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Donuts and Duchesses

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Chapter 10: Cakes and Crushes (part 7)


The best part of most royal galas, as far as Lady Tillia Botte-Turner was concerned, was the initial rush of excitement as the doors were flung wide open, and all the guests hastened to satiate their pent-up hunger with a few glasses of wine or sweetened juice – the first glasses handed out were usually the most expensive and best – and a well-chosen plateful of snacks. Of course, at over 550 lbs before donning her billowing white silks, Tillia Botte-Turner was no longer fit enough to secure a platter of the finest snacks by a speedy rush. But she did have experience and guile on her side. Hence, at Duke Creamer’s gala dinner, she knew from her contacts that there would be a fabulous carvery with half a dozen hog roasts being served up by the pound in huge sugar buns, with honey, mustard, and apple sauce – it was set up in the northern side-chamber of the great hall, and Tillia waddled with all haste in its direction as soon as her turn for admission finally arrived.

Of course, the hog roasts, burgers, gyros, and rice-heavy burritos were not part of the evening’s scheduled 78 desserts. They were merely appetisers, or snacks for anyone who fancied a meaty treat in between their various sweet puddings. And, in fact, the meats were something of a trap for the inexperienced diner! A naïve debutante could all-too quickly load up her belly with ten pounds or more of heavy meats and breads before even settling down for the first scheduled dessert – then, with a gala dessert these days weighing around half a pound, and lots of greasy meat taking up stomach capacity and slowing her digestion, the poor girl could find herself feeling absolutely stuffed by the time she crammed down her fortieth dessert. And that was just the half-way point, after which the early-snacking deb might feel too bloated to continue, with over thirty pounds of food in her belly – plus any drinks and extra creams she’d taken with her dishes. Now, many Imperial ladies simply could not hold much more food than that without disastrous consequences, and so it was socially acceptable to only sample desserts after the Famous Fortieth, rather than have to clear one’s plate. But it wasn’t prestigious to do so. By contrast, a young woman able to finish every spoonful of her feast until at least her sixtieth dessert would be awarded a special dish from the chef, in recognition of her hearty appetite. And, of course, the social acclaim earned from high society for polishing off a whole seventy-eight desserts, plus snacks, was the best reward of all for an ambitious debutante.

In her debutante year, Tillia Botte-Turner had never managed to cram down 78 entire desserts in an evening – she’d always snacked on far too much wine, meat and fillers before the main feed, and even her fifty-pound belly capacity had been insufficient to the challenge. But, with a year or two of experience under her belt – and, of course, with her stomach stretched from regular gorging, and her sugar-tolerance heighted by growing hundreds of pounds fatter – she’d eventually mastered the art of tackling the gala dinner! Unfortunately, she’d had to cut back in recent years: Tillia’s weight had peaked at far over 600 pounds at the age of 25, at which point gorging herself on an entire gala dinner caused her to suffer ** pain, profuse sweating, breathlessness, and palpitations which robbed her of the ability to climb stairs. Unfortunately, most of the bedrooms in posh townhouses were upstairs, and Tillia had been forced to trim her calorie intake, lest her collapsing fitness spoil her sex life! 

In short, Tillia knew that stuffing herself stupid with four pounds of hog-roast in four sauce-filled buns was a bad idea. She knew cramming down 78 desserts on top of it would give her a belly ache for days. But Duke Creamer’s fare was of such irresistible luxuriousness that she didn’t care! Tonight, she planned to stuff herself to the max and beyond!

“BOTTIE!” Exclaimed a loud and inebriated woman, sloshing a big wine goblet – clearly, from her fat, 27 stone frame and garish orange dress that exposed her pillow-bellied fatness, not a new debutante.

Tillia Botte-Turner recognised the loud woman. It was Ljiliana de Tarte!

“Hello, Ljiliana!” Tilly greeted the seasoned party-goer. “What brings you here? You can’t think you have a shot with the princes!”

“THE FOOD! Creamer’s finest!” Exclaimed de Tarte. Then her free hand went to her puffy middle. “Oof! I just hope I don’t burst!”

“Oh, I know what you mean!” Said Tilly, indicating her two remaining buns of hog roast. “But if one is going to overdo it once in the season, Duke Creamer’s gala is the place to do it!”

“I know! His food’s so good, isn’t it? Oh, and I do have a shot with the princes, you know, Bottie!”

De Tarte reached into her fattened-up cleavage and extracted a card from between her heavy, downward-plunging breasts. It was a “Dessert Card.” The Dessert Card was an innovation that had become essential in the Empire as the desserts and puddings at feasts and galas had grown so numerous that no lady could be expected to keep track of all the suitors by whom she’d agreed to be fed a course – or to receive a tummy rub, in the intermissions between every dozen courses beyond the third dozen – without the aid of a written record.

Tillia Botte-Turner practically salivated as she saw that Ljiliana de Tarte, the fading debutante, had secured the prestigious fortieth dessert with the younger prince, and that she would be fed her sixty-fourth dessert by the crown prince himself!

“You lucky hog!” Tilly exclaimed. “How did you get that?”

“Oh, favours!” De Tarte replied airily.




Staceline exchanged greetings with her high society acquaintances while she waited hungrily for Kal to load up a plate with roast hog and bring her some milk and donuts. She turned down quite a few ladies who wanted to borrow Kal for their Dessert Cards to feed them a few courses and give them tummy rubs – there was a severe shortage of young men at Duke’s gala, and an excess of eligible ladies who were facing the prospect of having to feed themselves for most of the evening while they awaited a brief meeting with a prince, rather than be spoonfed the vast number of desserts by a dedicated escort. Staceline was in no mood to share Kal, so she politely told them to get lost.

“It’s such a wonderful gala, Staceline! And I’ve got both princes, for the most prestigious courses!” Said a glossy-haired society blonde named Khloe Eatwell. “I’m so lucky I could burst! I just hope tummy can handle two princes in one night! It is the done thing to eat double portions and extra cream for them, but I have Crown Prince Julian for the fortieth through fiftieth desserts, and Prince Hadria for the seventy-fifth until the end! My poor tummy will be so bursting afterwards! I really must be careful to only have a couple of hog roasts to start!”

Khloe was being modest. Luck obviously had nothing to do with her drawing both princes’ attention. Her gorgeous blonde looks and perfect, statuesque figure of around nineteen stone were clearly the cause. Staceline complimented the blonde on this fact, and Khloe almost sobbed with happiness in return. While Khloe was returning some compliments, and fretting over whether her appetite would be lustful enough to impress the princes – surely, Khloe said with wide eyes, she’d have to get through over fifty pounds of dessert in the evening to really make a mark – Staceline began to drool over the prospect of watching the blonde gorge herself senseless, and arranged to reserve an adjacent Feeding Couch so she could enjoy the spectacle.

At last, Kal returned with Staceline’s donuts and hog roast.

“Finally! What took you so long, Honey?” Staceline opened her mouth so her date could pop in donuts.

After a dozen donuts, Staceline demanded hog roast, and Kal fed her that. Then she demanded milk.

After finishing her milk, Staceline realised that Lady Khloe Eatwell was looking hungrily at something... She almost snarled when she realised it was Kal that the blonde wanted.

“Lady Staceline?” Khloe began. “Do you think I might borrow Kal to give me a tummy rub after the seventy-second course? It’s just, I fear I’ll be too stuffed to impress the prince at the end of the banquet, without a belly massage. But I’ve no escort of my own. And... I’d be so grateful if you might consider lending me yours...”

Staceline suppressed a snarl. Loaning boyfriends for belly rubs at gala dinners was normal, and Khloe’s request was perfectly polite. That didn’t mean Staceline liked the idea. Still, with some modification, she supposed there was some potential. After all, what the Duchess would really like from the evening – apart from getting into Kal’s shorts – was to watch the hot blonde, Khloe, get really stuffed... That would be hot!

“I suppose I could spare him.” Said Staceline, stroking Kal’s arm reassuringly. “But, on one condition, Khloe!”

“Oh! Of course, Your Grace. What condition would that be?” Khloe agreed, as required by etiquette.

“I’d like you to start out our evening with some hog roast – say five – and some burritos – ten, maybe. After all, Khloe, you do want to show off your appetite to the princes to the absolute maximum, don’t you?”

Lady Khloe Eatwell blanched a little at the suggestion. She was sure to be utterly overstuffed after so much food tonight! But, on the other hand, she loved food, and Kal was a rather alluring young man, so perhaps she could push her limits a little. After all, he seemed like a delicious bed warmer, in case she didn’t snare a prince, and, in that case, after a few glasses of wine, perhaps Lady Staceline would be willing to share?



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Chapter 10: Cakes and Crushes (part 😎


A couple of hours into Duke Creamer’s gala banquet, and glittering crystal oil lamps were being lit in in every niche and sconce so that the cream of Imperial society could gorge late into the evening, even after the sunlight captured by the skylights and high windows of the Creamer Gallery began to dwindle. Around the edges of the great hall, noble ladies reclined on their cushioned Feeding Couches and began to long for their first outfit change of the night as their bellies – engorged by thirty-six formally scheduled desserts, each larger and sweeter than their fattening counterparts at a regular gala dinner – swelled far too big for comfort! Soon, the greedy debutantes would cram down their fortieth pudding, a massive hunk of triple-decker chocolate cake with a pound of clotted cream, and retire to the cloak rooms where their maids would undress them from their full-length gowns and help their bloated mistresses into less constricting eveningwear. The most daring ladies, predominantly younger women still free from cellulite and stretch marks, would even switch into midriff-baring ensembles that gave them room to gorge to the maximum as their swelling bellies enjoyed totally free rein!

