

“Something...” Staceline though. “No bra though. Definitely no bra tonight...”

Staceline was too hot to consider wearing a bra. Also, she felt way too swollen – a major reason she was overheated was that her body had spent the last three hours digesting the unholy amount of calories she'd eaten that afternoon, and all the sugars and fats had to go somewhere. Normally, she was used to calories evaporating once they hit her bloodstream, like water being dripped into boiling oil. But apparently the four-hour binge that had left her tummy aching and looking seven months pregnant had involved enough calories that even Staceline's body had to put them somewhere for later processing. Hence she felt swollen up, everywhere. And the place where her body had the most flesh available to swell was, naturally, her already-enormous bosom.

Under normal conditions, Staceline's boobs were visible to anyone standing behind her, unless she was wearing unusually puffy sleeves or a bulky jacket. Through a miracle of Aphrodite, they also possessed enough divine perkiness to protrude bouncily a little further ahead of her than they were wide – and her outfits had been cut to accommodate her perfectly sculpted boulders, which her favourite seamstress liked to call the 8^th and 9^th natural wonders of the world. It took serious skill, and large quantities of silk, to manufacture the best shape of outfit to showcase the dark-haired duchess's bust... And, right now, with her boobs engorged by excess calories, most of those dresses wouldn't hang right around her more spherical, twin-globe shaped bosom.

“Oh. What is a girl to do?” Staceline sighed theatrically.

Eventually, she settled on a short wrap dress, of unbleached silk with a red trim. Skipping a bra would be fine – her boobs were so swollen they felt rock solid, and in any case she wanted them to jiggle a little freely tonight. She did decide to slip on a pair of skimpy black silk shorts with a silk tie cord, as the wrap dress wouldn't be quite opaque enough for decency if she ended up sweating in the sweltering evening heat. Then Stacey grabbed the first pair of gold-trimmed sandals and 3-carat diamond earrings that came to hand, strapped her switch-blade to her upper thigh, and headed out.

It would be really good to take a brisk walk. It had taken ages for her tummy to process her food binge, and she'd felt lethargic for hours while it did. Energetic again now, though.

First of all, Staceline had to select a horse. Hades had had enough excitement for one day so she selected Artemis, a lighter but fast palomino. The streets were practically deserted as far as the Capitoline Hill, due to the severe heat, so Stacey let Artemis have a run while the duchess herself enjoyed the sensation of the hot wind blowing through her thin silk wrap. The gentle eastern slope of the Mercantian Hill descended into the Shipping Quarter, and then slowly arced upwards to the stately Old District and eventually the white granite grandeur of the Capitoline Hill. Staceline slowed down Artemis with a couple of calls once they had sped past the Senate. She had an errand to run in the Constabulary. Duchess Demoore hadn't bothered to announce her visit, but since the Demoore Duchy paid for one of the largest precincts of the city guard, she knew she wasn't likely to be told to fuck off.

“Hey!” Staceline flicked a silver coin at the stableboy idling near the gate. “Can you hold onto my horse? Her name is Artemis. I'll be ten minutes.” The young kid grabbed at Artemis' reins, without taking his eyes of Staceline's cleavage as she hit the ground and started walking – she wondered whether he might be a little too young to be admiring her tits, but decided that, if he was working a day job he must be old enough. So she gave them an extra wiggle for effect. “Thanks!”

The next person Stacey encountered was a door constable, whom she'd never met, but he acknowledged her name and rank after only a brief check on the way her diamond earrings glittered in the late afternoon light. Soon, she was shown in to the Chief Constable's office. The plump, dark-skinned police commander wore a straining red silk shirt, white pantaloons, and high boots, and his bushy grey hair flared from his head and nostrils. He looked busy.

“Lady Staceline! What a pleasure to---” Said the Chief Constable, dismissing his secretary, and moving around a desk covered in a sea of scrolls to greet his important visitor.

“I won't take a lot of your time, Sir Jon. I know I didn't message ahead.”

The Chief was suitably appreciative. He was well aware he ought to for the woman whose family traditionally occupied one of the highest offices in the Treasury.

“I'm actually here about the Candy Market, earlier today. I want to make a report.” Staceline explained.

Sir Jon Dunne, the Chief Constable, raised his eyebrows. He gave every sign of being shocked that such a respectable personage as Duchess Staceline Demoore would feel the need to sully herself with the base task of reporting a run-of-the-mill candy riot.

