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A week ago, the amazing @SilverPathfinder contacted me with an idea for a collab! Together we've come up with an anthology set in a fantastical world, where several prideful beauties find that all glory is fleeting and probably fattening too. The first is the story of Queen Saraj, former barbarian and current queen who's trading a life of toil and danger for one of ease and pampering. SilverPathfinder will post the art before and after soon.

I wonder what will happen to her...




            A Queenly Figure…


Queen Saraj' tale of decadence, denial and decline began where her old life of athleticism, danger and privation ended, with the death of the great dragon Mesulthep.


Awoken from ancient slumber by an unlucky treasure hunter, the ancient wyrm burst from its lair in the White Mountains and visited destruction upon the outlying duchies of Weit-Ganberg. King Valten the III was no idle ruler to let such a threat go unmatched, the gallant war leader gathered not only his personal regiment of valiant knights but his brave son and heir, Prince Hal. At great expense to the treasury the King had the guild of Enchanters forge a hundred suits of fire proof armor, each set of plate the most heat resistant harness that could be made.


Unfortunately for King Valten the III, Prince Hal and all their valiant knights, they should have instead paid more for valuable intelligence than enchanted armor, for the great wyrm Mesulthep was a frost dragon.


As a result, King, heir and the best knights of the kingdom were all slain in a single unusually cold summer afternoon. Valten was succeeded by his second son Valten the IVth, a shy and scholarly young man without a martial bone in his body. At the advice of his mother, the dominating and manipulative Dowager-Queen Gloria, the gangly and timid nineteen year old rather wisely decided to make the dragon someone else's problem, putting a vast bounty upon the dragon's head. As the treasury was scrapped bare thanks to the useless enchanters, who'd skipped town with the money, the new King offered a royal marriage to whoever slew the beast. Most dragon slayers assumed rightly he meant his spendthrift sister Princess Beatrice but there was one who had her eyes set on a higher prize.




"Why can't frost dragons ever nest somewhere warm and temperate?" the adventurer known as Saraj the Crimson asked herself, "perhaps a nice beach resort with those drinks in coconuts with the little umbrellas?"


If anyone was about, they'd have said the answer was obvious. But almost anyone about would have been too stunned by the sight of a bronze skinned Brilthani Amazon at the peak of their martial beauty and wearing not but a fur cape and boots atop a tissue's worth of leather and scale mail lingerie. Tall as a knight and yet shapely as a debutant, the veteran fighter's body was a tale of hard earned survival. Long legs had the hard tone of either a top dancer or a long distance runner, matched with a bubble butt inflated by the War Goddess alone knew how many lunges. The hips under her scale mail skirt were girlish and tapered to an absolutely ludicrous waist, the muscles bulging outwards into a terrifyingly ripped six pack flanked with obliques hard as a castle wall. Above the plain of hard muscle loomed surprisingly sizeable breasts who's incongruous size and over perkiness suggested a visit to a biomancer at some point. For anyone who got their eyes higher still, past the arms worthy of a blacksmith and shoulders worthy an executioner was a fiercely sharpe face who's nose had only been broken a couple times, green eyes blazing with determination. A waist length mane of wild crimson hair hung behind her, a far cry from the usually brunette women of Weit-Ganberg who wore their hair pinned up.


"And if they have to pick a cave in the mountains, why on top of an ice cliff?" the steppe borne adventuress sighed.


Of course, no one was around to look at Saraj for she was three thousand feet up an ice cliff, hanging on with finger tips and toes.


"They can fly anywhere, why do they care if there's a nice trail or not up to their layer? Arrogant lizards probably would enjoy it, food delivered right to their door," Saraj sighed, continuing upwards hand over hand.


Saraj had fought everywhere on the continent, from the blazing northern savannah to the frigid southern tundra in the course of a twelve year career that had taken her from bounty hunteress to bouncer to dancer to assassin.


"And I swear if the reward wasn't so big, I'd let the damn thing freeze up here," Saraj muttered, getting to the cliff edge and pulling herself up one handed, doing a hand stand thanks to her prodigious core strength, "but fuck am I bored with killing goblins for shillings for rich fuck mine owners and rescuing damsels for lazy nobles when I can be the laziest, richest fucking rich woman of all."


She'd kept up her monologue the entire climb up the gigantic cliff face, breath not rising at all. After so long fighting, the adventuress was as hard as hard got. But now Saraj stopped, for she was standing at a small ledge just at the edge of a massive ice cavern. Within she could hear the rumblings of a vast, slumbering predator, clearly the dragon sleeping off a market town.


"Got you, you slumbering fuck," the red head whispered to herself.


She pulled a bag of holding out of her belt, rummaging around for her favorite spear Gore-Monger, a short hafted stabber with a brutally sharp head equally good as cutting as thrusting. Not stopping, she pulled out a wine skin and guzzled down a bottle's worth of wine. Licking the red liquid off her lips and feeling warmer, Saraj creapt into the dragon's lair.


Most of the monster hunters hired by the new king had tried killing the competition. The survivors had staked out claims in various villages to try and shoot the beast down with artillery. Only the barbarian Saraj had had the strength and skill to climb to the dragon's isolated cave. She was helped no doubt because the Brilthani battle wine she chugged from the enchanted wine skin protected her from freezing temperatures and sword blades alike while displaying herself in her skimpy armor. Belching a little, the only slightly tipsy barbarian leapt silent as a hunting cat through the cave, soon finding vast piles of treasure heaped around.


The gold lead up to a vast, slumbering blue white form, Mesulthep the Terrible. The drake was big as a small town and stuffed with recent carnage, bloated off of kidnapped noble women and devoured cattle herds. To Saraj he looked like a fat, lazy cat sleeping in the sun.


One worth a kingdom.


Saraj smiled, did a ten foot standing long jump to land on one toe, cart wheeled over a pile of swords, jumped off of a stack of tapestries and found herself clinging to a great icicle hanging from the ceiling, long as a trireme. Ignoring how she went to goose pimples from toe to crown, the barbarian crawled upwards and jammed her spear into the cavern mouth. Hanging on one handed, she pulled a cherry potion from her bottomless bag of holding and chugged it down.


"Damn wizards, they better not have stiffed me like they did to the King or I'lll...ohh.ohhhh!" Saraj grunted, face going beat crimson as her bloody mane as she belched a great gout of flame from the fire breath potion.


At the sudden heat the massive stalactite dropped, breaking free from the melted ceiling and falling down. Mesulthep's awful blue eyes opened blearily as the stalactite slammed down...nearly thirty feet from his head.


"Gods damn it!" Saraj sighed, "I'll do it myself then!"


Kicking off the ceiling, the far deadlier barbarian fell spear tip first onto the dragon's skull. Looking around blearily, the dragon never saw the deadly missile plumet and put enchanted steel through his brain. His body gave a great shiver and his head fell to the sea of coins with a great *clang* of scale on gold, dislodging Saraj who bounced through the sea of lucre. She got up with a bodice full of coins, bra ripping apart at the heavy weight.


"When I got these upsized I knew my fees would go up, I didn't expect they'd get me coin literally," she muttered, beginning the long task of shoving the dragon horde and the dragon's head into her bag, "He better have a bra my size in this hoard, I can't be at court with my titties out...although that might help the plan..."


So it was that a day of loading coin and a dragon's head into the bag of holding and then a week of travel passed, with Saraj entering the Royal Court of King Valten the IVth.


The great court hall was as big as the dragon's lair, with nearly as much wealth on display. Fifty foot tall windows and a gigantic crystal dome let the sun shine down onto marble pillars and golden statues. Knights in recovered and cleaned armor defended against any fire dragon encursions until a buyer could be found, while a forest of nobles in exotic silks, furs and lace gathered about the red carpet leading to the throne.


A herald lead the dragon slayer up that carpet, through the forest of courtiers and towards the King. Whispers followed immediately, for Saraj stood out among the coastal folk. Although most of the men were taller than her, she had several inches on the women as well as much tanner skin and fiery copper red hair rather than the dark brown of the nobility. Of course, the dragon slayer wanted to stand out.


The Adventuress put as much effort in catching a king as she did in killing a dragon. She'd spent some of her new immense wealth on visiting the best salons and biomancer in the city. Normally tangled red hair was now a luxuriously soft, perfumed mane, her teeth were straighter and whiter, her lips plumped and the crookedness of her oft broken nose fixed, while some sun damage from a life outdoors had been smoothed out. A half cape of slain dragon hide covered part of her back and knee high boots made from frost dragon leather and with an impractical four inch heel, showed off her legs and gold arm bands hugged her biceps, while savage feathered and fanged tokens were hung from her ears and hair. Discipline as well as money had gone into her appearance, usually after a big payday Saraj let loose a bit and oft acquired some wine bloat, but she'd had not but water and lean meat for a whole week while running every day, cutting her low body fat even lower until her muscles gleamed. That morn she'd reversed that a bit by having a biomancer top off her breasts to the next size up, an intentionally under sized mithril bra letting them bulge while Saraj' broad shoulders kept them high.