Khloe Eatwell finished her last bite of pumpkin pie, and lay panting on her Feeding Couch in a state of modest distress. The slice had been a good sixth of a large pumpkin pie, and the filling had been deep. And, like all too many of the thirty-six puddings she’d packed into her capacious belly, it had come floating in a deep bowl of wonderful, fresh cream. Khloe felt alarmed. She’d eaten much too much already! She needed to unbutton her daring black silk blouse and matching harem pants, and get into the far looser and more revealing version she’d brought for the second half of the gala. But, alas, even a looser outfit might be no avail – she feared she’d be too stuffed to cram down the final desserts of the night! And that would mean she’d embarrass herself in front of Prince Hadria himself! And he’d tell his brother of Lady Khloe Eatwell’s inability to finish her seventy-eighth pudding (a double serving, naturally). And that would be the end for her chances of a royal marriage! And it was all Khloe’s fault! She never should have let herself stuff down so many plates of hog roast and ten burritos before beginning the evening's main feed! But the meat had been so good – and she’d been coaxed to over-gorge in return for the promise of a belly rub from Staceline Demoore’s cute escort! And now she was paying the price! Khloe Eatwell realised she felt bloated!

“Urp!” Khloe took a breath and unpopped a button on her harem pants.

It wasn’t fair! Khloe was a big, strong girl, and when it came to eating she rightly considered herself a real capacity queen! She could eat more than all her friends. And finishing a 78-course gala dinner was, although extremely bloating and apt to leave her overstuffed belly in distress for a day or two, not a feat at which Khloe Eatwell had ever balked. Until now. At Duke Creamer’s important gala. It wasn’t fair! The desserts were far too big! And her poor tummy was going to let her down in front of Prince Hadria!

Khloe tried to massage the food down. At least there was an intermission now, after the first three-dozen courses! She seriously needed a bathroom break, and a clothes change. If the intermission was long enough, perhaps her belly could digest some of the heavy bulk in which she’d overindulged, and make room to impress the princes! Perhaps there was yet hope!

At the next couch, reclining under one of the potted orange trees that had been brought indoors to decorate Duke Creamer’s Gallery for the gala, Khloe regarded the gorgeous, sapphire-clad, super-busty, and impressively-hungry Lady Staceline Demoore. Stacey was occupied gazing lustfully at her cute boyfriend, who was peeling an orange for her – Staceline having, to Khloe’s surprise, polished off all her desserts and licked the bowls clean ahead of her 19 stone blonde neighbour.

“Milk, please.” Staceline told her boyfriend, in between munching pieces of orange and delicately discarding the pips. Khloe admired the muscles showed off by Kal’s short-sleeved silk shirt.

“Aren’t you getting full, Stacey?” Kal asked.


“Okay, then let me pour you another quart of milk, My Lady. I wouldn't want you to grow thirsty...”

“Thank you Kal. Then go hunt for a new jug.”


“Oh, and bring me two more – no, four more – burritos from the other room, please.” Staceline fluttered her eyelids seductively. “Extra rice!”

Khloe longed for a tummy massage as she watched Kal caress Lady Staceline’s well-rounded abdomen, and ask. “Aren’t you concerned you’ll spoil your appetite for the second half of the gala, My Lady?”


Staceline burped demurely.

“Nope. Still plenty hungry. I’m gonna get up though, go change, and look at some art in the interval. Then I’ll be super-hungry again, Kal. Oh, and after you get my damn burritos, I think you should give my friend Khloe a tummy massage. Just try not to enjoy it too much: she’s a real hottie, and I’ll get jealous! You don’t want me jealous, Kal.”

Khloe burped heavily in relief. She really needed that tummy rub! Thank heavens Lady Staceline had offered it. Perhaps she’d noticed how much Khloe had been burping and kneading her swelling belly as her silk clothes grew tighter and tighter with every swallow of heavy cream?

“Oof! Thank you for the loan of Kal, Stacey!” Khloe groaned, and farted. “I’m so bloated tonight! Duke Creamer’s desserts are so huge! I feel so fat!

The blonde slapped her belly for emphasis. It bulged above her broad torso like she was five months pregnant, and really stretched her blouse more than she’d anticipated.

Staceline licked her lips and supressed a gasp at the sight of the deliciously overfed blonde. Khloe could really eat! And she was huge! Unlike Alicia, Khloe had the frame to handle a lot of flab without turning into a butterball. Heavier boobs, too!

“Oh, it’s my pleasure, really, Khloe! Just don’t slow down – you have princes to impress with that appetite of yours. And, I have to say, you’ve impressed me! You can really eat!” Staceline said.

Khloe panted. Despite being a big eater, she felt like the toned Duchess, in her gorgeous sapphire gown, had already out-eaten her, and had room to spare. It wasn’t fair! Staceline’s belly was visibly swollen – up to the size of a modest watermelon, as it should be after 36 courses of cream-drenched cakes, pies, donuts, buns, pastries, tarts, and meringues – but she seemed to be handling it easily. In fact, she looked positively hungry! Indeed, Khloe feared that Duchess Demoore, despite being a scandalously toned woman, might have a lot more appetite left than Khloe Eatwell herself!

“Well – Urrrrp – you too, Stacey! You can really pack it away! I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be such a good eater! You’re so... So... Um, I mean no offense, Stacey – so svelte!

“Uh huh!” Staceline answered happily, as she grabbed a big chocolate-cream donut from the side table and ate it in two bites. “Fast metabolism! I actually like it, but I have been trying to put on a little weight for Kal’s benefit, and it hasn’t been easy! Be gentle with my boyfriend, Khloe. Kal’s a little shy, so don’t proposition him for sex while I’m gone!”

Khloe smiled happily as she agreed to be on her best behaviour with Kal while Staceline stepped out to the changing rooms. Once the Duchess was safely out of view, Khloe smirked. She’d kept her fingers firmly crossed in that exchange!

“Heh!” Khloe licked her lips as she drank in the sight of Kal Aresquay. “Gentle! Moi? We obviously haven’t met before! Oh, Kal... I have over seven stone on your girlfriend, and I think we are going to see just how long you can resist a woman with real curves!”


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5 hours ago, Batman76 said:

The gluttony here is ecstatic. And I've got a feeling that Stacey's words about having a fat metabolism will soon haunt her. Maybe after looking at some sort of cursed statue

Hehe. Fat metabolism.

Here is a gif of every @flyer33 chapter ever


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If I wasn't swamped I'd want to do a story in this verse about a private investigator who worked for debutantes suspecting other debutantes of sabotaging their weight gains, with no one knowing that said investigator was actually a very thin woman who'd been alchemically hexed to be unable to gain weight.

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1 hour ago, >_< 0_0 said:

Hehe. Fat metabolism.

Here is a gif of every @flyer33 chapter ever


Not all of my characters are blonde, I'll have you know. I've checked! 

6 hours ago, Batman76 said:

a fat metabolism

Must be a Freudian slip. 

51 minutes ago, Batman76 said:

If I wasn't swamped I'd want to do a story in this verse about a private investigator who worked for debutantes suspecting other debutantes of sabotaging their weight gains, with no one knowing that said investigator was actually a very thin woman who'd been alchemically hexed to be unable to gain weight.

Oh well you're very welcome to write a story in the Donuts and Duchesses setting at some point, after you've finished The Calling. I suppose I could write a "Setting Guide" like you did for Grossia - I'm quite willing if people want to write separate stories in the same setting (ish). 

Some key locations are:

The Empire - basically 18th century England; Pride and Prejudice with fat girls in a world that glorifies obesity.

Aquitaine - basically France, with farcical accents and everyone having a mistress / paramour or ten - a core part of the Empire, to the north of the imperial province

Sessex - the imperial province. About the size of England [edit - probably bigger, in fact - same size as Aquitaine, but more arable]. A hot climate - even Staceline's estate in the cool hills grows oranges easily - but rainy and fertile. Extraordinarily productive dairies. The capital is "Lonporto" and has seven hills including the Capitoline and the Mercantian. Empire-line dresses, and a nobility selectively bred - even moreso than in the rest of the world - for extreme gluttony and eating capacity. 

Sisilea - a pasta-loving, chocolate and hazelnut growing, rural part of the empire, across the sea to the east of the imperial province. 

Archaea and the Archaean islands - ancient lands, with ruins of older, golden civilisations. Greece, and sort-of in the empire. A popular destination for tours by rich young aristocrats still slim enough for adventure. Home to ancient cults of fertility goddesses, and the site of sunken cities destroyed by gluttony - or perhaps because their gluttony was insufficient to please the gods!

The League - merchant city-states mit ein highly-educated elite unt a love of sausage. Rich. The only state in the civilised world in which fractional-reserve banking is legal. 

The Fattoman Sultanate. Not the Ottomans. Peaceful relations with the empire - less so with the East.

Sind - Persia; flying carpets that struggle under the vast weight of exotic, silk-draped beauties. 