“Lady Staceline, there is no need to concern yourself! My men are quite aware of the raucous goings-on in the Candy Market earlier today! They have already delivered a full report on the matter to the Lord Sheriff. Indeed, we have an unusually good understanding of the event, because we have a testimony from an eyewitness of excellent reliability: a senior cavalry officer with whom I believe you are acquainted!”

“Lord Bingley Bonkley?” Staceline asked in a deadpan voice.

“The very same, My Lady! The man who heroically apprehended the Poisoner, after chasing him down on foot, unarmed, and unaided! And then cleverly discovered the potent airborne appetite stimulant which the blackguard had released!”

“Uh huh. And, you do realise Lord Bingley Bonkley is about as intelligent a witness as a seriously inbred cabbage that's been boiled for too long and then dropped on the floor and stepped on?” Staceline asked, in an equally matter of fact voice.

Sir Jon hesitated. Just long enough to give Staceline the answer she needed. He was about to give a polite, official answer when she continued talking.

“Good.” She continued. “Then I have something to add. About the man that was apprehended.”

“The Poisoner?”

“Yes. I have some intel on him I don't think Bonkley would be able to give you. Did your men find the tattoo on his wrist?”

Sir Jon gave a blank look.

“Er. I must say, no, Your Grace. I'm not aware of any tattoo.”

“Lucky I came down to make a report then.” Staceline grinned. “He had a cow-tattoo. It looked pretty ordinary when I first saw it, but a little later I recalled where I'd seen the art style before. I think it's the icon of a breakaway sect from the temple of Ceres called the Cult of Cream. You wouldn't have heard about it if your parents weren't crazy about archaeology and old stuff...”

“What, what?” Asked Sir Jon. “Cult of Cream? I've never heard of a Cult of Cream.”

“Okay, just write it down and ask at the university. It's old. If this Poisoner is really related to the Cult of Cream, then he might have some pretty dangerous beliefs about... Erm... Fattening up the nobility until they're immobile, and killing off everyone slimmer on the grounds they aren't fat enough to properly glorify Ceres, the Goddess of super-fattening foods, as they see it. And there might be others.”

Sir Jon blanched, and eyed the gargantuanly-busty but otherwise alarmingly-slender Duchess. Her bare arms and legs were so slim that he could clearly see the overdeveloped muscles beneath her smooth, light olive skin. The young noblewoman obviously wasn't getting anything like enough to eat! Perhaps that was why she had thought of this odd-sounding Cult of Cream – she must be starving, and hunger must be driving some odd thought patterns.

“Killing people who aren't fat enough? That sounds a little bit extreme!” Commented Sir Jon.

“IIRC.” Staceline replied, before realising the Chief Constable wasn't aware of such fashionable language. “If I recall correctly – from my archaeology lessons about ancient Archaea.”

The Chief Constable stroked his moustache thoughtfully. He didn't think much of this Cult of Cream story, but he liked the earnest expression on the super-busty young duchess's face, and felt inclined to indulge her belief that she was helping the police to perform their civic duty. After all, she was a very attractive young woman... And rich, too.

“Hmm. How do you know about this special cow-tattoo, Your Grace?”

“Because I was in the Candy Market. I... Noticed the tattoo while Lord Bonkley was recovering from falling on his ass while apprehending the villain.”

“Hmm. I see.”

“Good.”

“I suppose I'll have to amend Lord Bonkley's report, to reference your presence at the Candy Market, Your Grace. He omitted to mention that such an important person as yourself was present!”

“No, don't bother, Sir Jon. But I want you to investigate the Cult of Cream angle and keep me informed! They were very dangerous, in their day! In late-antiquity, they once seized control of the Archaean Empire, and had all the former royal family and the priestesses of Artemis fattened up with olive oil and bread until they couldn't fit out the palace door! So, just in case there's someone in our city trying to revive the cult, I think your men should be on the lookout!”

Sir Jon nodded appreciatively, while inwardly resolving to do nothing.

“Very good, Your Grace. Thank you for sharing your insight with the police! I shall keep you apprised of any further developments in this Cream Poisoner case! Which secretary do you want me to write to?”

“Great! Thanks, Sir Jon! Um, my personal secretary, please.”