Judging by the oohs, aaahs and occasional drools by the civilized folk glancing at her muscular curves, the money and effort had been worth it. Never mind that Saraj was a bit dehydrated and light headed, or that her heels made her gait unsteady or that her boobs were so big they made even she top heavy. She looked every inch the fierce steppe warrior, far removed and drawing every male and lesbian eye in the room.


Saraj walked with practiced disinterest, taking in her competition.


Weit-Ganberg was famous for its beautiful women, with local legend saying that the daughters of the Goddess of Love and Beauty had founded it, and the tall barbarian saw no shortage of fair maidens. Given that there was a new, unmarried young King on the throne every noble woman with a  Lady before her name and a Van, Von, de or Di in the middle of it was here trying to catch a royal eye. Brocaded skirts were slit to the hip to show glimpses of slender legs in high heels, while the gowns were pulled in tight at the waist to show hour glass curves. Faces were snow white pale and tastefully painted, lips berry red and eyes ringed with mascara to pop, while the mostly curly brown hair was tied back in severe buns, small, pointless hats pinned to them with pearl tipped pins. Whole lordships were clearly being mortgaged to pay for the many plump busts bulging against low cut tops and straining straps, by inward curved shoulders some of the smaller girls were having difficulty managing suddenly head sized boobs.


There wasn't an ugly girl in sight, each of them would have been a once in a generation beauty in a smaller city with messy hair and in rags, now they were dressed to their best. No noble daughter of Weit-Ganberg would ever be caught at less than their best in public, the shame alone might kill them. To that end, as Saraj noticed, there were few girls over twenty and none who were even approaching plump. Noble women in Weit-Ganberg were on severe diets until their majority, for producing daughter more than svelte was an uncurable scandal. Biomancers were excellent at making flat chests sprout and turning pimply complexions peachy smooth, but only diet could make fat bellies shrink and thick thighs stop chaffing.


And given how the great city was a center of exotic luxury trade, shipping in new tasty sensations every day, combined with no noble woman wanting to admit her beauty took effort to maintain....well. Saraj wasn't surprised to see that all of the oh so slender debutantes held small plates of  tasty entrees who were getting out of hand now that they were no longer under their mother's thumbs. Most years the young beauties tried to get married by twenty one, as early in the tourney season as they could, so they could get pregnant with some gallant knight's sprog and go into seclusion where their weight wouldn't be an issue. After a decade or so of pregnancies and some crash dieting, most tended to re-enter public in their early thirties, for a young matron was expected to have fertile curves, aided acceptably by corsets. A few had a head start, the handful of girls over twenty were standing a bit stiffly and having a bit thinner waists than their hips and busts would suggest. It only showed compared to their younger cohorts, but given how so many were popping bon bons to mouth due to jealousy at Saraj' cut figure the others would soon catch up.


"Announcing the Dragon Slayer, Seraj Redmane!" the perfumed, plumed herald yelled, "Slayer of the Great Ice Wyrm Mesulthep!"


Seraj ignored the clapping, looking at the royal family on their thrones.


The new King Valten wasn't built quite for her taste. He'd led a life reading and studying laws and histories and philosophies, which had given him soft hands and thin body. Clearly his famously muscular brother had been the family athlete. But only one of them was alive and given the current King's face was fairly square jawed, Saraj could live with him being a bit delicate at the moment. Especially as she'd chugged a fertility potion before entering the throne room and planned to give him the work out of his life when it kicked in.


"Approach the throne, heroine of the hour," the young monarch said, eyes practically undressing the stunning barbarian and licking suddenly dry lips, "I, um that is we..."


"We regret to inform you that the offered prize of the hand of Princess Beatrice is off the table," a much firmer maternal voice said loudly from the throne next to him.


Dowager Queen Gloria seemed far sharper than her son and her throne sat a little higher than his. A still beautiful woman in her early forties, she was quite slender in her tight green dress, any fat save her bust burned off by pure intensity. Her black hair was pulled back and her grey eyed gaze seemed quite predatory, matching her raptorial limbs.


Her daughter Princess Beatrice sat a smaller throne, a debutante on the elder edge of the pretty women in the crowd. Her face was the glorious heart of most Weit-Ganberg maidens, although her hair was blonde and her figure strained the bonds of acceptable. Her dress slit went only to the knees, a stiff posture told of a corset hiding a tummy inside her cloth of gold gown, while arms actually had a little softness to them. Where it came from was no mystery, for the girl's soft fingers, many rings biting into them, were popping chocolates into her mouth. Saraj suppressed a giggle at the decadent sight, in her own tribe it was rare to see a woman under forty without abs.


"But the throne shall offer a greatly valuable title for slaying the dragon, as well as the princess' weight in silver...," the Queen began before the dragon slayer cut her off.


"Oh there is no need to stress the treasury, for I seek the original bounty. As the bounty papers said, a royal marriage," Saraj smiled, looking the King directly in the eye and standing erect, inhaling to make the mithral bra sigh, "what do you say your grace? I am but a barbarian girl true, but I bring with me a heavy bride price..."


Saraj opened her bag of holding, letting a flood of heavy, ancient gold coins pour to the carpet, stopping when they reached mid calf.


"The King's ambassadors already negotiate-," the Queen mother began to say, only for the King to now interrupt her!


"Of course you are accepted! With great glee!" the young man said hurriedly, trying not to squeak, youthful lust overriding fear of his mother.


"Then my love, let us be wed this very eve, for my barbarian passions run hot after a battle and can only be cooled by a royal heir between my hips," the Dragon slayer added, hamming herself up quite unnecessarily.


Saraj dismissed the Queen Mother, thinking the older woman defeated. But she should have noticed the hateful green stare of Queen Gloria boring into her abs. It was a fatal mistake...


For Saraj' figure.




Dowager Queen Gloria was out not just for revenge, but for the continuation of her power. 


Weit-Ganberg’s old laws about the handover for power were finicky things, with old bylaws and customs baked into them from long centuries earlier. For instance, a King’s mother maintained the title of Queen not just until her son married and not just until the King’s bride gave birth, but until the woman lost her baby weight and was predictably gorgeous again. Gloria was keen to hold onto that title and was not about to lose it to an over muscled slut fresh from killing monsters.


Plans of poisons and assassinations were going through Gloria’s pretty head as the ethereally slender Queen sat through the measurements of Saraj’ gown. The barbarians buff curves were phenomenal and it was unheard of for a twenty eight year old to be so fit. Gloria herself had been a shapeless, post-pregnancy blob at that age, three hundred pounds of lumpy cellulite and stretchmarks who hadn’t even begun slimming down until two years and another pregnancy later.


“A lady of Weit-Ganberg does not flaunt herself so brazenly, especially a Queen. It is quite unbecoming of someone who must be known for being demure,” Queen Gloria said to her new daughter in law as the tapes and measures were put away, “and I would suggest perhaps a hair covering as well after we put it into its proper bun....”


“Ha, well a proper lady wouldn’t have killed a dragon, would she?” Saraj laughed dismissively, “I’ll flaunt my muscle and my hair as I should, I’m proud of them and will let them be displayed. Anyone young woman with curves like mine would.”


It was the first time in years any had gainsaid Queen Gloria, much less insulted her as the not so subtle jab at her age and diet potion flattened chest did. Saraj’ words made her thin face redden in anger and her daughter and all of her friends in the bridal party laugh to see the matriarch pu down. But on the inside she smiled, for she’d been proven correct, told to caution herself and this barbarian would only do the opposite.


 Servants, unasked for by the girl’s but scheduled by the Queen, brought a layer of treats into the fitting room: delicate little cupcakes and tiny pies, cookies and biscuits and clotted cream and tea. While the Queen merely had a cup of sugarless green tea, the younger beauties began to feast, that Weit-Ganberg tendency to gorge going from the lowest Count’s daughter to the near plump Princess Beatrice to the future Queen, for Saraj was starving. Gloria let them gorge a bit undisturbed, then said her planned peace.


“Perhaps it is not wise to eat such sweet and fattening fair while being fitted for such tight dresses,” Gloria said to the bridesmaids with false sweetness, “some of your measurements are already looking rather large at the midsection. And my future in law, perhaps you should watch your diet. If the Gods bless us you will carry my grandchild soon and pregnant women are known to pile on the pounds…”’


The future Queen snorted, mouth full of cake, “While I’m sure to be carrying a Prince in my womb come morning, some sweets will not hurt me.”


Queen Gloria put her tea cup to her face to hide a scowl, one that was secretly a smile. She would barely even need to craft a trap to snare this barbarian harlot into fatness. But just having her plump up wasn’t nearly enough for the older monarch. Saraj would soon spend the rest of her days living as an obese shut in, too humiliatingly fat to leave her chambers and it would start today.


Every famed Weit-Ganberg beauty lived in anticipation and fear of their wedding day, anticipation they could at last relax from the punishing beauty standards and fear of becoming so fat they had to lock themselves away. Staring at the shapely bubble butt of her new daughter in law as the white silk was laced up her tan curves, Queen Gloria knew the same would strike Saraj, just by the way she drooled at the pictures of possible cakes. It was almost too easy.


Excusing herself, the Queen Mother made several orders to the palace staff she still controlled. She was laying a trap as dangerous as the one Saraj had laid for the dragon, if one that would take longer to snap shut. Any sympathy she’d felt for the barbarian woman faltered during the ceremony when the muscular redhead strutted down the aisle in a gown that showed her abs gleaming in all their glory, making Gloria seethe in remembrance of the flat belly she’d had before child bearing had given her stretchmarks. 