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Chapter 10: Cakes and Crushes (part 9)


The Creamer Gallery was an exhibition space for art, archaeological wonders, and performing artists. But, like most civic buildings in the Empire, it had been designed with heavy-duty banqueting in mind! Therefore, in addition to its kitchens, cellars, and pantries, the Gallery boasted ample private cloakrooms and places for rich ladies to change their clothes during fattening gala dinners that necessitated outfit changes due to severe stomach engorgement! In the most opulent such anteroom, reserved for the maids of the very rich or very lucky, a fat Aquitanian named Yvette Carte-Blanche awaited her mistress.

Unlike many of the ladies’ maids at the Creamer Gallery, Yvette had very little fear that she might sprain her back by having to carry an insensibly-overstuffed and weighty mistress to a fainting couch due to too many sugary portions. This was because Yvette’s mistress was Staceline Demoore, whose blast-furnace metabolism kept her so slender that Yvette found it quite embarrassing – it was, after all, outrageous for a Lady’s maid to be crammed into a maid’s lacy outfit that would be much too large for her employer! Some of the other maids – all younger and slimmer than the almost middle-aged Yvette, the better to assist their buxom mistresses – tittered behind their hands in amusement at Yvette’s hefty fatness, and her blouse-popping gut and bosom. Yvette affected to ignore them, and paid more attention to the scurrilous goings-on in the back-house of Duke Creamer’s prestigious feast.

“Oooooo!” Moaned an over-seasoned debutante in an eye-gouging, midriff-baring orange silk ensemble that unleashed her double-pillow belly with a sagging, stretch-marked lower half. She staggered onto a spring-balanced weighing scale with the help of a petite maid named Marie. “My tummy! There was too much food! The puddings are all triple the size they should be! I’m going to burst and die, Marie! How could Duke Creamer do this to us! We’re only half way through! If I don’t eat another ten courses, I’ll never live it down! But if I do, I’ll explode and my poor belly with fly everywhere! Urrgh!


The tearful, orange-clad debutante’s tiny maid squeaked reassuringly, as she examined the number on the wobbling brass weighing scale.

“A gain of thirty-one pounds, My Lady! After only three-dozen courses! Truly, Duke Creamer’s portions are a marvel!”

“Oooh! I’m going to explode! The last time I ate over forty-eight pounds I passed out for two days! But even that won’t get me to the sixtieth course tonight!” Moaned the debutante.

Yvette recognised the fat, groaning deb as Lady Ljiliana de Tarte. Heavens! The bloated “debutante” still wasn’t married – at the age of 25! And, although she was exceedingly fat, Yvette recognised the damage that years of over-using weight-loss potions had wrought on the aristocrat’s sagging, stretch-marked skin! Yvette preened that she herself had never resorted to such drastic measures.

Further along the luxurious cloakroom, Yvette easily recognised one of the Empire’s most celebrated beauties: Lady Katelette Foir-Grasse, clad in scarlet silk, white fur, and rubies. Who, Yvette noted with disappointment, was less impressive in the flesh than in the gossip columns. The newspapers celebrated Lady Katelette as a young woman of unstoppable appetite – the breaker of half a dozen eating capacity records, who would surely gorge her way into the Crown Prince’s heart, and onto the extra-wide Imperial throne! Whereas, as the 18 stone beauty perspired her way past Yvette to her team of maids, Lady Katelette seemed to suffering from almost disastrous overfeeding, after just half the evening: she was panting, and immediately began moaning to her maids that her huge frontage felt too heavy for her to go another step without help and adjustment to her shapewear. And then she demanded her “special tonic” – quickly served to her from an intriguing green crystal vial, which, from the way Katelette perked up to alertness afterwards, Yvette suspected must be some sort of expensive stimulant. Interesting! The Aquitainian maid filed her observation away – it would soon be splendid gossip, but Yvette wouldn’t want to get caught using her trusted position in the gala cloakrooms to pry into the affairs of such a powerful family as the Foir-Grasses.

Yvette busied herself gossiping with the other maids for some time.

Periodically, one of the girls’ mistresses would arrive at the cloakroom. What was unusual was that they were staggering in individually. At most galas, gaggles of wealthy ladies would take breaks together, during scheduled intervals between the desserts – starting after the thirty-sixth. Traditionally, it was poor etiquette for a lady to take a break from her Feeding Couch before that point, since she expected to show appreciation for the host’s hospitality by loading up her belly with at least three-dozen heavy and fattening desserts before considering her own comfort.

The fact that Yvette’s friends had been having to help their struggling mistresses with belly-rubs, outfit adjustments, and smelling salts since before the twentieth course was proof positive that the generosity of Duke Creamer’s gala banquet was absolutely, lavishly, grossly too much for even the biggest-eaters of Imperial society! Oh! Yvette was very impressed, and so were the other maids! The evening would, they all expected, be a famous success that was sure to set a new standard for Imperial feasting! Yvette approved: the Empire was richer than ever, and it was quite right that its daughters were indulged with the fruits of prosperity. Growing wealth should mean fatter portions! Yvette just hoped her own mistress – who had not yet come to have her tummy rubbed or her makeup touched up – was getting plenty to eat!

As it happened, Yvette Carte-Blanche need not have worried that Staceline Demoore might be getting less food than her peers. It turned out, Duchess Staceline was more than capable of taking care of that issue herself.

“Hey, Yvette!”

Lady Staceline’s maid hurried to the door, which her mistress was pushing open with her pert ass. This was because her hands were full: she was precariously balancing a huge bowl of greasy red curry between her upper arm and her exquisite sapphire silk dress! And holding a platter piled high with ten pounds of hog roast and apple sauce in one hand, and a matching tray of kebab meat in the other.

“Lady Staceline!” Yvette cried in alarm, as she tried to relieve the Duchess of the greasy curry before a drop spilled and caused a stain. “Let me take that!”

“Okay. Be careful, it’s kinda hot!”

Staceline manoeuvred her tray and platter of meat through the door, as Yvette heaved the gallon bowl of steaming curry carefully to Lady Staceline’s private chamber beyond the cloakroom.

That done, Staceline licked her lips as she removed her chunky bejewelled necklace, slipped out of her dress, and sat down in her plain silk underwear so that she could dig into her party-sized mounds of meat and curry. She wielded chopsticks and big spoon with seemingly ravenous appetite!

Yvette looked on aghast. Why was Lady Staceline gorging on – cheap and greasy – meat in her changing room? She could have Duke Creamer’s exquisite and vast puddings, pastries, and sweets hand-fed to her on a Feeding Couch in the opulent gallery. Apparently, after some minutes of practically pouring curry and kebab meat down her throat with the aid of chopsticks, Staceline noticed Yvette’s confusion and took a minute to explain.

“Hungry for meat!” Staceline said while she snatched a breath and mopped oily red curry sauce into her mouth with a piece of bread.

“Meat?” Yvette asked weakly. “But why, Lady Staceline? Are Duke Creamer’s wonderful puddings not to your liking?”


“The gala desserts are fine, Yvette. But, fuck me, Yvette! It’s just sugar, cream, and cake! I’m eighteen: I need some protein in my diet! It’s not good for a girl to just eat sugar and dairy!”

Yvette looked on in stunned silence. Staceline resumed gorging on roast hog drenched in apple sauce. She was seriously hungry, even by her own standards! Which Yvette was happy to see – Staceline had finally decided to thicken up a little, in order to “impress” a boyfriend. Now Yvette was well aware, as was her mistress, that Kal Aresquay was not rich enough to be more than a short-term fling. However, Yvette also appreciated the buff good looks of the handsome young man, and the Aquitainian woman approved of taking a paramour, hopefully the first of many! And Yvette especially hoped that Kal would pack a few much-needed stones of weight onto Duchess Demoore – to which end, she was irked to realise the young man had not been hand-feeding Staceline hard enough, hence forcing the poor girl to come to her dressing room to gorge properly.

“Lady Staceline?” Yvette inquired, as Staceline finished her tray of kebab meat and mopped it sadly with a piece of flatbread in the hope that more might appear.


“Is your evening with Lord Kal going well, or is there anything I can to do help? I’m sad to see he’s not doing his duty and feeding you this himself.”

Staceline contemplated the question.

“Yeah, no.” She explained. “Kal can’t feed me this, because only the hog roast is from the gala. The curry and the kebab – I, um, sent for takeout.”

Yvette hiccupped in surprise!

Sending for takeout at a gala dinner! Where each young woman would be gorged to bursting point, and then coaxed to eat more! Unheard of! Although, Yvette conceded, the dishes at Duke Creamer’s banquet were a little on the sweet side. And there had been quite a few faintings and calls for smelling salts from mistresses whose bodies couldn’t handle all the refined sugar. But, still!

“I should get another.” Staceline pondered as she stared sadly at the bottom of her gallon curry bowl. She spotted the one remaining bit of cauliflower, and hungrily snapped it up.


“Yes, Lady Staceline!”

“Could you have this bowl sent back to the Curry Mahal for a refill, please? Tell them it’s for me. They know what I like. Urp. Though, I guess, I probably ought to get back to Kal before Lady Khloe Eatwell gets her claws too deep.”





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Oh yes, eat up Stacy, eat up and grow...

Now, to some degree, Stacy being able to outeat the other women makes perfect sense. She's got a muscular core to cradle her gut, they've got constraining fat belts

But I'm really hoping that this puts her over the edge...

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18 hours ago, Batman76 said:

Oh yes, eat up Stacy, eat up and grow...

Now, to some degree, Stacy being able to outeat the other women makes perfect sense. She's got a muscular core to cradle her gut, they've got constraining fat belts

But I'm really hoping that this puts her over the edge...

