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1001 Desert Nights


flyer33

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Chapter 1

 

Fatgrabah: bejewelled oasis at the centre of the world! A city of silk, spice, and sapphires! A metropolis nestled in a flat valley ten leagues wide, between sand dune seas, scorched badlands, and the boundless foothills of the eastern plateaux. A land of gardens, sweet with the scents of colourful blossoms. Where merchant princes devour delectable fruits – dates, grapes, olives, citrus, and more – cultivated in the Sultan’s sprawling groves with water drawn through miles of deep wells. The city of a thousand and one storytellers, its stone walls and shaded courtyard gardens bustling with audiences of traders and travellers, merchants and guards, scribes and jewellers, and silk-weavers, and courtesans, and rogues, and more besides. A place where the wind is contrived to blow though the high, stone-roofed streets or “souks” where the morning’s commerce may continue until noon before the heat grows too great and the well-to-do retreat to take tea, coffee, or citrus juices, between the leafy green canopies of a thousand and one tea gardens.

The city of Fatgrabah was fabled for a thousand things, but none more so than the beauty and eroticism of its exotic dancers! Every tea garden in the bejewelled city vied for evening customers by hosting performances that ranged from the enticing to the downright orgiastic. As did every brothel! Neither venue could compete with the patronage of the merchant and noble families. Of course, nobility and merchantry were essentially the same thing in Fatgrabah, where all the surrounding land and its precious water belonged to the Sultan. And the only way for a family to reach the top of society was to grow fabulously rich. And no-one in Fatgrabah was as the rich as its merchants. Oh, except for the Sultan, of course! And the Sultan employed the most spectacular exotic dancers of all!

Kyra Shah was, as far as she was concerned, one of the most spectacular exotic dancers in Fatgrabah. Like many of her peers she was a surplus daughter of a wealthy family. In her case, the Shah family had been silk traders, dealing in the wares produced by the workshops of a distant city in the Far East.

Now, many visitors to Fatgrabah are surprised to learn that its richest families allow – nay, encourage – their most beautiful daughters to pursue the art of cavorting and disrobing for the delight of a public audience. But, in fact, it makes perfect sense! First, as a form of social competition: “The Shah family has had their daughter perform for the Sultan himself, and before the Crown Prince, no less!” As the gossip might go. But second, because it has long been a fact of a life that the wealthiest merchant princes, upon inheriting the family palace at the age of perhaps forty years, can seldom resist the urge to take a voluptuous young belly dancer as his fourth or fifth wife... Such wives might lack seniority, but they seldom lack for fertility or lustfulness! And so, a few years later, the same wealthy Fatgrabah families were oft faced with the question of what to do with a few beautiful but lustful young daughters, surplus to needs. The natural answer was for their mothers to train them up in the arts of exotic dance and seduction, and send them to snag a husband high-up in the inheritance line of another rich family. Thus neatly solving the problem of what to do with an expensive daughter, but entrenching the city’s hedonistic reputation at the same time!  

Alas, in the case of the Shah family, things had not gone to plan. Reckless mercantile misadventure combined with natural disaster had ruined the Shahs’ fortunes. Kyra’s mother, once a famous belly dancer herself, had remarried to a jewel merchant and had spent the next eleven years popping out a new son or daughter every autumn like clockwork – whilst growing steadily plump on a diet of sweetmeats and luxuries.

There had been no such luxuries for poor Kyra! Kyra had been a tall and very busty seventeen year old, just beginning her dancing adventures, lithe and beautiful, when financial ruination had struck the silk trade. Her Aunt Nadia had quickly taken charge of Kyra’s career, and had positively raked in the golden dinars by selling Kyra’s performances to the highest bidders! This had certainly helped Aunt Nadia and Kyra’s stepsisters to avoid much cutting-back in their luxurious lifestyles! Indeed, for Kyra Shah had been one of the most accomplished, not to mentions curvaceous, erotic dancers Fatgrabah had seen in years! However, the financial ruin of her family had spoiled Kyra’s marriage prospects. After all, no rich man in his right mind would want to assume financial responsibility for the avaricious aunt and stepsisters who would come bundled with the alluring Kyra herself – and there were plenty of other beautiful young women available, after all.