“Very good, Lady Staceline! And may I say what an inquiring mind you have? You'd make a very good police detective, if such a thing were possible for a lady!”

“Oh, thanks!” Staceline replied happily. “Well, I must head off. I'm going to see my boyfriend, and I don't want to be late...”

“Of course, Your Grace! I wish you a wonderful evening, in our fair city!”

“Thanks!”

Staceline headed out.

Outside the Constabulary, Staceline discovered that her horse was being very well looked after. A large group of stableboys seemed to have been summoned up by the one to whom Staceline had entrusted her horse... Apparently, he'd admired the Duchess's boobs so much that he'd called all his friends over to help brush and water Artemis until she returned, so that they too could then stand and stare with their tongues hanging out. Unluckily for them, Staceline had ample experience of dealing with their sort.

“Hello, boys!” Staceline said, standing squarely in front of them with her wrap dress revealing plenty of cleavage and causing the entire group to stare at her chest – whilst not taking enough care about where they were standing in relation to a highly-spirited horse.

At the same time, Staceline snapped her fingers.

Artemis, being an expensive and well trained animal, took her cue to walk through the group of boys. Three of them were sufficiently distracted that they fell over or were tripped by Artemis in the process. Most of the others knocked themselves out when they all jumped into each other whilst trying to catch a silver coin which they were each certain Staceline had flicked at them especially.

Staceline jumped on her horse and headed north.

*

Sir Jon Dunne stroked his moustache. Then he broke out into a gale of laughter.

“Cult of Cream!” He chortled.

“With an ancient conspiracy to fatten up the nobility until they can't fit though their front doors! What a ludicrous notion!”

Still, while the eager young duchess's idea of a cult of clandestine fatteners might be silly, her mention of a cow tattoo had set an alarm bell tinkling in Sir Jon's mind. He was rather pleased with himself for keeping any hint of recognition off his face.

Sir Jon withdrew a golden key on a neckchain, unlocked his desk drawer and slid it open. He removed a linen cloth. Underneath lay a silver amulet, bearing a stylised image of a cow on one side, and a code-wheel on the back. It was crafted in some foreign artistic style of which he knew nothing... But he did know all about the man who'd given it to him – a man who'd offered a great deal of gold for a few favours and occasional bits of information, and who, to boot, had introduced Sir Jon to a bevy of very sexy and deliciously fat ladies from the upper crust of imperial society. The man in question was one of the most important mean in the capital – the owner of the largest dairy business in the empire by far: it was was the great Duke Creamer himself!

The Chief Constable rang a little bell, to recall his secretary.

Sir Jon Donne prided himself on being a stout pillar of imperial society. He would never conceive of committing a dishonourable act. So it was lucky for him that it couldn't possibly be dishonourable to send a short warning message to his good friend – especially not when that friend was the great Duke Creamer, whose parties involved so many sexy, plump young female guests. Sir Jon twiddled the code wheel, and composed a quick warning to the wealthy Duke that a business associate who (very unwisely) bore one of Duke Creamer's company logos as a tattoo, had been apprehended by Sir Jon's officers earlier today.

Sir Jon rubbed his hands in anticipation!

If his instincts were anything to go by, Sir Jon would soon be asked to do a substantial favour for the great Duke Creamer. Most likely he would be asked to ensure the Cream Poisoner was transported to one of the private jails operated by the Duke... And, in return, Sir Jon expected that he would receive an invitation to another of Duke Creamer's finest parties... At which, if he was correct in his judgement of the favour's value, he could look forward to the company of at least six of the most beautifully well-rounded debutantes on the Duke's books. 

“Oh, yes!” Sir Jon chuckled. “Cult of Cream, my fat ass!”

* *

 

[flyer33]

Cakes and Crushes (part 3)

 

Staceline posed as appealingly as she could arrange, with her feet shoulder width apart, hands on hips, and her boobs protruding a healthy fifteen inches ahead of her. She was standing on a respectable residential street, somewhere northwest of the Senate. And she was waiting patiently for a certain cute medical student to answer the black front door of his flat, and notice how alluring she could make herself. Patiently. Very patiently.

Staceline yawned, and decided to throw some more grit from a plant ** at the upstairs window.