Due to many generations of cultural conditioning for gluttony, and selective breeding for huge appetites and robust constitution (not so much for being fit, but for being able to tolerate grossly fattening diets), all women in the setting are big eaters. This is especially true for the great noble families, who have been marrying the finest and most gluttonous stock for a long time. Hence we have Countless Katelette, of the Foir-Grasse Duchy, who is an example of high social rank corresponding to bigger eating capacity, whereas a minor noble like Alicia simply can't eat so much, and piles on weight quickly from being overfed an upper class diet, courtesy of Stacey. However, even Alicia can stuff down an awful lot of food.

Stacey can definitely outeat her competitors. I'm sure being fit helps, because she's not encased in belly fat, and also because her body metabolises sugar faster than typical, lazy Imperial Ladies who frequently eat too many cakes and faint from excess blood sugar. But also because of good genes - she's descended from some famous beauties, who happened to combine fast metabolism and hearty appetites with epic boobs. In future episodes, maybe we'll learn how this means that Stacey is indeed descended from an ancient lineage of priestesses - I just cant decide if this should be priestesses of (a) a largely-forgotten fitness goddess, or (b) a gluttony goddess. 


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Chapter 10: Cakes and Crushes (part 10)


A half hour later, at the most extravagant gala dinner of the season...


Staceline Demoore stalked into the final exhibition room in her tour of the Creamer Gallery, and huffed in exasperation. She’d viewed every single piece of the Fentiman Jowelle exhibition, except for the one item she’d specifically been searching for – the silver Cow Creamer sculpture that her instincts said was associated with the ancient Cult of Cream. Of it, there was no sign. There had been a few minor archaeological treasures among Fentiman Jowelle’s piles of bric-a-brac, but not enough to impress a Duchess whose houses each boasted a substantial art collection.

Staceline’s belly gurgled, and she sighed contentedly as her appetite began to return. During her exploration of the Creamer Gallery, she’d begun to suspect she might have snacked too much! The more-than twenty-five pounds of meat and curry, which she’d wolfed down during her hour-long break before the second half of the gala dinner, had left Stacey feeling pretty full. At least, full by her own standards: she didn’t doubt she could have let Kal feed her another thirty-eight desserts without any problem, but she was sufficiently overfed that she might not have enjoyed it... Fortunately, thanks to generations of her ancestors’ selective breeding for gluttony, her metabolism and belly capacity had come to the rescue, and Staceline sighed happily as she felt her vast evening meals turn to goop and settle into her lower belly. So, that meant it was time to return to Kal – rescuing him from the claws of a by-now-very-overstuffed Lady Khloe Eatwell – and let him handfeed her more chocolate cake, pastries, meringues, tarts, pies, syrups, and icecreams. Life was good, despite the annoyance of the non-existent cow statuette!

For the other young ladies at Duke Creamer’s gala, life did not feel so golden. This was because Duke Creamer was serving insanely huge portions of the most fattening desserts imaginable, and at the half-way point of the banquet they were already overfed to the point of severe bellyache and beyond. Many, in fact, had been verging on tears as they waddled to the restrooms during the feast’s intermission, and begged their personal maids for belly rubs, laxative draughts, and anything to spare them the embarrassment of passing out from overconsumption and having to leave the feast early. However, a few of the more experienced debutantes – such as Ljiliana de Tarte – were enjoying the culinary extravaganza. Years of severe overeating at formal dinners had inured Ljiliana de Tarte to constant tummy aches, and, indeed, had seemingly rewired her brain to find the whole experience pleasurable. Hence the cross-eyed expression of mixed ecstasy and constipation that Ljiliana wore in the restroom as she simultaneously slurped honeyed milk and changed outfits into an even skimpier orange ensemble that allowed her stretch-marked and sagging belly to bulge freely. Of course, the fact she was seriously sloshed on mead and wine probably contributed...

Staceline changed her outfit promptly, so she could rejoin her boyfriend. It didn’t take long, because it just meant replacing her long sapphire silk gown and necklace with a matching but far lighter and more revealing creation – an ass-skimming sapphire silk minidress that could easily pass for lingerie. The flimsy minidress was also much looser than her first gown – like the other debutantes at the banquet, Stacey had already gorged on a whole gala worth of calories, in only half the evening, and, although she wasn’t as stuffed as her peers, she did still look seven months pregnant. Still, as a strong young woman, Stacey was able to make her way back to the great hall without assistance... On the way, she strode impatiently around a variety of waddling fat girls who needed to lean on their personal maids, or even on a strong and handsome manservant, just to make it a hundred yards from the rest rooms back to their Feeding Couch.

It was while preoccupied with thoughts of how she would tease Kal into feeding her 38 more desserts that Staceline strode headlong around a corner and crashed into Prince Hadria.

“Sorry!” Staceline gasped, as she grabbed the Prince’s arm to rescue him from falling backwards.

Prince Hadria’s bodyguard looked unimpressed – by the light of crystal oil-lamps, Staceline could see the leather-clad woman’s angry but silent expression.

“I’ll just give him back.” Duchess Staceline Demoore directed her comment at the Prince’s escort. This didn’t seem to improve the woman’s expression.




Due to longstanding tradition, inspired by historical experience of the trouble that could happen if they were allowed out on their own, royal princes required bodyguards. This much was perfectly uncontroversial and usual.

What was unusual about the bodyguard of prince Hadria was that she was (a) a woman; (b) lean and muscular, with only her large breasts and fashionable makeup revealing her aristocratic origin; and (c) clad in a skintight black bodysuit of shiny leather that was exotic, even by the standards of gala dinners. Still, as eye-catching as she was, Stacey perceived the female bodyguard – dark haired, solid, and matching Stacey in height – would be no slouch if she had to do any actual guarding.

“It was my fault entirely, Lady Staceline.” Prince Hadria insisted, before noticing the aggressive expression radiating from his bodyguard. He admonished her. “Sienna! Do not scowl at Duchess Staceline Demoore!”

“Your Highness.” Sienna acquiesced and stopped scowling. “This Duchess did bump into you. But, fortunately, only because she wasn’t paying attention.”

Staceline pouted. Prince Hadria’s bodyguard, Sienna, had a seriously aggressive attitude. Plus she was pretty much the only other woman with biceps in the capital. Staceline decided she like her. Well, possibly.

Prince Hadria – cute-ish, rugged-ish, blonde-ish, and second in line to a rich empire – continued to take Staceline’s side, far more than she probably deserved.

“Lady Staceline...” Hadria continued. “... Is welcome to do a lot more than bump into me, Sienna.”

Staceline smirked at the bodyguard, before replying with calculated courtesy.

“That is most kind, Your Highness. But I should have watched where I was going! The food is just so good tonight, perhaps I was simply too preoccupied with returning to it!”

Hadria’s eyes bulged. Surely no young woman could possibly be enthusiastic for more food, after the monumental banquet so far! In fact, earlier in the evening, he’d even coaxed Sienna into admitting that – were she attending Duke Creamer’s gala for pleasure rather than duty, and hence wearing clothes that permitted her to eat properly – even she would be unable to finish all seventy-eight of the evening’s formal courses. Not, of course, that Sienna took much pleasure in dessert: the hard-bodied bodyguard pretty much only ate meat and cheese, and, on duty, she only ever grazed on small quantities – just a pound or two of meat and a small glass of milk, once or twice an hour, throughout the day.

“Not yet, Lady Staceline!” Said Hadria. “I must insist on taking a few moments of your time, before you return to the great hall. I simply must speak with you! Um. In private, if you would please come this way?”

Of course, any young woman faced with an imperial prince begging for her time – and Staceline was not quite an exception – would be delighted to oblige. And so, after a short walk to an out-of-use wing of the Creamer Gallery, and after Sienna unlocked a side-room with the adroit application of a set of lockpicks from her belt pouch, Staceline found herself sitting next to the second most eligible young man in the Empire, and learned that he was almost pathetically, hopelessly in love – or, Staceline guessed, at least lust – with her!

Staceline simultaneously learned that this news didn’t seem to impress Sienna the bodyguard, who lurked coolly in the background, attending to lighting candles and then generally sulking. Although the bodyguard was careful not to sulk in a way that boy would notice – mostly, she just shot hard glares at Staceline whenever she thought the Duchess wouldn’t notice.

In short order, Prince Hadria had plied Lady Staceline with three goblets of strong wine. In her current, overfed state, the alcohol had little effect, despite Stacey’s protestations that she seldom drank so much. Still, Prince Hadria was going to such alarming effort to express his admiration for her, Staceline found herself slurping more wine than usual.

“... most absolute admiration for you, Lady Staceline! Not only for your legendary and unquestionable beauty, but also your wits, character, and charisma...”

Staceline’s jaw dropped. When she’d been invited for dinner with Prince Hadria, she genuinely hadn’t thought he’d liked her that much.

“And my money?” Staceline interrupted.

Prince Hadria stalled in his speech. In the background, Sienna coughed in outrage as she swallowed a small portion of ground beef.

“I mean, you’re laying this on pretty damn thick, Hal! Are you sure the Empire’s not broke, or something? And you’re saying all these nice things about me, because you need to get me into bed because I’m the only girl rich enough to bail out the Imperial family? I mean...” Stacey sighed. “I know you’re not broke, because my banks see the empire’s accounts... But, I’m just trying to understand why you’re being so... So nice!”