The great floods in the east, and her aunt’s dictatorial demands for income, meant that Kyra’s career as a professional dancer had stretched much further than her contemporaries. Kyra’s original competition had married, and retired into overfed luxury by their early twenties. Kyra was now 28, and most of her old friends had gained so much weight from pregnancies and a pampered lifestyle that few of them could make it through a five minute veil dance, and some of them probably couldn’t manage that long standing up!

Kyra Shah, on the other hand... As she stumbled tipsily through the dawn light in the Garden of Blossoms – being careful not to trip into any of the swaying orange and lemon trees as she walked – Kyra congratulated herself on another dazzling night of dance, boobie-jiggling, and applause. At the Sultan’s palace, no less! True, she had stumbled a little in her last few routines, in the small hours of the morning. But the important guests had fallen asleep by that point!

Hicc!” Kyra hiccupped. “Why do these fucking orange trees always spin in the morning? Oh...”

Sweet wine, was the reason! There were gallons of sweet red wine available for the Sultan’s guests every night. And Kyra, much to her aunt’s annoyance, had grown a taste for the stuff over the years. And, relatedly, Kyra had grown a wine tummy too! Kyra’s rule of limiting herself to “One cup of wine per dance” wasn’t much of a limit when she was required to perform a repertoire of at least a dozen, and sometimes two dozen seductive routines in a night. It was fortunate she was very talented, and could make it through the steps of a seven-veil dance even when sloshed out of her mind. 

The wine tummy wasn’t a problem. Or so Kyra told herself! As a tall woman, it wasn’t obvious. Plus, she was a belly dancer, and she could make a little bit of tummy bulge work for her! With the right sway, hip isolation and flutter, she could make her extra fluff look better than her tight abdominal muscles ever had!

While the wine-tummy wasn’t a problem, Kyra admitted it might be causing a different one: namely, too much eating! That was the real difficulty caused by having twelve cups of wine sloshing in the tummy! Not the swaying orange trees, or the occasional mis-step, or the mild slurring of speech when one orders shawarma from a street food vendor: but the huge appetite for fried meat and other fatty snacks! It was, even she would admit, making Kyra a little fat! Too much wine, followed by unlimited access to delicious roast meats and tartlets from the Sultan’s tables, and then a dawn visit to one or two of Fatgrabah’s food vendors on the way home, where Kyra was wont to gorge herself on flatbreads stuffed with goat or horse meat, plus a little salad which wasn’t enough to make the “breakfast” healthy. It had undeniably thickened Kyra’s hips in recent years! And, horror of horrors, had also given her a derrière so large that it bulged out of both the top and bottom of her skimpy, colourful silk wraps, and wobbled uncontrollably when she danced!

Rumble!

Kyra burped groggily, and checked where she had gotten to. The Street of Kebabs! Her favourite route home from the palace!

“Oof, I shouldn’t.” Kyra told her gurgling belly. “I’ve already fed you plenty of fine meats, little orange tartlets, and dates, at the palace!”

Rumble!

“Oh, alright!” Kyra gave in to the appetite caused by a night of hard work and too much sweet wine, but protested at being made to. “I’ll just have one shawarma. Ugh! But you know eating greasy street junk on top of palace food often makes me feel sick!”

Protest as she might, Kyra made her way very swiftly through the smoke of frying meats and onions towards a large stall where an attractive young vendor was readying grilled meats for the early morning custom. Kyra, still clad in gauzy blue dancing silks, jiggled her boobs seductively as she approached.

“One shawarma, please, good Sir.”

Kyra admired the way the handsome kebab seller licked his lips at her delicious figure. She failed to notice the way she licked her own in return, as she enjoyed the view of his lean muscles in an open shirt. Kyra’s tummy continued to rumble volubly as the young man loaded up a huge flatbread with mounds of steaming meat, and a pile of flavoursome salad. As he was done, she occupied the high stool before the stall, and dug in to eat great big mouthfuls while he admired the view of a hungry bellydancer.

“Yum!” Kyra exclaimed appreciatively before digging in. She was hungry. Oh, she had eaten at the palace, but not enough to fill up: she was there to belly dance, after all, and it wouldn’t do to eat until her stomach was too heavy and full to flutter!

 “This ish sho greasy...” Kyra said, and she swallowed a huge mouthful of chewed meat and flatbread.

“... If I didn’t know better, I’d shay you were trying to make me fat! Mmm...” Kyra added, as she enjoyed another large bite from her enormous mound of meat.