And any chance that the trap would fail was put paid at the wedding feast.


After more than a week of cutting, eating not but water and vegetables, Saraj was absolutely starving...even before the appetite stimulant Queen Gloria had laced her drink with at the fitting kicked in! The barbarian beauty stuffed herself silly with butter fried bread, glazed nuts and stuffed mushrooms before the meal, then stuffed herself even more on steak and baked potatoes (both drowned in butter) during the main course. Thanks to the libido potion she’d chugged down (and perhaps the four bottles of wine and small keg of cider that followed at the feast), the barbarian was getting hornier by the bite, her face going red and breathing becoming labored. By the time the main course got there she was eating one handed, her other hand under the table and wrapped around her surprised new husband’s shaft.


Gloria ignored her son being given a hand job under the table, which would lead nowhere as she’d had her personal alchemist dose every ounce of alcohol with powerful birth control elixirs.Fertile as she might seem, Saraj wouldn’t quicken tonight. No, Queen Gloria was focusing on how much and what Saraj was putting away for future study. When the six foot cake was wheeled out, Saraj’ eyes bulged in pure lust. The bride cut the cake with a greatsword long as a man and nearly bit off a royal finger when her husband fed her a heavy slice, the woman gluttonously gorging down nearly a whole tier.


“She looks like she’s going to need to be rolled out of here,” Princess Beatrice chuckled, the blonde princess adjusting her own skintight dress as the bulge of her too stuffed belly bit into her ready to split corset when she got up to get her own slice.


“And you dear daughter, look ready to pop that corset my little chubette. Sit back down, you’re on a diet with no booze, no bread and no boys until I can see cheekbones on you again,” the Queen Mother told her daughter, “Ignore our barbarian inlaw, you know how those not from the city lack control…”


The next morning, the new Queen Saraj woke up in a four poster bed big as a peasant’s cottage. She was a bit bloated from her feast, a bit sore between her legs, for despite his scholar’s build her new husband came with a battering ram any knight would envy, and most of all, very, very hung over from her vast booze up the night before. Her new Mother In Law left her a present, a potent hang over cure in the form of a massive mug of coffee bearing so much cream it was practically a dairy product. Between the cream and the coffee Seraj didn’t notice the next dose of appetite stimulant. She slid into a small skirt and ab bearing top she’d ordered made out of royal purple silk, hard core muscles holding in her mild bloat and began her day.


“Perhaps such a racy garment doesn’t befit a Queen at court…,” Gloria told her daughter in law when the former woman at last left her chambers.


“Or perhaps past Queen’s didn’t befit a garment such as this? I will be different,” Saraj smiled.


Unusual exhaustion plagued the fire haired new Queen all morning as she was congratulated by the kingdom’s nobility. She regained some energy after a vast luncheon where she attacked with the same fervor she’d shown the frost dragon,although she got a little ** on wine until the Queen Mother told Saraj that drunkenness at noon was unbecoming of a monarch. This led to Saraj becoming very ** indeed, before the King and his new bride disappeared for a small ‘training session’ that sent high pitched screams ringing through the vast castle and left Saraj napping until late afternoon. 


She groggily engaged in a tour of the palace grounds that afternoon...before the former Queen Gloria managed to make her attend a high tea only by promising that it had vast amounts of food. Gloria had been the center of these teas for years, but now she was ignored by curvy matrons who’s curves required corsetry and their slender daughters as the new Queen Saraj waxed poetic about her famed conquest, both romantic and battlefield. 


While of course, eating heavily.


Dinner was almost an exact copy of luncheon, with Gloria suggesting again and again that Saraj restrain herself now that she wore a golden crown...which the younger Queen did not, leaving the table, full, ** and with the King in hand. Gloria pretended to be flustered, letting that travel among the court’s younger ladies, whose ranks didn’t include her daughter Beatrice, that chubby princess having been hauled off to the Nunnery of Holy Denial to slim down to an acceptable level.


It was a well established pattern by the end of the week: the appetite stimulants kept Saraj hungrier and lazier than she would be naturally, while the birth control made sure no royal heir would yet grow in her belly. There were a few half hearted training sessions that Gloria allowed Saraj to indulge in by having the sedative levels lowered, lest things appear too suspicious but the warrior woman’s heart was out of her life of arms on its own. Sleeping late, being waited on hand and foot, with ever new delicacies at hand to try and her only exercise laying with her husband, Saraj began to soften.


Those proudly flaunted abdominals were the first to go. 


In her warrior days, Saraj had done hundreds of sit ups and planks and crunches every day to keep her core tight. It was the first thing she abandoned as a Queen and the impact was soon seen as the muscles began to lose mass and fat began to collect around them. Fat started to build over her navel, rising up as a vengeful sea to drown the proud islands above. By the end of a month all trace of muscle was gone and little fat rolls were showing on Saraj back as love handles started in.


Hard won definition of her legs and arms faded away, her arm bands starting to bite into fat instead of clinging on to muscle. That massively enhanced bust didn’t hold up quite so easily, settling a bit as her shoulder muscles weakened. There was some shrinking though, without any squats or running, Saraj’ bubble butt began deflating faster than fat could grow on it. But her precious waist was the real star of the show, soon growing soft and pinchable.


Two months into her marriage and the Queen’s starter gut was jiggling as her husband pounded her, the barbarian bride clinging on with softer thighs and putting in less effort. The sudden weight gain was a talking point at court, for their was nothing more cherished than a beauty gone to seed as gossip. That Saraj kept appearing less than her best scandalized the court, turning any sympathetic hearts away from her, although rumors that the red head was showing a pregnancy from before her marriage didn’t help. After all, didn’t she’d only been married for two months and yet now Saraj was clearly bloated each morn!


Saraj herself was oblivious, alternating as she was between hung over, ** and horny. Every day servants loyal to the old Queen replaced her skimpy garments with slightly looser ones, ensuring that pinching or ripping fabric didn’t reveal Saraj was going to seed to herself. No one in court brought up her chubbefying to her face, it was quite gauche to do so, so nothing stopped Saraj from snacking heavily between meals as her bad habits built up. Any sign of her husband’s ardor fading wasn’t apparent, for the young King Valens the IV was starting to bulk up with muscles even as his wife plumpened with fat and like all men of Weit-Ganberg, it was understood that your beautiful bride would get bigger quickly.


But after a few weeks of showing up to court with an ever large bulge, rumors that the Queen was carrying a bastard let Gloria strike.


“Ughhh, I should cut down on the drinking,” Saraj sighed as she finally stirred from sleep at the prod of her growling tummy, “and Valens is really thrusting harder, yawwwnnnn!”


The sleepy, naked red head stretched on the satin sheets, her stomach almost flattening before relaxing into a paunch. Yawning and bllinking hangover gunk from her eyes, Queen Saraj rang the little bell next to her bed, summoning servants with a massive spread of cinnamon rolls, bacon, potatoes, fried eggs, toast and cheese, as well as a vast selection of jams and honeys and sauce. She munched happily for near half an hour before sliding into an immensely hot bath, stuffed belly bulging at the top, nearly sleeping again as her maid’s brushed her hair. Only a sharp pinch behind the back of her head made her set up with a yowl.


“What the fuck are you girls doing?” Saraj snapped at them, reaching up to find that her wild main was pinned behind her head.


“Exactly what I told them to, lovely daughter in law of mine,” Dowager Queen Gloria said smoothly.


The naked barbarian turned to glare, the prim and trim older woman sat on a stool and drinking green tea. Next to her was laid out a pink dress for a tall and somewhat plump woman.


“What are you doing in my chambers, hag?” Saraj growled, as if she was still an alpha predator.


“Why I’m here to take my darling son’s bride to the royal physician,” Gloria smiled, “its been three months since you were married and tongues are a lolling about whether or not you’ve a royal bun in your oven.”


Saraj blanched at that. Three months and at least three sex acts a day hadn’t stopped her cycle, despite knowing she should be quite fertile. 


“I have no need for your help with that,” Saraj hissed, standing up (pressing up with her arms) to let water run off her soft, bloated stomach, “your son manages just fine…”


“Oh but is he? For by royal law, subject to every queen for centuries, if the bride fails to become pregnant within a year then she is exiled,” Gloria told her daughter in law calmly, “stripped of all her titles and possesions and dumped on the border. To that end, every three months she must be examined if she’s not yet knocked up. I’m sure a strapping barbarian woman like you must be tired of such a luxurious life with its servants and massages and meals but I don’t want my son’s heart broken…”


Saraj only glared harder, for she quite enjoyed being pampered, “Fine, I’ll go to the physician but why does this involve you?”


Gloria laughed once more, “Why me? Because as Dowager Queen it is my responsibility to ensure you are pregnant, for if you go more than three months without conceiving then  you lose all privileges and rights until the year is up, becoming completely under my authority.”


The barbarian went red as her hair in anger, pulling the pins from her bound hair to let it fall free. She stepped towards the Queen mother to stab her but slipped a bit on the tile thanks to her weakened muscles, slowed responses and changing center of gravity. After a moment’s awkward stumbling she leaned against a wall, breathing hard and glaring, having dropped the pins.