Prince Hadria paused, before realising the answer to her question. “Because I’m in love with you, Stacey!”

Staceline slurped her wine.


One imperial prince wanted to marry her. And, slightly annoyingly, she had a hot date in the next room, and she still kind-of wanted to get into Kal’s shorts.

Darn. The eternal problem, for ludicrously eligible girls throughout history: how to fuck your hot boyfriend, while simultaneously marrying a prince? Luckily, the empire had long ago found the solution: discretion!

Staceline pondered how best to accept Hadria’s proposal of a royal marriage, without ruining Kal’s evening. Well there was a way: but it was going to leave her feeling pretty stuffed! She reached over to stroke Hadria’s muscles, before drawing him in for a quick kiss.

“Okay, Hal! I think I will accept your very flattering offer of becoming your girlfriend. On three conditions!”

Hadria practically sobbed with happiness.

“Name them, Stacey. You can have anything!”

Sienna, perched on a side table, sulked harder than ever.

“First of all, discretion! We can announce our attachment in a few days: until then, I don’t want to be seen as a social climber who switches boyfriends mid-evening, which means you let me finish my date tonight...”

“Of course.”

“Second, the whole weight thing? Your family think I have to be two-hundred pounds to date you? Fuck that. Honestly, Hal, I might fill out, one day. I mean, the Demoore family is short on heirs right now, and so if we marry I’ll need to produce like six, maybe seven – and pregnancy is famously fattening. But I’m not gaining weight on anyone else’s schedule. Clear?”

Hadria blanched. But he knew he wouldn’t be able to deny Stacey anything. “Fine. I’ll make that work. Somehow... Third?”

“Great! Third...”

Staceline smirked. She patted her tummy. In her skimpy blue minidress, and sitting on a couch, it bulged out almost as far as her breasts. Which was a lot.

“... Third, I think you have to feed me some icecream to celebrate! I’m a little full right now, Hal, and I do have thirty-eight desserts left to be fed later. But I’m sure I could find room for, oh, say a couple gallons ice cream, four, maybe five chocolate cakes... You know. Something light! Does that sound like something you could maybe send Sienna out to grab, and then feed it to me?”

“Uh huh!”

“Good.” Staceline purred. “Oh, and maybe a couple dozen donuts, while Sienna’s getting that? And maybe a few plates of pancakes and waffles in chocolate syrup? After all, this is the Empire, and I think it’s expected for a prince’s girlfriend to get a teeny little bit... Fat!”


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Just realized of course, after being distracted by Stacy's cleavage/romantic possibilities/weight gain possibilities, that we don't know where the cow creamer statue is!


And I have a feeling that it could be very dangerous...

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3 minutes ago, Batman76 said:

Just realized of course, after being distracted by Stacy's cleavage/romantic possibilities/weight gain possibilities, that we don't know where the cow creamer statue is!


And I have a feeling that it could be very dangerous...

Amusingly, the hardest part of the latest section was setting up the situation for a reveal about the cow creamer - which, I think, will bring us to the finale of "Season 1." It is now all carefully set up, with a plot development that will not be easy to predict, but should make sense. Though I'm out of time to write it for a while.

By the way, in case anyone doesn't know what I'm referring to when I say "cow creamer", it is a kind of kitsch Victoriana jug for pouring cream - like the picture below, except I imagine one that is way bigger, and with an odder looking cow. But I've also been calling it a "statuette" because most people would think of it like that, if they see it with the lid on - except if they know it is a very posh jug. There's actually a Jeeves and Wooster story which revolves around competing aristocrats trying to acquire a particularly prized antique specimen, which partly inspired this story. Of course, the version in the Empire is probably more magical than that one. 

See the source image

8 hours ago, Batman76 said:

I have a feeling that if Stacy tries to get fat, that she's going to excel at it. That 200lb minimum might be easier to reach then expected

So, in Season 2, I want to explore the "Tomb Raider" inspiration for Staceline a bit more. Though for her to climb / jump / sprint with her boobs may require video game physics. 

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Chapter 10: Cakes and Crushes (part 11)


Staceline Demoore slurped milk from a goblet and washed down the last bit of her twenty-fourth donut of the evening. Or, more precisely, the twenty-fourth donut of the evening that she’d been handfed by Prince Hadria. And, coming on top of several big cakes, including a heavy fruit-cake which made the too-thickly iced chocolate fudge cake in her very full tummy feel light and airy by comparison, Staceline couldn’t suppress a slightly smug burp. She felt a little bad about it, though...

It had become obvious to Staceline’s perceptive gaze that, although clearly a boy wouldn’t notice, Sienna the leather-clad bodyguard had a secret crush on her charge, the cute Prince Hadria. And that Sienna, knowing her affection could not be returned in the way she craved, and too disciplined to make her feelings known, took out her disappointment on the array of beautiful, eligible women whom Hadria courted. By overfeeding them – or, in Stacey’s case, by at least trying to. Hence, after being dispatched to bring desserts and pastries for Hadria to feed Staceline (apparently it was fine for the bodyguard to leave the Prince unguarded in a secluded room), Sienna had returned with an unreasonably vast spread of cakes, icecreams, and donuts, carried by herself and three stout maids. It would be enough to make any other young noble lady sob for her feeder to stop – especially a young woman who was already stuffed from hours at an extravagant gala banquet. Staceline, however, had eaten every mouthful, and enjoyed them. Although she was now completely stuffed, feeling way beyond replete, and doubtful about her ability to let Kal feed her thirty-eight more big desserts without falling into a sugar coma. Half a dozen more desserts might even be her limit for the evening! At least, if she wanted to be able enjoy the post-gala sex session she’d been dreaming about for days. In other words, Stacey was stuffed, and her belly was super-heavy, but she hadn’t eaten to the point of insensibility as her countrywomen were wont to do.

Sienna, in fact, seemed to suffering more from the angst of watching Hadria’s handfeeding than Stacey was from having to handle the torrent of dense, creamy calories – the bodyguard chewed miserably on some beef jerky, as she eventually accepted that Staceline wasn’t going to burst, or be embarrassingly sick, or sob for mercy due to the excess of rich food Prince Hadria fed to her. Staceline couldn’t help feeling sorry for the statuesque bodyguard: she assumed Sienna probably sulked whenever Prince Hal handfed some society beauty on a private couch, which must be quite often – although, from her sample size of one, it wasn’t really possible for the Empire’s most eligible young Duchess to know for sure. 

“I’ve never met a woman like you, Stacey!” Hadria enthused, his eyes glittering.

“Oh, really? Flattery will get you everywhere, Hayds, I can assure you.” Staceline told the Prince, testing out the shape of a more compact name, and nudging him with her thigh. “Well, flattery plus an engagement ring inherited from a famous Empress, anyway... I was thinking of the...”

Stacey was about to make a play for the engagement ring that had once been given to the famously beautiful Empress Alura, but she was interrupted by a noise.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The royal bodyguard’s head whipped around, in the direction of the noise. Not towards the latched door of the private side-room, but a corner, dark and shadowy in the gloom most distant from the oil lamps.

“What is—“ Staceline asked sleepily, her metabolism too heavily tasked with burning sugar to look around quickly.

Sienna swiftly located the disturbance. A cupboard door, set on a raised level under the diagonal beam of a stairway. One she hadn’t thought to check. Sienna tensed, wary that some menace might burst the cupboard door and lunge out from the gloomy corner.

No such trouble emerged. Shortly, there were three more, soft thumps.

Thump, thump, thump.

Sienna drew her gladius silently, planted her feet on the floorboards, and exhaled before taking a grip on the cupboard’s wooden door. Her biceps flexed through her leather bodysuit as she wrenched it off its hinges in one attempt.

Sedately a doughy figure slumped downwards from the cupboard. Before whimpering unhappily at the sight of a steel swordpoint brought to a warning halt before its eyes. The figure was a man – a rotund man, in a crumpled white dinner jacket.

Mmph!” The plump gentleman moaned in alarm, unable to exclaim more coherently due to the white cotton sheet with which he had been bound and gagged.

A crushed chrysanthemum and an untidy red handkerchief might have once made the plump gentleman look rather dapper, but, as they fell on the floor from his crumpled jacket, their effect was rather spoiled.

“Mmm!” Despaired the figure.

“Who is he?” Mused Prince Hadria, as he and Staceline stood up. Staceline burped. She also thought there was something familiar about the crumpled porker.

Sienna relented, and sliced through the bedsheet tied around the figure. As soon as it came free, the man began talking and wouldn’t stop! There was, apparently, no end to his relief at being freed from the very cupboard-prison in which he feared himself to have been entombed, by the very blackguardliest of captors, who had cruelly bound the plump squire and stuffed him in the closet of a locked and disused sideroom.

“... Feared I had been tied up with this bedsheet and locked away forever in my very tomb!” Squeaked the man.

Staceline, despite the gloom and the man’s rumpled appearance, suddenly realised she’d met the plump prisoner before. It was his odd over-use of the word “Very” that cued her brain to recognise him.

“Fentiman Jowelle!” Staceline exclaimed.

The figure gasped, having realised he had yet to introduce himself properly to his rescuers, and amazed that one was already acquainted with his personage!

“The very same, My Lady! But you have me at the very greatest of very disadvantages, for I fear I know not whom I have the very finest need to thank for my deliverance from bondage in that very darkened closet!”