About mid-throw, the black door opened, and Staceline was immediately distracted by the sight of the well-defined shoulders and pectoral muscles of Kal Aresquay, the cute medic she'd decided to befriend. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and from the way he was panting and sweating she guessed he'd been working out. Staceline approved, and licked her lips... Unfortunately the distraction badly spoiled her aim – but, luckily, hardly any of the grit ended up hitting him in the face.

“Oops.”

“Excuse me?” Kal managed to say, once he recovered from the unexpected sight of the ultra-busty young duchess in a party dress standing in front of his apartment and throwing decorative quartz chippings at him.

Staceline's mind went unhelpfully blank, and she fumbled for words. She settled on a nice safe reply that drew ever so slightly on her social rank.

“You are excused.” Staceline said. Then she hurriedly continued in an enthusiastic voice. “Hey Kal! Guess what? I had someone look up your address, and as I happened to be nearby, I thought I would say hello! Can I come in? Are you in the middle of working out? I can watch while you finish, if you are?”

“Lady Stacey?”

“Stacey.”

“Stacey. You had someone look up my address? Should I be flattered, or alarmed?” Kal asked cautiously.

“Yes you should. Do you live upstairs?”

“Yeah, but... I would have cleaned if I'd known you'd want to visit. And aren't I supposed to call on you, Stacey – on Friday?”

Staceline leaned around Kal to try and get a view of the hardwood steps leading up to his apartment. The place looked tidy enough. She pushed around him and headed up.

“Yeah, Kal, but I've had a fucking weird day, and I decided I would like to talk about it. Which, if you like, I was thinking we could do over pasta in a little place I know by the east side of the bay? The evening light on the water is amazing, and also, Kal, if you get bored of listening to me there will be tons of fat, rich girls in tight dresses for you to look at! What do you say?”

Kal pretended to think about the question. He managed to answer quickly enough to pre-empt Staceline's impatience.

“Yes, Stacey. I would love to. Um... Are you paying?”

“Yes.”

Kal looked relieved as he towelled sweat off his body.

“In that case, can you give me a minute to get changed, Stacey?”

Stacey moved an anatomy book off a chair so she could sit down in the cramped, but reasonably organised study overlooking the street.

“Sure. Go. Don't let me get bored. You don't want me to be bored, Kal. I'll rummage through your stuff.”

Stacey pouted. She would not have minded watching Kal finish his workout – there was a pullup bar rigged across the study, and she eyed it speculatively while Kal changed in the next room.

Soon, Stacey grew bored. She was torn between rifling through the the desk for interesting letters, and playing with the pullup bar, but she settled on the latter. It was fun, but it was disgustingly slick with sweat.

“You need chalk!” Stacey called out. “Your bar is disgusting!”

“I have chalk. What are you doing to my pullup bar?” Kal's reply was muffled by the plaster wall.

“Finish changing and I'll stop. Where's your chalk?”

“Why?”

Kal emerged wearing an acceptable white linen shirt and black breeches. He found Stacey looking at him over the top of his workout bar, where she was clinging with a reverse grip... using her left arm only.

“You know, Stacey, I'm pretty sure Doctor Globus wouldn't approve of you doing that.”

“Oh really? I'm shook.”

“No, he really wouldn't.”

“Well I guess it's lucky for me I'm taking you to dinner to buy your silence. You know, I don't think he'd approve of me paying for you either, so you should be careful what you tell him, Kal.”

“Yeah. I guess there is that...”

“Good. Let's go! It's a long walk; I've got to drop my horse at the stables; and I'm already starving...”

Kal looked suitably delighted. Staceline realised she hadn't meant to say that last part. She'd momentarily forgotten her basic finishing school etiquette: on a date, a young noble lady should exaggerate how stuffed she felt, so as to give the impression that eating all the food she would be plied with was hard work, and evidence of how eager she was to impress her partner.

“Oh, oops. I mean, I'm just a little hungry, so I'm only going to graze on a few light snacks tonight.”

* *

 

“Hey, could I get another basket of cinnamon bread with my next bowl of pasta? Oh, and some more milk? Thank you!”

On the east shore of the imperial bay, an old limestone fortification had become obsolete as the capital city sprawled around it... The tease along the bay around it was now a popular entertainment district, crammed with dining venues that filled up as the evening cooled. The lookout terrace had become the garden of a Sisilean restaurant famous for its pasta, where well-fed patrons relaxed and enjoyed the golden light in hazy evening air.