“I suppose you don’t need to follow my orders...unless you aren’t pregnant after all…,” the Queen mother smiled, “now come, there’s a sedan chair waiting for you.”


“I’ll walk, unlike some I’m not a spoiled, useless noble woman,” Saraj said with an upturned nose, showing off the double chin she was growing, “Girls, get me dressed and not in that pink abomination!”


An hour later a tired, slightly sunburned Saraj completed the long, hot outdoor walk to the royal doctor’s office. And an hour after that, exhaustive test showing that she was very much not pregnant, a state that the paid off physician put down to over indulgence of food and alcohol combined with lack of exercise, she returned via sedan chair. Saraj long locks of red hair were gathered up in a tight bun behind her head, while a pink silk wimple covered the top of her head. Her gown was the same color, which didn’t flatter her sunburned face one whit and it didn’t help that the dress was much too small, hugging her softened body like a sausage casing. A little external corset was built into the dress, it didn’t help at all and its over stretched laces were pressing tight into Saraj’ soft ** belly.


“Tut tut, getting so chubby before you’ve had a child?” The Queen said to the chair mounted barbarian.


“Shut up,” Saraj fumed.


“I’d warned you to watch your figure as you entered the next stage of your life, I didn’t know you’d get so chubby as to avoid getting pregnant!” the Queen muttered tittered, “I did tell you to not eat so much…”


“I...shut...shut up!” Saraj fumed, rising with difficulty from the chair and running down the rest of the hall to her vast, pampered chambers.


“Don’t worry daughter in law, I’ll ensure you slim down before you’re dumped, fat and weak and helpless and naked on the border. No more snacks, no more big meals or booze ups, just a strict, strict diet from now on. Starting tomorrow, nothing but raw carrots and broccoli for you!” Gloria laughed through the door, going on for her next plan.


Inside her chambers, Saraj tore off the tight, humiliating pink gown in a fury. One that turned into a struggle as she wasn’t strong enough to rip off all of it in one go anymore. Viciously angry at her mother in law, the ruby haired young queen looked around her soft, palatial rooms in a frenzy and grabbed the first thing that came to hand: a snack. 


Over the last months, the servants Gloria controlled had been stock piling junk food inside the room: candies and cakes and pies, building up faster than Saraj could eat them. With several meals worth of junk before her and many bottles of booze as well, the former heroine did what was now second nature: indulge.


By the time Saraj was through the third pound of chocolate, Queen Gloria was already three steps ahead. She found her Kingly son undergoing sword drills, new muscles shining and bid him to her side.


“Pardon to interrupt my son, but I fear for your Queen,” the dowager said with false empathy, “there’s been terrible news from the royal physician. She was told at the start that she must gain a great deal of weight to conceive, which is why she’s let herself ge so big without complaint. But the treatment must continue and she’s in tears over it. I remember what it was like to be young and afraid you were losing your beauty, you must comfort her…”


King Valens the IV was a kind man, despite his growing shoulders, and deeply in love with his bride, “Of course, at once, thank you for bringing this to me, I know you’ve not gotten along…”


“For which I am ever so sorry, I feel almost like this is my fault,” the Dowager sighed, while eying up the muscular sword instructor Knight waiting for her son, “here is what you must do. Under no circumstances mention her weight to her or her fears of not conceiving, why the poor thing was terrified she’d be dumped alone at the border if she didn’t get with child soon, as if we were barbarians! No, what you must do is, well I hate to say it…”


Fear and concern on his face, Valten could barely not interrupt her, “yes? What must I do?”


“Well, when you have sex with her, you must insure she eats while you have sex. I’ve sent for funnels and tubing for the chambers you lay in, as well as a special mixture of cream and chocolate to make her more fertile. Its the only way for her to gain weight fast enough,” the lying middle aged woman smiled, “and the physician did mention that a change in attitude might help, so suggest that during sex she be tied up and spanked. If she learns to accept the changes to herself it will allow her to relax, so insist that she go every where in public with you so that she becomes used to stares and half heard jibes. She’s too embarrassed to wear her older clothes so tell her you love her wearing the civilized clothes she now has to squeeze into…”


King Valten the IV would go down in history as a smart and effective monarch, but he never did learn to question his mother.


Under the new regime, the already fattening Saraj ballooned. 


While she ate tiny meals, Gloria had paid Saraj’ servants to pretend to bring her treats. Hungry from being denied three squares a day, the former barbarian glutted herself at every other time on even more fattening junk and intoxicating beer ‘smuggled’ into her room by ‘friendly’ maids. The funnel feeding and light domination were the whipped cream and cherry on top of her gain, the kindly young King telling his wife how beautiful she was while she was blind folded and with a tube of cream in her mouth.Whenever the Dowager Queen pretended frustration at Saraj gain was one of the few points of pride that she had, making her forget the looming false deadline.


At the King’s request, the increasingly fat young Queen accompanied him frequently to court. Surrounded by the lithe young ladies, most now half her size, Saraj felt not but embarrassment, especially as her clothes were always skin tight at the belly and loose and unsupportive at the chest, giving her a frumpy appearance.

Over the coming months, what remained of the Queen’s figure disappeared.


The untamed, wild planes of her face bulged out with cherubic cheeks, threatening to join with her multiplying chins and thickening neck to make jowls. Breasts popped up a few more cup sizes, far bigger than her head and with a matronly settling across her chest. Their weight made her weaker shoulders curve inwards, as Saraj arms inflated with fat to surpass her old bicep size and become wobbling pillows. Stretch marks appeared on the thigh fat hanging over her knee and the few times she did walk, Saraj now waddled and her calves got too chunky for her dragon scale boots or high heels. Widening hips began to get stuck in chairs and brush narrower doorways, while her cellulite coated butt remained flat. The hard tan a life of outdoors had given her faded, the woman going girlishly pale, almost piggishly as she was in soft pink gowns all the time.


The sobrequiet “Royal Sow” began to pass around court, always whispered at the edge of the porky Queen’s hearing. Only the King’s insistence that he loved her and thought she was ever more beautiful kept her going, but while she found her self loving her husband Saraj found her self esteem plummeting in opposition to her weight. She wasn’t a warrior anymore, she wasn’t fast and dangerous, now she was slow and **, a tamed and domesticated pig of a woman who couldn’t even have children!


Not that anyone could have told, given how vast the overfed Saraj gut looked. Hefty love handles grew thick as a folio of plays, then a multi volume biography of a particularly dull playright as side fat hung over her hips. Every day grew Saraj gut bigger and softer, bulging out until it began first to divide into two rolls as it filled her lap. Then it began to sag, pulling downwards and outwards until it was at her knees and her belly button could fit a wine bottle.


“Come my piggish little princess, its your anniversary today, an entire year has passed since we met! Aren’t you happy?,” Queen Gloria said with a chipper smile early one morning, “although it is also your last chance to prove you are pregnant, lest you be dumped outside the kingdom…”


She’d been starting her own affair with the palace sword master and felt like a billion gold coins, if such a number had yet to be invented and inflation wasn’t concerned. 


“Ugh, please can I wait another day, I feel sick to my stomach…,” Saraj groaned, huddled inside her bed with the curtains closed.


Gloria practically floated inside, throwing back the curtain to find a blob in a tent like pink dress. Rather than dropping a few pounds, the barrage of fattening food had added another hundred to the once formidable woman. Fat as a pig and soft as suet, Saraj couldn’t even meet her in laws eye!


“Oh that’s just nerves, but don’t you worry!” Gloria smiled, tipping up the now weak willed barbarian’s head, “I’ll take care of you! Darling Beatrice is coming home, having dropped that stubborn fat like any true born daughter of Weit-Ganberg can after a little starvation diets...well I guess you aren’t a true born daughter are you? Not with that fourth chin I spy!”


Saraj blinked back tears, her fear only growing as servants brought in not one of her figure hugging dresses but her old armor!


“What...what is that…,” Saraj gulped, “I can’t, I can’t wear that anymore…”


“Oh darling, its the law! On your anniversary you must wear what you wore before the king first!” Gloria smiled, “don’t worry, I know you’re a little bit chubby now so I had it let out a few sizes...perhaps I should have done so a little more, you’ve really put on weight recently!”


Getting Saraj into the skirt armor and metal bra was the work of a dozen servants, some of them seamstresses to repair the damage it took.


“I’ve never seen an ass so wide and yet so flat!” one said


“And this gut, its coverint up everything, how are we supposed to get this inside anything?” another seamstress sighed.


“Best forget getting her arm rings on, they’re big as flour sacks!” the third grunted, throwing the gold a once fit Saraj had won to the corner, “and her fingers’ too fat for her wedding ring!”


“This bra will almost work, she’s only gotten a bit bigger in the chest and they rest on the stomach a bit, it should stop her falling out of the bra...maybe,” another seamstress sighed.


“These greaves won’t fit her cankles, they’re thick as her thighs were!” the last said.


All the seamstresses were young and slim, each barely a third Saraj size. Every time she received a snide remark about her weight or felt a pinch on her soft body or the poke of a pin as they tried fitting her, the red head went redder and redder in the face.