The handsome vendor, whom Kyra was pleased to see was captivated by admiring her silk-cupped bosom, could manage no reply, though he did speechlessly open his mouth as if to deny Kyra’s modest claim.

“... Though, as you may have noticed...” Kyra flexed her pectorals, making her boobs wobble in such a way as a silver penny rose from its storage place, deep in her cleavage, and was flicked in the cute boy’s direction where it landed with a ping. “... I’m a belly dancher. Sho I can eat a lot! I just work it off, with all the gyrations...”

Kyra’s claim had some truth to it. Hours of dancing did use up a lot of energy. But what she failed to mention was that she’d already eaten a lot overnight at the palace. And guzzling down an enormous and heavy breakfast on top was, perhaps, likely to provide even more fats and carbs than were needed by the most athletic of belly dancers. In fact, too frequent dawn visits to the very kebab stall at which she now sat – which just happened to be run by a cute young man – were quite possibly beginning to show on Kyra’s figure! Indeed, if she didn’t cut back her intake somewhere, it was quite likely her bottom would soon grow a little plump! Well, plumper than it already had, that was!

“Mmm.”

With another hefty swallow, a bulge ran down Kyra’s throat and made her chest jiggle on its way down to her belly. She leaned back and burped appreciatively, and patted her bare and rather protruding midriff as she regarded the now-empty earthenware serving tile before her.

“... Oof, I look pregnant! My compliments on the food. A little greasy, perhaps, but quite delectable!” Kyra said.

“Would you-“ The cute boy gasped. “Um... Care for another plate? On the house?”

Kyra salivated. Both the smell of fatty roast meat, and the way she’d enticed the vendor, gave her a rush of appetite.

“Hmm. You really are trying to make me fat, aren’t you young man?” Kyra teased, without for a moment being concerned that the question might be a serious one. “Well, I could manage one more. But just a small one this time! I’m feeling a little heavy, in the tummy, after all that grease. And even a belly dancer’s stomach isn’t bottomless, you know. But I think I will have another little one, thank you. I’ll just have to take extra exercise later!”

Kyra leaned back and undulated her belly to demonstrate what sort of exercise she had in mind. The seductive motion, as she sucked in and pushed out, rolling and undulating her midriff from boobies down to her very lower belly, made the cute boy blush... And then set about fixing Kyra the most enormous meal of roast meat, in a pile bigger than her head, on the biggest flatbread she’d ever seen. Kyra burped: she was going to feel a little bit sick again after this breakfast for sure. So, she reasoned, it was good she still had an appetite to enjoy all the greasy food. Not to mention flirting with the kebab boy. He was quite handsome, and she really ought to find out his name at some point...

“Ooof, that’s a lot!” Kyra said flirtatiously. “I shall look – and feel – heavily pregnant if I eat all that! Oh well, here goes!”

By the time Kyra finished eating, and washing down her second enormous kebab with a cup of orange juice, she did indeed look, and feel, heavily pregnant! Not to mention a little sick. She burped several times as she excused herself, to retire home to bed.

“Not bad!” Kyra panted, struggling to breath with all the food in her distended, taut belly. She bid her cute boy a good day, with a flirtatious jiggle of her boobs. “I shan’t see you again until I’ve exercised this lot off, I’m afraid!”

“Soon, hopefully!” The young man replied.

Kyra felt herself flush. The heat of the morning, combined with gross overeating after a hard night, meant she was very ready for bed. It was fortunate she wouldn’t need to dance again until the evening at the earliest: her belly bulged ahead of her as a great, overfed dome. It was quite taut, and she felt it slosh as she turned.

Any other woman so full of heavy food would be forced to waddle! Which wouldn’t do, in front of a boy she wanted to impress...

But Kyra was a seasoned belly dancer, and, leaning back to accommodate her gravid belly, she sashayed away with an alluring sway of her large, skirt-overfilling bottom, in the direction of the Shah family mansion.

 

* *

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6 hours ago, boss frond said:

wonderful

 

2 hours ago, bigboy1992 said:

I don't know how you do it. But this is awesome so far!

Aha, many thanks!

Well, Fatgrabah is a sort of Arabian Nights setting, with some Aladdin too - I have a whole story outline this time, involving the nefarious Vizier, Jaffa Ka'ik... 