Staceline suppressed a giggle at the squire’s ludicrous prose. He was clearly in shock. And, as a most obsequious observer of propriety, he was clearly in for more shock when he learned the identity of his rescuers. Therefore Staceline poured him a large tumbler of whisky – and, at his thirsty request, a second, with ice this time – before telling him. Which, after reflection, she did by explaining his identity to Prince Hadria and his bodyguard.

“This is Fentiman Jowelle, Hadria. He’s the curator of the Fentiman Jowelle exhibition, which I actually came here tonight to view...”

Squire Jowelle beamed with delight.

It was possible, Staceline thought, that Jowelle ought to recognise her. He had literally bumped into her once before – but certainly, he was in a weakened state and the room was shadowy.

“Wonderful!” Fentiman Jowelle exclaimed. “I love to meet admirers of my curio collection! But, pray, who might you be, to whom I owe my very release from imprisonment!”

“Brace yourself, Fentiman.” Staceline smirked. “This is Prince Hadria! This is Prince Hadria’s bodyguard. And we have met once before: I’m Duchess Staceline Alura Voluptua-Fuller Demoore!”

A great look of profound social delight passed over Fentiman Jowelle’s face.

“Oh! What a splendid day this is!” He exclaimed happily.

Staceline sighed. Most people in the Empire were, in her opinion, completely bonkers. A typical plump squire could, for example, be tied up in a closet for untold hours, apparently in fear of his life for some reason, and, upon being released, would find it far more important to extoll his delight at discovering the high social station of his rescuers, rather than bother himself with the more intellectually demanding but also more important task of explaining why and how the hell it was that he had been locked away in the first place.

“Why the fuck were you tied up in a closet?” Staceline demanded, too impatient to wait for Hadria or Sienna to ask the question.

Fentiman Jowelle looked hurt that he had been interrupted in the middle of reciting a list of Prince Hadria and Duchess Demoore’s titles – at least the well- known ones. He seemed delighted by the fact that his knowledge of upper crust society was able to be put to such practical use! Sienna was ignoring him and scanning the room for other threats, while Hadria stood bemused.

“But, but...” Jowelle spluttered. “Don’t you know?”

Staceline poured herself some water, and then grabbed Jowelle’s attention by pouring him a third glass – of fine brandy – but not handing it over until she got an answer she liked.

“I wouldn’t ask if I knew.” Said Staceline. 

“Oh.” Jowelle spluttered. “Upon my very soul! I thought you’d come to rescue me, because you knew everything!”

“Guess again. Rescue you from whom?” Staceline prompted.

“From... Well... I’m sure Prince Hadria – Your Highness – isn’t interested in the affairs of such a humble man as my very self... Surely it would be better if we...”

Staceline snarled. She hated not knowing things.


Fentiman Jowelle whimpered.

“That Blackguard! Duke Creamer!”

Sienna and Hadria gasped simultaneously. Duke Creamer! Sienna instantly began to evaluate whether her discovery and release of a powerful Duke’s prisoner might have put the imperial prince at risk. Hadria was simply shocked to learn that Duke Creamer, one of the Empire’s most respected men – and a cornerstone of the capital’s crucial dairy business to boot – could do something as shocking as imprisoning a man in a cupboard! There must be some explanation!

“Why did Duke Creamer lock you in a closet?” Staceline prompted in a loud, clear voice that would brook no delay.

“Um... Well, ah...” Squire Jowelle eyed the proffered tumbler.

“Answer me, then you can have this nice glass of restorative brandy, distilled thirty years ago on one of the Emperor’s own vineyards, according to the label on the bottle.” Staceline coaxed.

The potential of receiving some high social-status brandy seemed to spur Fentiman Jowelle to provide useful answers.

“Ah, well, Lady Demoore: because he stole away my Silver Cow Creamer! And I caught him red-handed, locking up a fake replacement in my very exhibition case! It was the very centrepiece, too!”

“Go on.”

And I know why he took it!” Jowelle declared triumphantly.


“Aha! That Lord Creamer may be a filthy, underhanded bounder, but he is a scholar of antiquities, I’ll grant him that! He had learned as much about the Silver Cow Creamer – my greatest ever acquisition in the curio markets – as I! And he knew what he could do with it!”

“Go on, but less cryptically, please, My Lord.” Staceline said.

“Ah. Yes. The Silver Cow Creamer is a relic of the—“

“Cult of Cream.” Staceline supplied.

Fentiman Jowelle’s eye’s boggled.

Yes! But how did you know???”

“I read. Go on.”

 “Um, right. Well, the Silver Cow Creamer was used by the Cult of Cream during their rituals. They used it to mix together cream and honey, into an extremely fattening concoction that induces every woman who tastes it to become an unquenchable, super-sized glutton!”

Sienna’s eye’s widened. Staceline noticed. Jowelle continued.

“And Duke Creamer, who funded my exhibition, but whom I believe to be exceedingly deeply in debt, stole the Silver Cow Creamer for that very reason! He knows the ancient recipe: the secret ratio of cream and honey that is used to make the fattening elixir!”

Prince Hadria looked perplexed.

“Duke Creamer wishes to make every woman who tastes the fruits of his dairy business into an insatiable glutton? But why?”

Staceline interrupted. “To drive up the price of cream, and pump up his dairy profits to the Moon!”

“Yes! Exactly!” Exclaimed Fentiman Jowelle. “But it seems you do know everything about why I was imprisoned, Lady Staceline! I discovered his scheme, just this very morning, as I was doing the rounds of the side galleries, buffing up my exhibit!”

“And so he overpowered you, tied you up, and locked you away, to deal with after his big party?” Staceline continued.

Exactly!” Squire Jowelle cried.

“Oh, shit!” Staceline realised the implications.

“No!” Cried Fentiman Jowelle. “It’s alright after all, because I’m safe now! And rescued by some of the most prominent personages in the very Empire! What luck!”

Duchess Staceline Demoore sighed. “Not you!” She snapped. “I mean: oh shit: Duke Creamer is almost certainly planning to put a cream-and-honey based gluttony potion into the desserts at tonight's very gala dinner!”

Prince Hadria gasped. “No! And turn the cream of high society into helplessly gluttonous fatties!”

Staceline sighed. “You mean: into even more helplessly gluttonous fatties than they already are?”

“Well, yes! Darn! What a scheme!”

“Yeah.” Staceline agreed.

“Well, we have to stop him! Sienna: follow me!”

Hadria adjusted his collar and headed into action, charging towards the great hall with Sienna at his heels. Staceline glanced at Squire Jowelle, and helped him to his feet.  Then she shook the tumbler of high-status brandy in front of him.

“I have some more questions, Fentiman...”




Meanwhile in the great hall of the Creamer Gallery.


Resplendent in a scarlet officer’s uniform that brimmed with medals, Duke Creamer mingled among his adoring guests. He was truly spoiling them tonight! At vast expense, the young fatties were enjoying probably the most lavish fare in the history of gala dinners! But the expense was for good cause! Getting the Empire’s rich upper crust hooked on his dairy products – and tripling their already immense appetites with the aid of the secret Cult of Cream recipe he had discovered – would more than pay for itself! And that was precisely what Duke Ampleforth Creamer was going to do!

“A splash more cream on your plum pudding, Lady de Tarte?” Duke Creamer inquired unctuously.

This time, the Duke posed the question to a grossly obese debutante whose bare, stretch-marked belly seemed on the verge of bursting from an excess of puddings. Of course, the young woman greedily accepted, and Duke Creamer topped up Ljiliana de Tarte’s huge bowl with a little of his specially-mixed honeyed cream. Poured, of course, from the curiously-fashioned Silver Cow Creamer jug with which he circulated his gala ball.

“Oh, BURP!” Gasped Lady de Tarte. “I’m certain I will burst if I eat another crumb of this pudding, Your Grace! But this honeyed cream is so good, I don’t care! I swear, I just pray I can find room for it! It’s going to make me so fat!

Duke Creamer returned the compliment to Lady de Tarte. Then, twirling his well-oiled moustache, he proceeded to ply his next guest with a splash of literally-irresistible honeyed cream...



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Oh boy, I wonder how much of it Stacy guzzled down. I'm sure she's wondering the same thing....


And lol in everyone else being so weird while she's so direct,

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3 hours ago, >_< 0_0 said:

Ohhhhh so that’s why Stacey was eating herself out of character! 

Mmm... Although, based on earlier chapters of Donuts and Duchesses, Stacey could hardly be called a light eater. 

20 hours ago, Batman76 said:

Oh boy, I wonder how much of it Stacy guzzled down. I'm sure she's wondering the same thing....


Well, I imagine there might have been a honeyed-cream fountain in the great hall for the debutantes and their feeders to enjoy. Still, I expect the fattening cream will have a more severe effect on the typical, zero-willpower noblewoman than on Stacey...

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Chapter 10: Cakes and Crushes (part 12)


Raucous laughter echoed around the grand marble architecture of the Creamer Gallery. Mead and lavish entertainment were partly responsible for the good cheer, but the latest cause of hilarity was the spectacle of Lady Katelette Foir Grasse being dumped off the side of her Feeding Couch when one of its legs gave way as she shifted her weight. The sight was an amusing one: being only eighteen stone or so, at least, prior to her vast intake of double puddings throughout the feast, the scarlet-clad Lady Katelette had been assigned a more lightweight Feeding Couch than those for heavier, more seasoned debutantes. Clearly, the furniture makers had not reckoned with a young woman taking in so many pounds of pudding in an evening, however! But the greedy countess had in fact consumed over one hundred hefty portions!