“Here dear, take this as a walking stick!” Gloria said to the once fighting fit Saraj, handing her her old spear.


The weapon had gone rusty and it felt awkward, heavy and rough in her soft, swollen grip. She couldn’t believe that this polearm had once been at hand every day! Given how poor her sense of where her bulbous folds and bulges ended, she felt a shiver of fear at it, even though the blade was dulled.


“Do I really need to carry this? And can’t I wear something a bit less...revealing?” Saraj begged.


“Oh don’t worry love, after today, you’ll never need to worry about a weapon again,” the Queen Mother grinned, “Now come, lets get you to the Sedan chair, I know you’re a bit wide for the hallway and the seat, but those awful servants put some hot chocolate on it to steady your nerves…”


It took the work of three royal guards to get the queen into the overloaded sedan chair and it took the King’s kind words to coax his shy, piglet of a wife out of her chambers where the assembled ladies of court (led by the returned and rail thin Princess Beatrice) laughed at her wobbling bulk.


Gloria didn’t even hide her grin as the exasperated Saraj was hauled towards the physician’s office.


“I do hope that she takes the news she’s pregnant well…,” the King mentioned quietly to his mother.


“Oh I’m sure she will, I know she wanted to be told a bit later in the process so as not to worry but those fertility potions you gave her three months ago always do the trick,” Gloria smiled, “now that she’s in such a delicate state though, she must be confined to bed. And we must increase how much she’s eating, the poor thing looks so frail.”


“Are you sure, mother? Saraj is always beautiful to me, but she’s so...big. It must weigh on her to be the fattest woman at court…,” the kind King said.


“Oh don’t worry about that, she can go into seclusion after the pregnancy is announced. Now I know you’ll want to get her pregnant several more times and she’s almost thirty, so I will handle running the palace until she slims down…,” Gloria smiled.

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It is a pleasure working with Batman76 on this project. Drawing a fattening barbarian is simply the most obvious perk ^^

As you can see, Saraj's increase in status also came with a stark increase in body fat. I think it is fair to assume that she carries at least two times her former self in extra blubber, mostly concentrated on that enormous guts of her, which she can feel bump against her knees anytime she attempts strenuous activities such as walking.


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Oh this is a great setting and characters! Plus it has a whole year in one chapter, which works really well. 

Is this going to be an anthology in the sense of unrelated characters in the same world, or will the next chapters be about Queen Gloria and her now slimmed-down daughter? It'd be intriguing to learn how the Queen managed to regain her figure after pregnancy and overindulgence turned her into a blob; perhaps she made a deal with a succubus to absorb the flab - a deal whose time-limit is about to expire. 

Or, if there will be other characters in the world entirely, hmm... How about

- An aging sultan with an eye for overfed curves, but insufficient vigour to indulge himself with his harem of exotic beauties, announces that he will marry his heir to whichever noblewoman in the city-state can gain the most weight in a year and a day...

- In a rich desert city with a culture that extols curvaceousness, a beautiful young water-seller laments that she will never afford to  grow plump enough to catch the eye of her paramour... A wealthy old merchant/adventurer overhears her, and, in order to discharge an old favour to the young man's family, invites her to live in his palace and gorge herself fatter until she is huge enough to wed.

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Been reading on DA for a while. Halfway done... it’s absolutely brilliant. I look up to both of you for writing and drawing inspiration. @Batman76 describes people so well and manages to be so witty I’ve almost woken my roommate in the next room at night reading. @SilverPathfinder draws in color! I don’t have tools for that! Plus, she doesn’t have awkward phone shadows over her work like I do. I love it all. This is what I’ve discovered so far (spoiler):


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6 hours ago, >_< 0_0 said:

Been reading on DA for a while. Halfway done... it’s absolutely brilliant. I look up to both of you for writing and drawing inspiration. @Batman76 describes people so well and manages to be so witty I’ve almost woken my roommate in the next room at night reading. @SilverPathfinder draws in color! I don’t have tools for that! Plus, she doesn’t have awkward phone shadows over her work like I do. I love it all. This is what I’ve discovered so far (spoiler):


Well we do try, hope you like the rest!

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9 hours ago, >_< 0_0 said:

Been reading on DA for a while. Halfway done... it’s absolutely brilliant. I look up to both of you for writing and drawing inspiration. @Batman76 describes people so well and manages to be so witty I’ve almost woken my roommate in the next room at night reading. @SilverPathfinder draws in color! I don’t have tools for that! Plus, she doesn’t have awkward phone shadows over her work like I do. I love it all. This is what I’ve discovered so far (spoiler):


The fun thing is that I actually always have that awkward phone shadow before I edit it out. I really need a decent scanner -_-'

These before-after drawings are a fun challenge to create. Apart from my love for character design, the weight gain itself is a sexy thought experiment. Where does all the extra fat go? How do the clothing change, stretch, or rip faced with these new curves? So many interesting mysteries to resolve.
On top of that, Batman is kind enough to accept my creative input with the writing, so I am truly lucky. I couldn't have dreamed of a better FA collaborator, and we have a lot on the menu if you peeps are hungry ;)

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Would you consider writing in a different font the Black is very hard to read if you're using darkmode

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This story was a lot of fun packed into a conveniently self-contained package. I very much like the way you play with the disempowerment and humiliation themes. Definitely my kinda smut. ^_^

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21 hours ago, skypatrol said:

Would you consider writing in a different font the Black is very hard to read if you're using darkmode

I'm not sure if it'll be a perfect solution for you but just in general I'd recommend reading the story as posted on DeviantArt. The font size and other formatting in that version is a bit more friendly.


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Awww. I kind of feel bad for her almost. She may be a gold digger but she did slay a dragon and save the kingdom. Hopefully her marriage from this point on manages to be a happy one. 

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3 hours ago, Batman76 said:

Well, her ending is certainly happier than some other characters!

True, true. They're actively and maliciously evil though.

Good part by the way. Especially the ending. 

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Fan theory: the dark elf goddess didn’t actually care about one spilled offering bowl; she was just fed up with her follower’s debauchery and also probably slightly horny

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27 minutes ago, >_< 0_0 said:

Fan theory: the dark elf goddess didn’t actually care about one spilled offering bowl; she was just fed up with her follower’s debauchery and also probably slightly horny

That the debauchery didn't include her personally was probably offensive.

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I wrote a short epilogue with Batman's blessing to accompany a new drawing I made to indulge my busty fat elf craving ^^'

Enjoy !



“Oh, worry not slave, you won’t die. There’s use for you yet! For as this city’s new Queen, I can always use a food taster…”

Boudicas' words resonated in Shamiran's broken mind for weeks on end. The pampered and spoiled High Priestess' fall was absolute, losing not only the graces of Kh’alia and her magical gifts, but also her power, status, and prestige, for the rebellious humans were now ruling over the Drachnis' former capital, while her people had vanished in the tunnels of their ancestors, leaving her bloated decadent self to suffer on the surface, her hedonism having made her the largest woman alive in these primitive ages, and far too corpulent for the narrow chasms of the underdark.

The gluttonous and defeated Drachni priestess could do nothing but protest weakly as she was dragged carelessly by half a dozen toned and shapely young humans, part of what now formed the ruling class of this new kingdom. The city was now populated exclusively by those former slaves that eluded sacrifice to the dark goddess, all kept alive for their beauty or their athleticism. This young nation was born from the depraved slave system of the Drachni, and would forever bear its influence in the lovely figures and stunning visages of its denizens... but also by reproducing some of their worst traits in their new society.

After being paraded in front of the whole rebel army, her stubby legs trembling as they struggled to carry her staggering weight, the whimpering and humiliated former priestess was thrown in the great hall of the Witch King, Boudica's new throne room apparently. Collapsing on the ground with a fleshy thud as her tits and belly slapped against the stone floor, she found herself exhausted beyond comparison, even more so than after her wildest orgy, Shamiran lost consciousness almost of the spot, and when she woke up, a new life had been settled for her.

Boudica's kingdom had nothing to envy to the vanity of the dark elves, and some of their cruelty also managed to stain the newly freed humans, only finding a more benign form. Shamiran found herself the first victim of this sadistic inclination on the part of Weit-Ganberg's nobility. As much as the obese priestess feared death, the fate prepared for her by Queen Boudica could be considered worse by many.

She woke up in the great hall again, but instead of cold stone, she found rough wood under her sensitive violet skin. Thick and sturdy wooden bars were surrounding her, forming the structure of a literal cage that had been built around her unconscious body. However, the cage resembled more the ones used to hold cattle than any slave pen the Drachni ever saw. The bars were separated by rather wide gaps, almost two feet between each of them. Staggering back on her feet, she attempted to leave her new prison, only to found herself trapped by her absurd curves, her barrel sized tits alone far too expansive to squeeze out of the trap. The lumbering captive heard a snicker coming from behind her, and with a taunting smile, she saw Boudica herself stand by the side of the cage, only to slip effortlessly between the bars with her thin and toned figure not even brushing the wood thanks to her flat belly and nimble body. The Queen had brought food, and without a word, she dropped it on the ground before leaving the obese elf behind, knowing all too well that the starving Shamiran would almost instantly drop on hands and knees to feed and sate her blubber laden stomach. After centuries of overfeeding, she had been made incredibly sensitive to hunger, to the point of it exerting a maddening drive on the priestess' mind. She was now a slave to her own appetite, and utterly helpless to sate her own urges... The potential for abuse was endless, and Boudica and her court indulged in it for decades.