Kal slurped his cup of wine. His gaze was fixed on the girl who'd brought him to her favourite restaurant. The sight of a rich girl ordering a third basket full of bread was catnip for any well brought-up imperial boy, and Kal Aresquay was no exception. He wondered if she realised she was making him rock hard.

Not that two baskets of bread was all Stacey had devoured: her first stack of bread hunks had only come with a bowl of olive oil and balsamic vinegar, washed down with a quart of milk, but the second had also been accompanied by a quart of cream cheese in a bowl, which she'd licked clean in under ten minutes. In between those, she'd munched her way through a pint of chocolate spread served with roast potatoes, which had come along with her fish course: an entire salmon served on a slate the size of Kal's desk. That had been after she'd “grazed” her way through a quart of spicy tomato soup and an equally-weighty medley of pork liver pate served on a bed of crispy vegetables.

Kal watched as Stacey licked her lips and flicked her hair back.

“Like what you see, country boy?” Stacey asked. Kal suspected he shouldn't have admitted to Stacey that he preferred the clean air of his home town in the countryside to the bustle of the imperial city. She'd taken an immediate liking to the phrase "country boy."

Kal swallowed. He'd been properly brought-up with a healthy admiration for female gluttony, so only one answer was conceivable. Stacey seemed to enjoy hearing it, though. “Yeah! Where'd you learn to eat like this, Stacey?”

“Eat? I'm just snacking, Kal. You see, I ate an absolutely enormous lunch, and I don't want to put on weight! I have a figure to maintain, you know!”

Stacey gave her tummy a pat for emphasis. Kal felt himself sweating as her silk wrap clung and revealed a little roundness bulging over Stacey's lap. It wasn't that much, but it hinted at Stacey's capacity for food being... deep.

Stacey finished her bowl of pasta. She felt remarkably pleased with the effect that watching her eating a light dinner was having on Kal... she had a pretty strong suspicion she'd developed a crush on the buff medical student, and that she was spoiling him rotten. Which was both annoying and pleasant at the same time. Annoying, because he didn't have enough rank for her to date seriously; pleasant, because he was the first boy in the city she'd dated who made her feel even remotely horny, and there was nothing in the empire's etiquette textbooks that said she couldn't fuck him for a few weeks... Heck, as a duchess, she could overtly exhibit him as a lover, if she wanted - after she was married to someone suitable, that was, and had had three pregnancies. 

Kal appeared satisfactorily entranced. He barely even noticed the well-fed merchant's daughter in an orange micro skirt and a crop top, who brushed her belly past his head on her way back to her cushioned chair at the next table. That was especially pleasing, because the girl's bare belly was swollen so far it bulged further ahead of her than Stacey's breasts – and with her exquisite makeup, fashionable blonde hair, and ruby-encrusted jewellry, she was a perfect exemplar of imperial beauty.

“You aren't snacking, Stacey. You're showing off.”

Stacey smiled back.

“I'm not showing osh!” Stacey protested, while chewing a chunk of buttered cinnamon bread. “I'm hungry!”

“I thought you said you ate a huge lunch, Stacey?”

“I did!”

“Well, in that case, you can really eat like a beast!”

“Uh huh.” Stacey agreed, in the middle of drinking her new glass of milk.

“But... I think you're pretty full now, Stacey... And I'm flattered you feel like stuffing yourself for me, but---”

“I'm not full!”

The next question made Stacey look up with sharp interest.

“Care to prove it, Stacey?”

Stacey thought for a split second. It was clearly a challenge designed to trick her into stuffing herself stupid, but it wasn't phrased like the routine “you have to eat more, Lady Staceline!” that her aunt, maids, and finishing school had inured her to. Instead, it came from a deliciously handsome young man...

“I could do. What do you propose?” Stacey remarked non-committally.

“How about you let me order dessert for you?”

Stacey basked in the challenge.

“Dessert?” She asked in alarm.

“Yes, Stacey. Or were you planning to skip dessert after stuffing yourself like this?” Kal gestured as the empty plates, baskets, and milk jugs around Stacey's side of the table.

Stacey affected an injured tone.

“Certainly not, Kal. The reason I'm shocked you're talking about dessert is because I obviously haven't had enough pasta yet! This is a pasta restaurant, Kal, and I brought you here because my tummy is very hungry for starches and rich, savoury sauces! And if I don't get a lot more of them before moving onto dessert, I'll go to bed hungry... You wouldn't want me to be hungry tonight, would you, Kal?”