Duke Ampleforth Creamer smiled indulgently, as he offered the vastly overfed Lady Katelette an extra-generous helping of honeyed cream on chocolate fudgecake by way of apology for the furniture malfunction. Then he proceeded to his next guest, and the next.

Many of the debutantes were near to bursting! Faced with the lavish cornucopia of Duke Creamer’s grand gala dinner, they had clearly been unable to restrain their gluttony, and had gorged themselves until their poor guts gurgled and groaned and stretched their billowing dresses to the limit! “Excellent!” Thought the Duke. It was exactly what he wanted to see! The burstingly-fat young women were the crème de la crème of Imperial society. Of course, if they did actually burst, that would be bad: it would mean fewer rich girls to buy up his most expensive range of deluxe dairy products! But, in all probability, the gluttony-inducing honeyed cream would ensure their overloaded tummies stretched and soaked up all the creamy calories on which the young women had gorged. Consequently, the wealthy young women would soon be fatter – and hungrier – than ever! And, of course, only Duke Creamer’s most expensive brands of honey-cream would be able to sate their newly enlarged and nearly bottomless bellies! Ampleforth Creamer chortled to himself. He would be richer than ever! The severe debt problems which he had accrued during his aggressive acquisition of half of the capital’s creameries would soon be a thing of the past!

“Hehehe!” Duke Creamer cackled to himself.

Soon, Ampleforth Creamer returned to plying his guests with the irresistible and super-fattening honeyed-cream from the Silver Cow Creamer. He had, of course, arranged for a whole vat of honey and cream to be mixed in one of his many creameries in preparation for the gala – but, according to his research in ancient books, the mixture did not become a puissant gluttony elixir until it had been sloshed around the inside of the Silver Cow Creamer jug. Not wanting to leave this detail to chance, Duke Creamer was therefore pouring the elixir personally for his guests – although he had also pre-sloshed a lot of the fattening fluid and poured it into the centrepiece of his gala dinner: a great fountain of honeyed cream! The Cream Fountain was both delighting every one of the fat society beauties at his feast, and simultaneously causing them to grow fatter by the slurp!

“Your Grace!” Exclaimed a posh-voiced woman of immense girth. “You have truly put on the most fabulous gala dinner in the history of our fair Capital! This whole evening is an absolute delight!”

Duke Creamer looked around, and recognised the massively fat socialite and Times gossip columnist, Tillia Botte-Turner. He grinned, twirled his oily moustache, and poured a generous serving of honeyed cream over the wedge of chocolate cake on the morbidly obese journalist’s plate.

“Lady Botte-Turner! How kind of you! I do trust you will give the evening a favourable report in the Times?”

“Oh, I shall!” Enthused Lady Botte-Turner. Then she winced, and patted the ballooned-out bulge of her immense belly which bulged through her tent-sized empire-line dress. “Just so long as I don’t explode from overeating! I swear, Your Grace, at the intermission weigh-in, I’d already put on fifty pounds! And that was a dozen puddings ago! I don’t know where I shall put another spoonful!”

Duke Creamer beamed with delight on hearing of Lady Botte-Turner’s near-detonation from severe gluttony. Truly, the honeyed-cream in the Cream Fountain must have been doing its job! That, or Botte-Turner was the greediest pig of all time! 

“Try the honeyed cream!” Duke Creamer suggested unctuously with a twirl of his moustache. “I hear many young ladies find it very soothing for their tum tums! It certainly seems to be giving the debutantes a renewed appetite! Which I’m delighted to see, as a dairy owner, of course! I’m sure my new product range of honeyed Supreme Cream will sell briskly, now that the – ahem cream of high society has tasted just how delicious it is!”

Tillia Botte-Turner burped her approval at the Duke's delightful pun, before slurping a spoonful of Ampleforth Creamer’s “Supreme Cream” from her chocolate cake bowl. Indeed, she did feel her tummy growing more comfortable, as she swallowed the stuff down!

“How marvellous!” Tillia exclaimed. “Sublimely delicious, Your Grace! You’ve really hit on a winner with this mixture! So fresh, and so sweet! And very settling for my tum!”

Ampleforth Creamer beamed happily. He wasn’t sure, but he could swear Lady Botte-Turner had grown noticeable fatter from just the one spoonful! At least an inch around the vast belly! Maybe two! Her empire-line dress billowed outwards...

Tillia Botte-Turner panted, and fanned her face. She felt f – a – t FAT! And rather flush. The evening was a hot one, and she felt thirsty for a drink. Sweet lemonade might be better than mead – she’d already had rather too much of the latter. But... Perhaps... She glanced at the Cream Fountain, in the centre of the great hall. Perhaps a glass of the sweet cream would cool her down?

The Cream Fountain was spectacular! Five tiers of crystal glass, full with sweet, honeyed cream, and spilling waterfalls of the stuff down the side, into the bowls of greedy, fat debutantes, in their bursting silk dresses.

With a lick of her lips, Tillia Botte Turner made a full-speed waddle towards the Cream Fountain. It took a while to get going – when full of food, and with her gravid belly more that overbalancing her galleon-sized derriere, she possessed enormous inertia and little muscle – but soon she was making unstoppable progress towards the most delicious and fattening thing at the entire Gala Dinner! An overfed debutante, with melon-sized breasts bulging above her outgrown red dress and her face a contrasting deep green due to eating vastly too much sweetened cream, made way at the Cream Fountain for Lady Botte-Turner. Very soon, Tillia was scooping her big dessert bowl into the thick cream of the Fountain’s bottom tier, and slurping down the whole bowl!

And then again, another bowl of cream: Tillia plunged the quart bowl into the fountain, and hefted it to her lips. And she slurped and gulped, ignoring the sick feeling of overconsumption, until every drop was gone. And then, it was time to refill the bowl again! More! Moar!

“Oh!” Tillia moaned. “I feel so fat!

It was truer than Tillia Botte-Turner knew! Of course she was fat: indeed, she’d been beyond morbidly obese before she’d even crossed the grand entrance foyer of the Creamer Gallery! And of course she’d tipped the scales fifty pounds heavier after a few hours of feasting on thick desserts and heavy side-dishes. But not even at her most gluttonous could Tillia Botte-Turner have imagined that the cautionary phrase “it’ll go straight to your hips!” would be so literally true for her as it was after slurping the delicious honeyed cream dished out by her rich host! But it was!

The calories from Tillia’s epic binge were turning straight to fat! Going first to her colossal bottom, of course, and then swelling her vast belly!

“MOAR!” Tillia burped, oblivious to her swollen and rapidly fattening belly, bulging fatter and fatter in her empire-line silks. And oblivious to her growing third chin, and the onset of her fourth!

“MORE!” gurgled the super-fat socialite, as she visibly swelled, adding pounds of fat to her existing five-hundred and fifty with every gulp...




Prince Hadria shoved open a plain side-door to the Creamer Gallery’s great hall, and his jaw dropped open at the Bacchanalian scene.

Of course, all the young noble ladies were bloated, fat, and dazed. That was to be expected! It was a gala dinner, and the slimmest among them had crammed down fifty courses of ultra-fattening desserts, amounting to over thirty pounds of gloop, half of which was refined sugar. And the majority of the upscale invitees boasted high-class belly capacities in the fifty-pound range, which they had been close to filling when Hadria left. But the scale of dangerous overeating at Duke Creamer’s feast was something else. It had really escalated in the hour Hadria had been out of the hall, basking in the attention of the gorgeous Staceline Demoore...

For one thing, the first debutante Hadria saw was laying on the marble floor in her crumpled red silks – her Feeding Couch having collapsed under her burgeoning weight! Poor Countess Katelette Foir Grasse was semi-conscious and red-faced, looking seventy pounds bigger than the alluring 18-stone woman she’d been earlier in the evening, having clearly almost drowned herself in custard!

The next two debutantes had passed out from overeating – their gurgling tummies spilling over both sides of their Feeding Couches, as their bodies struggled with the consequences of too much dessert!

Another deb – the aging Lady de Tarte, Hadria fancied – was slurping pure heavy cream from a bowl, and then sending her companion for more! And this was despite the fact that Ljiliana de Tarte was so bloated she could scarce draw breath, and panted in between slurps as much as her stuffed guts allowed! Her poor stomach strained like an overripe pumpkin, trapped within the blubber of her flabby, sagging belly. Its grossly excessive contents were clearly crushing her lungs – and threatening to bring on her first heart attack decades too early should she keep overindulging at her present pace, if Hadria’s estimation of her perspiring, panting state was right!

Prince Hadria spotted his older brother, Jules, attending to the gurgling belly of a great beauty – the gorgeous, golden-clad Khloe Eatwell, who lay back on her couch like a beached whale, her belly thrust upwards to the rafters in a foolish attempt to make room for more gorging on the array of chocolate-drenched fruitcakes and cream-soaked donuts beside her. Suspecting Julius would be no help, Hadria directed his bodyguard,  Sienna, to cut off Duke Creamer’s escape, while Hadria himself crossed the great hall, skirted the horde of ravenous gluttons who were risking heart attacks at the Cream Fountain, and interrupted the scheming noble.

“Duke Creamer!” Declared Prince Hadria.