However, while the new human nobility never got tired of playing with their hungry prisoner and using her as a living display of their proud rise to power, they couldn't fight the weight of time, and a whole generation grew old and died while Shamiran remained mostly unchanged, protected by elven youth, the gorgeous yet fallen priestess only growing fatter, without a single wrinkle appearing on her soft coated body. With the departure of the first rebel leaders, replaced by their more naive and indolent sons and daughters, Shamiran's place at the court slowly shifted from an obese and hated tyrant to an oddity, akin to a jester, and she even started to be seen with some sort of fondness by the nobles, as a symbol of continuity. Before long, the low cunning mind that made the pampered young Drachni rise into priesthood surged back to life, and the nearly immobile captive began scheming for her own gain once again.

At first, the clues were subtle. Embarrassed guards were seen pulling back their trousers while walking away from her cage, while she licked her plump lips with lust. Then, courtiers would find clean cushions laid for her in her pen, or a smell of perfume coming from her thick folds. At last, it became frequent to see a few exited servants or even audacious nobles gather in secret around her cage by night, working in team to experience the body of this ancient priestess of debauchery, taking turns to lift her fat laden curves and reach her buried treasures, or sharing the duty of caring for her unrivalled breasts and plump nipples. Shamiran's antics were tolerated, the ones caring for her being in fact more at risk than she was herself. With a bit of seduction and by leveraging centuries of experience in the pleasures of the flesh, she managed to return to her indolent life of old, being pampered and fed without her having to even stand... not that she could do it unassisted.

Shamiran's passage at Weit-Ganberg's court lasted a few generations, her love of food and debauchery spreading in the margin of the kingdom's fat-phobic culture, like the dark mirror of their vanity. Many think she recovered the graces of Kh'alia, and even reformed her cult in the crevices of this new society. Oddly, the details surrounding her end are not kept as part of the royal archives. Some scholars ponder if she eventually outgrew her cage and was removed from court, moved to a secret location for her final days in food induced bliss. Others think she was smuggled away by her followers, even if such a feat seams unlikely considering the sheer weight and width of the bloated Drachni. Lastly, a few whisper she freed herself on her own power, using magic to recover her pleasantly plump figure of old and squeezed herself out of her prison, returning to her people to find vengeance on a former lackey that abandoned her. No one dared ask the exiled dark elves if that was the truth...


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4 hours ago, >_< 0_0 said:

Now we have some hints of what sort of curse weight-gan-berg has. I forgot how to spell that 🤔

Don't think I know either to be honest.


Planning on getting the next part up this weekend, may be shorter then the others. I think I burned my self out a bit putting out batgirl, fat girls too fast

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1 hour ago, Batman76 said:

Don't think I know either to be honest.


Planning on getting the next part up this weekend, may be shorter then the others. I think I burned my self out a bit putting out batgirl, fat girls too fast

Same. Need to brainstorm the next Thin College chapter, but speed-wrote Catwoman 

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Guest dodrio

@Batman76 Is Saraj's story getting an update as well?

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Guest dodrio

lol @SilverPathfinder i legit thought you wrote the original story my bad. I'm loving Weasel of Malogren though, can't wait fo the next update!

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And here, at last, is the first part of story # 3, which I call, From Predator to Prey, about a rather cruel cultist who suffers a rather large change in role. @SilverPathfinder has some truly stunning art for this.


Knight-Grave Cathedral, a once holy site far from the metropolis of Weit-Gainberg, was known now only as a place of dark legend. Strange lights and awful sounds echoed from its abandoned bulk at night and the local villages avoided it at all cost. Occasionally groups of adventurers and crusaders would be hired to try and cleanse it, never to return.

    On this cold New Year’s Eve, Sabine Montrose, Knight Sister of the Black Rose Order, was the most recent hero to try the cathedral. One of the bravest, toughest, quickest blade sisters of her generation, the Knight had confidently accepted the quest, sure she’d defeat whatever cult or monster haunted the collapsing hall. But she’d made a fatal mistake, accepting an invitation from a slender young noble maid named Evelyn who’d offered her own nearby manor as a base of operations.

As Sabine made her pitiful, pathetically slow way towards her doom in the old cathedral’s basement, she really wished she’d turned that offer down.

    Each step down the long stairs made Sabine’s thighs scrape past each other, their reddened, chapped inner skin desperately in need of lotion. Legs that had led the charge up the orc infested slopes of Mount Rogal now trembling from floor touching cankle to knee overhanging thigh fat just to hold up her weight. The lean muscled waist that had greeted each dawn with a thousand crunches was now an apron of lard big around as an Orc was tall, striated with stretch marks as the visceral fat multiplied by the day. Sabine’s old silvered breast plate was held pathetically in place with bits of ribbon atop the sagging grain sacks of her bloated bosom, while her weak, almost vestigial arms were held out to the side, unable to lower themselves between laughable bingo wings and jutting chest fat. Her old steely gaze had gone weak, at home in the round, piggish face it lived within.

Old muscle was gone, reduced by day after day of slothful lounging until the heroic knight needed help to rise. Sweat poured down the Knight’s acres of pale skin, staining the carpets around her. From the half lit darkness around her, lithe shapes would dart: fair maidens and muscular men emerging to pinch her gut or slap her ass, Sabine’s dull reflexes making her fail to catch them. A few times her arms reached for her priceless rune sword Silverfang, but the blade (held on with two sword belts looped together) was buried beneath a love handle big as a horse head, the veteran knight too fat to draw it if she wanted to.

How she would ascend up these stairs again she knew not, but the thought drew tears of dread from one who'd been fearless as she neared the bottom of the stairs.

    "Lady Sabine, Lady Sabine. The Angel of Mors they called you, the beast of Anjou Hill. A thousand orcs and beasts dead by your blade, a hero in an age without them," her corruptor’s musical voice sang, clear as a bell at a funeral, "Just look what I've done to you..."

    Sabine's nemesis lay casually across a throne of black marble fit for a giant. But no giant was Lady Evelyn Blackheart, but the fairest maid Sabine had ever seen.

    Skin fair as snow and smooth as silk, without wrinkle, blemish or flaw. Slender in the way the prettiest maids could only attain for a season, stomach concave and ribs high, with no sign she’d ever needed to exercise. Her legs were heaven sent, slender and delicate without being bony or knobby, their slightly muscled tone only increasing their gorgeousness. Every feature was one a maiden would kill for: narrow hips, tiny waist, swan like neck and a gorgeous, perfectly symmetrical diamond face with plump lips. Her rich brown hair was up in a proper bun but otherwise she was clad as the naughtiest harlot,  wearing skimpy, skin tight red bustier and stockings.

    "I made you so ...fat," Evelyn smiled at the approaching blob of a knight, her black painted lips gleaming, "so weak, so round and lazy. Look at you, you pointless glutton, you whimpering coward!"

    Inhumanely graceful, Evelyn sprang forwards from her seat and smacked the couch cushion lard of Sabine's gut with a delicate hand. The once dauntless duelist whimpered, old toughness gone. But the whimper turned into a coo as Evelyn walked around her, long black painted nails tracing a wide circle. Sabine was afraid of Evelyn, yes, the last months of her transformation teaching her to fear the cultist’ temper and forget her old courage. But in those months Sabine had broken her vow of celibacy again and again and again, Evelyn becoming a figure of sexual awe in her piggish eyes.

    "But I speak so harshly, too hostly to one who's abandoned light for dark, the goddess of purity for the goddess of hedonism...say the words Sabine," Evelyn smiled, raising her slim arms high, a slender blade of corruption.

    Lights flickered on throughout the undercroft, revealing scores of near naked or naked humans. Some were slender like Evelyn, clad in skimpy silk and lace to show off flawless figures, but most were lardy lumps like Sabine, fallen so far from imperial proprietary that they'd never again show their face. These human tubs were collapsed on couches, stuffed insensate.

    "I...I...," The falling Paladin began, embers of faith demanding she stand firm.

    "Say the words, hero Sabine, say them! Swear your oath to the dark goddess of lust and serve her early avatar, me," Evelyn grinned.

    "I sw-swear, I swear fealty to the goddess of gluttony, of lust, of hedonism! To Kh’aila, the old terror of the night! I swear to you Lady Blackheart, fairest of all!" The knight sobbed, falling to steel clad knees, fat rolling and rippling, buckles breaking, "just feed me again, fuck me again, take off this heavy armor and don't make me climb stairs!"

    Evelyn laughed, her ethereally leanness somehow becoming stronger as this paragon of restraint collapsed. The lights flared brighter behind her, illuminating a vast statue, enormously fat, each of its arms holding daggers or casting spells.

    "Oh Sabine, where you're going, there are no stairs," Evelyn smiled, the slender brunette leaning down to the kneeling blob of a knight.

    For Sabine Montrose, this was where her story of corruption ended. 

    But for Evelyn Blackheart, this was where her downfall began.