Stacey batted her eyelids. 

Kal struggled to move his tongue.

“Alright, Stacey. I am going to order you the biggest bowl of meaty pasta with cheese on the m---”

“Two.” Stacey leaned back casually as she whispered the suggestion.

“Two of the biggest bowls of pasta this place has on the menu.”

“Piece of cake.” Stacey replied with an unimpressed look.

“And, Stacey, I think you need some more bread. And I think you'd like it in the form of an entire extra-large calzone---”

“Two.” Stacey countered.

“Three.”

Fuck. The thought crossed Stacey's mind. Kal was definitely into this, and she could sense she was not going to get away with the light meal she'd intended... And with her boobs already uncomfortably swollen, she would definitely need a hard workout tomorrow unless she wanted her ass to grow fuller...

“Three enormous calzones it is, My Lord.” Stacey patted her tummy. “But all that bread will be so dry! My tummy will want at least a whole gallon of milk to help wash it down! May I have that too, My Lord.”

“Sure, Stacey, if you think you can handle it.”

“Shall we see, My Lord?”

 

* *

 

Stacey rested her swollen boobs on the table for a bit while she swallowed a lot of milk and took a few deep breaths. Then she unenthusiastically cut up the last square of calzone, skewered the bits on her fork, and popped them in her mouth to chew.

Calzone, Stacey decided, was definitely not her favourite thing. The heavy cheese and sausage stuffing had been Okay, but the folded bread base had been too dry and thick, and she'd had to ask for extra milk and a small bowl of honey and banana to make it appetising. The spaghetti, by comparison, had been absolutely excellent. Still, the multiple pounds of pasta were making her tummy feel heavy – her afternoon binge had resulted in her feeling full much sooner than she had expected, and she was starting to think she should nudge Kal onto ordering dessert before she was too uncomfortably stuffed to enjoy it.

“I feel I owe you an apology, My Lady! you truly do have an appetite to match your exquisite beauty---” Kal sweated, as Stacey finished the epic food challenge he'd set her.

The country boy was obviously uncomfortable – Stacey suspected he was getting so rock hard that it hurt, and she was enjoying the sight of him flush and sweat each time she swallowed the last of a serving.

“Ahem, you mean cup size, Kal.” Stacey interrupted.

“And beauty, My Lady. And it was rude of me to express any uncertainty in your ability to manage such an indulgent meal!”

Stacey smirked. Kal continued.

“Would you permit me to order you a little dessert, by way of apology for underestimating you?”

Stacey's eyes narrowed. She burped slightly. She felt full – only a little more than comfortably so, as yet, but she had a pretty strong suspicion her next comment was going to push her way past that... Still, it'd be worth it to see if she could make Kal cream his pants...

“Dessert, My Lord? I suppose I could move onto dessert already... But... Although the pasta here is delicious, I'm sorry to say the amount you ordered for me to eat simply wasn't enough to satisfy me!”

Stacey shifted forwards while leaning her elbows on the table, pushing her cleavage up as far as she could in the process. That was a lot. The sight of an overfed Stacey bulging over the red trim of her expensive silk wrap dress was, it transpired, more than her companion's over-stimulated manhood could endure.

Kal groaned. Stacey smirked some more, and watched while the cute medic gasped for breath. He obviously wouldn't be able to talk for some time.

“Waiter!” Stacey called. “May I have another bowl of pasta, please? I fear my boyfriend needs a little time to catch his breath before he will be in a fit state to order my dessert, and I don't wish to grow hungry in the meantime!”

“Of course, My Lady! Would you care for another of the four-pound servings of spaghetti, or something a little light---” The waiter replied.

“Four pounds is fine! But just plain, with olive oil, pepper, and grated cheese this time, though.” Stacey interrupted, before patting her full, well-rounded midriff, and explaining. “I'm watching my weight! I'm concerned I might be getting a little bit... Fat!”

 

[Batman76]

Oh fuck but this is perfect. Stacy is finding a way to make gluttony arousing to herself, shes gonna get big. 

The question is if she goes quickly and quietly in acceptance or kicking and screaming in denial as clothes tighten, buttons biggest, her athleticism and fitness fades and she becomes just another lazy, slow moving, gluttonous noble woman unable to think beyond her next snack.