Duke Ampleforth Creamer turned away from a well-coiffured blonde beauty in her thirties, who had tears in her eyes as she swallowed sugar-coated icecream and lamented the rip which her sixty-inch belly had torn in the front-seam of her bodyshaping skirt. She seemed relieved to be distracted from her bowl of icecream, and slumped backwards onto a couch where she passed out and began to snore.

If Duke Creamer was surprised at Prince Hadria’s interruption, he didn’t show it.

Your Highness!” The Duke exclaimed with oily delight and a deep, courtly bow.

“That’s enough of that, Your Grace!” Hadria said sternly. “I’ve just returned from the side-galleries, where I met a man named Fentiman Jowelle.”

Hadria paused to let this news sink in. He was certain Creamer must be sweating in alarm at this revelation – as the Duke was responsible for the sudden false imprisonment of Squire Jowelle, and must realise the implications of being revealed!

Alas, Duke Creamer gave no sign of alarm. Which, on reflection, caused Hadria to purse his lips. He’d rather anticipated the Duke, on being called out as a villain – who had  (a) imprisoned his curator, (b) stolen the Squire’s antique Silver Cow Creamer, and (c) used the Creamer to over-fatten some of the most beautiful women in the Empire, perhaps to the point of risking their lives – might do something like grab a rapier and make a run for it. Unfortunately, Hadria hadn’t thought about what to do in the face of a less reckless response.

“Oh? How splendid!” Replied Creamer. “Fentiman Jowelle is the genius behind tonight’s curio exhibition, which is drawing such universal admiration from Society! Though – heh – not so much as my new Supreme Cream recipe, if I may be permitted to flatter myself as to its sublime success with the ladies!”

Hadria thought as quickly as he could. Perhaps if he could induce the Duke to admit some sort of major crime, he might be able to act – simply arresting one of the most respected Senators in the Empire, without such an admission or without him drawing a rapier, for example, might not be a great idea...

“Huh!” Hadria huffed. “Come now, Duke Creamer. We both know exactly why that honeyed cream in your peculiar silver jug is proving so irresistible to the lovely young ladies of high society! It is because – um – it is magical cream you’re giving them, isn’t it? It’s some sort of magical gluttony elixir, and you’ve used it on all the innocent young ladies on your guest list! You should be ashamed! I mean, offering plenty of fattening sweets to one’s guests is one thing, but a magical gluttony potion is quite another – and a serious crime, I might add!””

Duke Creamer’s face creased in amusement, and he chuckled delightedly.

“Oh! Your Highness! Ho, ho, ho! What a fine jest and compliment, all in one! Such praise, for my simple – and simply irresistible – recipe of honey and cream! I do hope you’ll let me advertise your claim on the packaging!”

“I certainly shall not!” Prince Hadria huffed.

Then, with relief, Hadria saw the reassuring, leather-clad figure of his tough bodyguard, approaching Duke Creamer from behind. And, while simply arresting a Duke on the evidence of one Squire would be politically costly – well, fuck it, the Empire was an Empire, and Prince Hadria could do exactly that. And there was no way that Duke Creamer had made all the biggest eaters in High Society slump into sugar comas without the use of some sinister Gluttony Elixir... And the Silver Cow Creamer clearly was stolen from Fentiman Jowelle...

Hadria decided to stop overthinking.

“Sienna! Seize him!” Commanded Prince Hadria.

At once, Duke Ampleforth Creamer’s eyes widened in shock as he felt the vice-like grip of Hadria’s royal bodyguard close on his left arm.

But, at that point, Duke Creamer ceased his pretence of urbane good humour, and tried something far more reckless. He still carried the Silver Cow Creamer in his free hand, and he whipped it around with an athletic flick!

“What’s this, Your Highness?” Demanded the Duke. Then, addressing the muscular bodyguard: “Is this your lady friend, Prince Hadria? Then perhaps she’d like a SPLASH OF CREAM!”

Too late!

Sienna saw the Cow Creamer too late. By the time she adjusted her grip on the Duke’s arm, the jug was already flying towards her face. And, by the time she thought to close her mouth, it was far too late! She’d tasted the honeyed cream, and she was lost!

Sienna tasted sweet, mellifluous cream, and swallowed.


For years, Sienna had disciplined her body for her role as Royal bodyguard with hard exercise – and by strict avoidance of refined sugars. Which, alas, meant she had less tolerance to the delights of honey and cream than the lowliest servant girl! And her very first swallow of the gunge, splashed over her face from the Duke’s silver jug, made her sugar-starved body crumple at the knees with the force of a colossal orgasm!




Sienna gulped happily, scooping up honeyed cream from all over her front and swallowing down its ambrosial goodness!

So URRRP! – Good!

The Royal bodyguard felt crushed by her leathers. The fucking bodysuit was too tight! And not just around the bust, where she’d always been over-ample by the standards of a woman with combat training. But also, and especially, around her middle. She cursed the too-small outfit as she gulped cream and swelled!

Hadria watched aghast as Duke Creamer wrenched himself free of the Prince’s trusted guard captain. He almost sprang forwards to give chase, as the Duke fled with the dangerous silver cream jug in his pumping arms. And Hadria would have run him down... Until he realised what the contents of the Silver Cow jug, splattered all over Sienna’s face, was doing to his loyal guardian. It was fattening her! And dangerously fast! There must be two hundred pounds of her, and more by the second! And Hadria had to stay and help: without someone to tear her swelling, molten physique free from her leather bodysuit, there was every risk Sienna might suffocate!


Sienna’s breasts, of course, were they first thing to burst a seam. She’d always been ample: never more than a few biscuits away from bursting a bra buckle, or the tightly-stitched seams of the leathers that encapsulated her bulging boobs.


Sienna moaned. Hadria searched around for a water jug, to perhaps wash off the gluttony-inducing cream the bodyguard was scooping from her cleavage and guzzling. Alas, there was nothing to hand at Duke Creamer’s gala dinner, except yet more jugs of cream! And the Cream Fountain itself, but that was no good. Sweet Lemonade! Hadria espied the sugary, but non-dairy drink in glass decanters. Perhaps that would do it! It was across the hall, and by the time he returned with a jug and dumped its contents over Sienna, the captainess was not the same woman he recognised – or, more accurately, she was twice the fearsome woman he knew!

Three-hundred pounds of fattened up bodyguard!

Sienna’s thighs and ass bore the brunt!

Hadria gasped.

Sienna, with her face and hair soaked in sweet lemonade, with which her Prince had washed her clean of Duke Creamer’s honeyed cream, looked down in shock at where her thighs – her fat thighs – has burst leather seams from calves to crotch!

“Oh no!”

Sienna whimpered.

“My thighs!”

The bodyguard reached down.

“My ass!”

“There, there, calm down, Sienna. Take deep breaths!”

Sienna panted.

“It’s not that much, Sienna.” Prince Hadria said in an unconvinced tone. “Um... Think of it this way: you’ll be much better at blending in among curvy Baronesses and other noble ladies than you used to be!”

Sienna, squeezing her fattened legs hard in search of her flab-encased muscles, slumped onto a couch and began to sob. There was, however, one tiny bright side: Prince Hadria, maybe just in an attempt to calm her, stroked Sienna’s shoulder affectionately as she blubbed.






Duke Creamer gasped for air as he sprinted the marble length of his Gallery’s east wing. Only one long hallway remained between him and his waiting carriage at the back of the Gallery. He risked a glance behind. There was no sign of the bodyguard. That was a relief!

Duke Creamer considered himself up to any other challenge, except a fight with that viciously-strong royal bodyguard. Luckily, he’d caught her full in the face and frontage with a perfectly-aimed splash of honeyed cream from the Silver Cow Creamer! And that seemed to have kept her from pursuit. He had a solution to any other problem: for Fentiman Jowelle, if the fat Squire had escaped, he had lawyers and assassins; and, for any (laughable-sounding) accusations the younger Prince might bring against Ampleforth Creamer, the Duke had many allies in the Senate.

What Duke Creamer didn’t have, however, was a good sense of balance.


The shout echoed down the empty East Wing. It was loud. Unreasonably loud. It was especially, unreasonably loud considering it was a young woman’s voice. She must have a fucking big pair of... Lungs. Ah – Staceline Demoore.

Creamer looked ahead.

Somehow, the figure of Duchess Staceline Demoore stood blocking the exit. She was dressed in a scandalous sapphire minidress – and she was as hugely busty as ever. And stuffed... She probably wouldn’t be much of a problem...

“Oh no!”

Duke Creamer tripped. No! He was tripped up! By the leg of a fat man, in crumpled white trousers – whipped out from a doorway at the very moment the Duchess had distracted him with her titanic shout. Fentiman Jowelle!

“Dammit!” Creamer exclaimed, as he went flying through the air. The Silver Cow Creamer..

“OH, NO!”

Creamer saw it, but he couldn’t do anything about it!

The Silver Cow Creamer had tumbled from his hands as he tripped. And then it tumbled through the air, just ahead of the Duke’s headlong flight. And then...

And then, the Silver Cow Creamer tumbled upside down – and a great sea of honeyed cream plunged out, onto the marble floor. The very marble floor onto which Ampleforth Creamer was about to fall, face-first.


“Mmm! Yum, yum!” Creamer heard himself moan, as he began to lick the delicious fluid from the polished marble floor on which he had – most delightfully – found himself!

“Cream! Yummy, yummy! I fucking love cream!” Duke Creamer exulted, as he licked his lips, oblivious to the fact he was getting an absolutely enormous taste of a great flood of his own gluttony-inducing medicine!



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