    Evelyn looked down her long, up slanted nose at her latest conquest. Sabine’s fall from strong, proud Knight to blubbering blob of blubber was a fine victory in her war to soften, weaken and addict the strongest, purest of the nobility. But it was only one in over a century-long campaign. 

    For a hundred years, the Blackheart had haunted Weit-Gainberg’s best and brightest, corrupting them into worship of her cruel goddess and usually into complete obesity. She’d been the friend who suggested just one more portion to a beauty on a diet, the kind voice that said a champion dancer could relax a season, the scared village girl who told a brave knightess that a monster lurked in a trapped tower. And been rewarded for it, for Evelyn hadn’t aged at all in that time and had great powers of enchantment and illusion,

    The Brunette cultist’s dainty hand grabbed hold of the Knight’s sword, drawing it with a flash and shattering it against the ground. As the holy blade splintered another rush of power flared, Evelyn’s rich brown hair flashing in a sudden wind. The cultist moaned, lithe muscles trembling, mouth going dry and nipples hardening at the rush of victory. 

    “Yes, yes, this is it, this is what I live for,” Evelyn rasped, “the long hunt, drawn at last to an end at the new year! A proud and noble soul tossed down into the mud of sloth and gluttony, another monument to my eternal glory!”

    “YOUR GLORY, LITTLE WORSHIPER?” a voice behind the brunette cultist laughed.

    Deep as the pit and sharp as a sword, this was a voice as harsh as rough hewn granite and as sweet as fresh honey. Every heart in the room, be it athletically powerful or choked by fat, skipped a beat and turned from the lithesome sight of Evelyn towards the massive statue in the center of the cathedral’s undercroft. There that awful, misshapen monument had come to malevolent life, gaining with it a physical perfection no human hand could ever craft.

    “Kh’aila, oh great goddess,” Evelyn gasped, the high priestess made pathetic in comparison to her deity, kneeling down as quickly as she could.

    The vision of diabolic divinity was twelve feet of powerful, sensual curves carved from mirror polished obsidian. She was a combination of the ancient Dark Elf goddess’ many different aspects: a warrior’s athletic legs led up to hedonistic glutton’s broad, child bearing hips and plump, bulging tummy, a single diamond stud gleaming in the inky black. Heavy, wobbling breasts jiggled beneath tri-part shoulders, splitting into three arms: a lean pair bearing whips, a muscled pair bearing curved knives and a plump pair who’s fingers were making truly erotic gestures non-stop.


    Evelyn’s perfect face was red as a beet in shame and fear. Slim and delicate was this long legged cultist, her skills at manipulation and seduction, not fighting! Especially not against the fury of her own dark goddess!

    “Goddess, I only meant, -eek!” the svelte brunette squealed as the obsidian statue seized her by the bra, holding her high in the air by the silken lace.


    “No, no, it was all for you! All of it!” the terrified cultist screamed, struggling in vain as the living statue pulled her closer.


    Evelyn didn’t have a chance to scream as the statue plunged a hand into her stomach. The obsidian hand went translucent, pulling out holding a ghostly, twisting gem that smoked and popped in the diety’s hand: Evelyn’s enchanted metabolism. The priestess was dropped with a thud, looking up at her towering goddess who still held her bra.


    With a click of stone, the statue closed its hand and went inanimate, leaving Evelyn staring up in horror....and knowing what she had to do…

Seduce and corrupt a prince, and do it quickly.

For the slender brunette was already getting hungry...


Imperial High Society was already in the middle of its festival season when Lady Evelyn made her latest debut.

Long years of endless youth had taught the still svelte brunette how to easily enter and manipulate the eddies of Weit-Ganberg’s nobility to her own ends. Five times before this, she entered high society, snatched a promising rich idiot and married him before killing him, returning when his money ran out as her own daughter twenty years later. Each time her strategy was the same, to be a breath of fresh air in a room grown stale.

Each year’s crop of debutantes entered the retinue of balls and banquets in Autumn, with heaving breasts fresh from alchemist shops and with waists made tiny by years of dieting and hard exercise, their perfect leanness showing the beauty for which Weit-Gainberg was famed. But for these girls their beauty was a hothouse flower, once freed from a lifetime of dietary restraint amid sumptuous decadence of the Empire’s endless buffet tables their svelte figures began to pad out. By the big New Year’s parties, starter bellies were being squeezed into corsets and every girl who hadn’t yet snagged a rich prize was looking towards the looming summer break with dread as they considered how much weight they’d have to burn off to compete with next year’s crop of freshmen. 

Thoughts on the cyclical ruining of the Empire’s fairest beauties circled about the mind of one young man at a massive gala. Prince Archibald was third in line to the throne of his Father, King Valten. He had the muscle his mother Queen Saraj had once possessed, and never regained, as well as a reputation for bravery on the battlefield and a keen wit. The latter drew a flock of beauties to him and made the young man quite bored of them.

“So as the world grows more interconnected and trade becomes more valuable than wealth, it’s increasingly likely that the merchant class will take power from the landed nobility,” Archibald explained to his most ardent suitor, Baroness d’Angel, “especially as money lending and compound interest begin to matter more than feudal obligations.”

“Ummm….yes, of course,” the blonde girl said, green eyes glancing over at the buffet table.

Archibald sighed, months earlier the Baroness had been something special: muscled like a knight, with alchemically inflated E cups surging at the bustline of her green gown. But months without any exercise, for no noblewoman during the festival season would risk her complexion to unnecessary sweat, had turned her muscle to mush, her slightly puffy arms were pinched  by her long gloves. Her stiff posture and the occasional groan suggesting that beneath her green gown, corsetry was struggling to keep her figure hourglass. No doubt the six plates of deserts he’d fed her contributed to that, Prince Archibald enjoyed a woman who could eat, especially one who’d started off so lean and was so embarrassed about it. The slow destruction of her proud beauty was rather arousing, to the point that the Prince was glad of his erection hiding codpiece, but the dullness of her conversation was boring. Any woman could let herself go physically, but where was one who could hold a conversation? It was a pity really, the Empire trained its noble girls to look pretty for a few years and then expected nothing else from them but b**s.

“Unless of course the crown centralizes power around itself, reducing the power of outer nobility into a centralized state,” a melodious, high voice said behind the Prince, “Pardon me for interrupting, but it’s difficult to find someone here who can carry a conversation. Although you’ve left out a need for a King to use the professional skills of the nascent middle classes to administrate a centralized kingdom.”

When Archibald turned, his heart nearly skipped a beat.

This newcomer was beyond lovely, in a tight gown of yellow silk. Lean as a whip, her delicate collar bones and swan-like neck spoke to a slimness most of the beauties at court could only pretend at. The high slit of her skirt hinted at the long, lean outlines of perfect legs, the gap between her slim thighs looking inviting. Widely available alchemy had blessed every girl in the kingdom who could afford a DD cup at least, but her chest was small and flat. But what she lacked in bust, the delicate planes of her face, with high cheekbones and plump pink lips beneath huge opal eyes more than made up for. Everything about her seemed sharp and cunning, this girl had not just understood his words, but pointed out a solution!

“Er, yes, that would be rather useful,” the Prince said, forgetting the Baroness like yesterday’s breakfast, “Lady…I am at a loss, I don’t believe I know you.”

“Blackheart, Evelyn Blackheart. And just Lady sadly, Daddy was too fond of loose women and fast horses to keep the bigger titles and when he died, mother only knew how to stuff her face. Unlike most girls here I couldn’t even afford a pair of tits for the big dance. I had to sell a few properties just to pay my coach tickets,” Evelyn smiled, a pure sunbeam of sardonic humor, “by your fancy clothes and huge codpiece, you must be Prince every girl here wants to wed and bed so they can never have to worry about money or watching their figure again?”

Archibald laughed to have it stated so plainly, he bowed, showing some impressive leg muscles as he did, “Perhaps I would not say it like that, but your insight matches your beauty.”

Evelyn snorted, most unlady like but did offer her hand, “Please, in that case I am near blind. My face is alright I admit, but otherwise I’m merely somewhat slender…”

“Somewhat? You have as much extra bulk as a rapier, if I might say,” the Prince smiled, “and appear keener than any blade in the royal armory.”

A smile touched the disguised cultist’s lean face, “Tis a fine complement, to be praised for my wit. I’d prefer that, a skinny waist only lasts so long.”

The cultist had been attempting to starve herself for the last two weeks, since her own goddess had cursed her with a sudden vulnerability to weight gain after decades of immunity. Yet, after a century of wreckless hedonism the brunette’s appetite was unused to any denial and her restraint failed. Evelyn was totally helpless in the face of any food, big meals and heavy snacking at last taking hold of her. Evelyn had packed on fifteen pounds in as many days, to the chagrin of she who had fattened up hundreds of unknowing women the poundage was most unflattering. Her face was getting puffy already, a nascent double chin ruining her perfect features while her thighs had begun to touch and her flat butt was looking noticeably rounder. 

Servants of her cult had had to shoehorn her into this dress, the laces biting into her softened flesh. Thankfully cruel Kh’aila had left Evelyn her powerful illusion spells, allowing her to look totally svelte when she was truly a touch plump. She kept the thought of all of her past victims in her head, how she’d manipulated them into helpless obesity and it didn’t stop the audible growl of her belly.

“May I get you some deserts, it is rude of me to keep you waiting, isn’t it?” Archibald told her at the gurgle.

“Oh, I am not as hungry as it seems. And it appears that most of the girls here had enough for me as well,” Evelyn smiled nervously, playing up the innocent country girl while casting a critical eye at the snug dresses of the women around her.

“Yes, they certainly have. But surely, a girl svelte as  you wouldn’t be ruined by a single big meal…,” the Prince pressed, “unless of course you worry for your figure…”

Evelyn hesitated, weighing her hidden chub against the greatest taboo in Weit-Ganberg society: admitting you were afraid of gaining weight. But she knew arousal when she’d seen it, the Prince wanted to feed her up. A secret fat fetish wasn’t unusual in the city, Gods knew Evelyn had one, but she’d never been on the receiving end of it. She knew how fast a dedicated feeder with significant resources could turn the belle of the ball into a blob too fat for a carriage, but knew the risk was worth it. Whatever weight she gained in a year could be lost when Kh’aila returned her blessed metabolism after thoroughly corrupting the Prince...and being fat was better than aging into a hag, which is what would happen if the goddess stole her eternal youth too!

“Perhaps just a small snack, I’ve got my girlish figure to maintain,” Evelyn smiled, sure she had him hooked…

And just to be sure, when he went to get her plates, loosened her dress’ laces under the table...


Evelyn and Prince Archibald’s romance was a whirlwind affair.

They were together at every gala and party, dancing long hours of the evening and talking like thieves. His bombastic laugh and her delicate giggle sounding whenever one of them made a joke at the expense of the blindly decadent society. Other girls could only glower and feed their resentment with food or lesser men, for Evelyn seemed truly perfect. Not only was she bright, not only was she gorgeous, not only was she witty but this country girl who’d appeared out of nowhere could eat whatever she wanted without gaining a pound!

No matter how many knight’s portions of hearty steak and potatoes she gorged on at main meals, no matter how many tankards of beer or glasses of wine she downed after dinner, no matter how many plates of chocolate chip cookies and rich macaroons and decadent cake slices she filled up on after dinner, Evelyn’s perfectly lean physique seemed totally unchanged. Her flat stomach remained tiny with no signs of using a corset, her long lean legs and girlish hips had not an ounce of excess fat and her angelic face was flawlessly lean!

Or, so it seemed.

All of Evelyn’s seemingly fat immune beauty was naught but an illusion.

There’d been many times before the cultist had had to use a spell on her appearance. Sometimes to look made up and elegant when she’d slept in, occasionally to slip through a patrol of witch hunters looking for a delicate beauty by appearing the wrinkled crone she’d never be. But now she wrestled with a new problem: hiding a couple new pounds a day!

Between midwinter and the snow melting, Evelyn had packed on a whopping hundred pounds. Delicate cheeks had puffed up into plush apples, while a thick double chin and new third wobbled beneath her chiseled jawline. Slender arms had grown thick and jiggly, especially on her triceps. While pianist fingers had thickened, turning soft and clumsy.

The chestnut haired cultist’s waistline was only plush, bearing soft love handles and a plump tummy. It wasn’t particularly big and could almost be hidden by a strong corset, but it was humiliating that she’d gained but a single cup size despite nearly doubling in weight! Evelyn almost regretted not springing for some alchemical titties but she didn’t need anymore fat to lug around. She’d never been strong or fit, merely slender and had never indulged in an exercise harder than an orgasm. 

Now, overnight it seemed, she was having to lug around a hundred pounds of dead weight. Most of it was concentrated in her lower half, the Cultist becoming a complete pear. Tight, flawless buns had blown up into heavy spheres of sagging fat, a shelf of lard that could already balance a potion per cheek. Angry red stretch marks coated the rapidly growing ass, thick pockmarks of cellulite sprouting around them and spreading wildly. Her hips were growing just as much as her butt, getting as wide and dumpy as a mother of three sets of triplets, and the seemingly svelte brunette was having to maneuver carefully. Her illusions were powerful enough that anyone who bumped into Evelyn or felt her spongy form immediately ignored the contact, but she still got jostled in crowds to the point she’d asked her Prince for more private meetings.

Which was another problem, for the Prince loved riding horses or walking through the city’s parks, and Evelyn was an out of shape lardass. She walked with a slow waddle, thighs chafing all the way to the knee and swelling ankles complaining at hauling around her tubby bulk. Evelyn was gaining so fast that her muscles couldn’t adjust to the weight, leaving her nearly permanently out of breath! While most horses could still hold her merely 230 lbs, the weak limbed woman had significant trouble getting onto one. Thankfully, today she and the Prince were walking  through the park and although she was huffing and puffing like a mad dragon to keep up with his long strides, the sounds were hidden by her illusions to be feminine sighs. His arm was bent around Evelyn’s love handles resting on the spongy mass of her hip yet to the Prince it felt like he was cupping a tiny waist and slender, firm butt.

“Evelyn, I’ve been thinking,” the Prince smiled at her, turning towards the lovely woman, “it's only been a few months since we met, but I can’t imagine what life at court without you would be like.”

“And I can’t imagine what it would be like without you,” Evelyn said, illusions covering about three “puffs” and two “ughs” , “for one thing I could never afford good quarters or so many fine dresses without you paying for them all. Or the food either, I’d likely have starved to death.”

The Prince laughed at her seeming sigh. To his eyes Evelyn was in an elegant outfit, a soft pink bodice showing off her lean shoulders and slim arms with a hint of her small breasts, while a very tight skirt hugged her down to the knee. In reality, Evelyn wore the thin white shift most women used for pajamas, the once loose and now sausage casing tight fabric sticking to her sweaty body. There was a literal fortune in fine silks sitting in the manor house the Prince had rented for her, perfect for a girl who weighed a hundred and fifteen pounds but not an ounce more.

“Haha, given how little of it sticks to you I’m certain of that. Your metabolism must be a divine gift,” Archibald joked, “you eat more than every other girl at the parties yet are far thinner!”

The balls were less and less well attended this late in the season. Protocol said that a noble woman who popped a double chin or grew too big for a standard corset should seclude herself from polite society until lean again. Only a handful of high born girls could now meet that criteria and except for Evelyn they kept their heads at a very exact angle and the sound of groaning fabric could be heard beneath their gowns.

Evelyn snorted, for once honest, “Perhaps I was blessed, or more likely was, I’ve noticed of late my dresses are getting snug at the hip. I fear I may be succumbing to plumpness like so many women before me.  I’d say at least I’d still have my wits but I fear men would find me much less intelligent or funny were I fat.”

“Hmmm, I’ve not noticed a decline in your wits although you might be just a touch wider,” Archibald laughed, giving Evelyn’s seemingly taught butt a squeeze, “I will have to check you thoroughly…”

“Not until we are married I hope,” the high priestess of the dark goddess of lust and perversion asked in false shock, as if she hadn’t had her cult servants service her three times that morning while she ate her first two cakes, “tis enough of a scandal for me to lack a proper chaperone…”

“Well, I would hate to scandalize you,” Archibald smiled, going to one knee and pulling a small ring from his pocket, the diamond on it worth a town, “so Evelyn, would you do me the honor?”

Evelyn smiled, a real smile for once. Archibald was sweet and the only one she’d ever met who could satisfy her with feeding, but once she was married to him it would be a quick trip to her lair and she could offer him up to Kh’aila! Then she could get back to seducing and corrupting, instead of fattening up like a prize pig!

“Oh, my, my and I just a poor girl from the provinces!” Evelyn grinned, holding out her hand, “you’ve made me the happiest girl in the world!

It was only as the ring went towards her finger that Evie realized there would be a serious problem. Namely that this piece of jewelry was fitted for a princess, a girl with slim, delicate fingers. And she had the thick, meaty, clumsy digits of a girl with a terminal food addiction! Archibald might be fooled into thinking he was squeezing a tight butt instead of a cake stuffed cushion, but when that ring didn’t fit there would be questions!

A quick sneeze at the right time sent the ring seemingly flying, an illusion to occupy her new fiance. The Prince scrambled for it, turning his back to her. After a quick glance at his tight ass, the cultist gave a fat girl grunt to pick up the real ring at her feet. Her lower back popped as the ungainly hulk of a woman bent, the snug fabric of her shift stretching across her girthy ass until the inevitable happened and it ripped wide! 

Evelyn would have blushed had she not already been red faced, feeling a cool spring breeze on her heavy ass. Thanking her cruel goddess for not totally abandoning her, she illusioned the ring onto her finger and stuffed the real one into her bra.

“Oh Archi, I’ve got it here!” the seemingly elegant woman cried, showing her falsely decorated hand off.

The Prince turned away from his search, seeing the gem reflecting on his bride to be’s finger. He sighed and smiled, taking her hand and kissing her deeply. Archibald’s conscious brain didn’t recognize the plush belly pressing into his groin, but illusions had little power over penises and he hardened immediately.

“Oh, Archie, please save it for the wedding night,” Evelyn smiled, picturing this prince going screaming and bloody to Khalida’s alter, “you’re going to need it…”

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