Now, with this being a city-of-storytellers setting, I want to do something interesting with the narration. It's an omniscient narrator - but a more chatty one than I've used before, and I want him to insert some wry commentary and perhaps some teasing moralising into the descriptions. I want to imagine the narration actually being performed, whether it is the rather grand, florid oration that introduces the city of Fatgrabah, or the more sarcastic or erotic descriptions of Kyra growing too fat for her skimpy little silk wrap-skirts. If I get through the key story chapters (except the finale), then I'd also like to do a story within the frame story - e.g. Kyra might listen to a storyteller, recounting some other tales that she doesn't recognise, but which might be recognisable to us!

29 minutes ago, Batman76 said:

That she's already in the early stages of ruining her figure is very enticing. 

🥵 🥵  

She's fitter than most 28 year old noble ladies in Fatgrabah, but far fleshier and less athletic than her prime. And her arch-rival is only 21. 

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3 hours ago, flyer33 said:

 

Aha, many thanks!

Well, Fatgrabah is a sort of Arabian Nights setting, with some Aladdin too - I have a whole story outline this time, involving the nefarious Vizier, Jaffa Ka'ik... 

Now, with this being a city-of-storytellers setting, I want to do something interesting with the narration. It's an omniscient narrator - but a more chatty one than I've used before, and I want him to insert some wry commentary and perhaps some teasing moralising into the descriptions. I want to imagine the narration actually being performed, whether it is the rather grand, florid oration that introduces the city of Fatgrabah, or the more sarcastic or erotic descriptions of Kyra growing too fat for her skimpy little silk wrap-skirts. If I get through the key story chapters (except the finale), then I'd also like to do a story within the frame story - e.g. Kyra might listen to a storyteller, recounting some other tales that she doesn't recognise, but which might be recognisable to us!

🥵 🥵

Oh boy, such as the story of a very busty, lusty duchess overwhelmed by a rapid, humiliating weight gain or a busty, buff witch who ate herself into wheezing immobility...

 

3 hours ago, flyer33 said:

 

🥵 🥵

She's fitter than most 28 year old noble ladies in Fatgrabah, but far fleshier and less athletic than her prime. And her arch-rival is only 21. 

Shame if there's some sort of competition, putting her dropping endurance and slacking flexibility against someone better...

 

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Chapter 2: Getting Fatter in Fatgrabah

 

Sunset light peeked into the Shah mansion’s courtyard garden. Potted fruit trees had replaced the precious metal ornaments and coloured glass lamps that once had decorated the enclosing garden rooms until the family’s silk-wealth had been lost. But the occupants could still enjoy the relative opulence of high ceilings, cool walls of thick stone, and a breeze fluttering the mesh curtains. At least, they could enjoy the cool if they were able to recline on the cushioned mahogany furniture with an iced drink. But not everyone could – such was a luxury reserved for the family heads!

Beside a fluttering curtain, a talented but elderly man named Abu the Drummer panted with exertion, his leathery fingers slipping with sweat. His old hands ached from hard work. Nadia Shah, the feared matriarch who had steered the Shah family through hard times without completely losing their position among Fatgrabah’s elite, was driving him hard, and for very little pay. All six of his fastest-paced dances, she’d demanded Abu play, in quick succession with no rest! His hands were nearing exhaustion! But not, he thought with some sympathy, so much exhaustion as the lathered young belly dancer whom Nadia Shah had commanded to dance every frenetic step of the six hardest dances in his repertoire! Poor young Kyra! The drummer remembered a time, maybe six or seven years ago, when a tall young woman with a body of spring-steel and eight prominently chiselled abdominal muscles had awed everyone at Fatgrabah’s summer Competition, winning for her first time as she’d performed the exact same six “impossible dances” to absolute perfection. But that had been a younger and much lither Kyra Shah than the dark blonde version with the swollen hourglass figure who now hyperventilated and heaved air loudly through her lungs, and bent over with sweat running down all of the many inches of her fleshy, voluptuous body. Great rivulets of sweat splattered on the tiled floor around her, and Abu the drummer winced at memories of seeing belly dancers pass out before they were so spent! For a long moment he feared the overtaxed young beauty, who was yet the reigning Competition champion for her fourth time, was going to suffer an attack of the heart!

Abu felt sympathy, but he had been around long enough not to show it whilst the all-powerful matriarch Nadia Shah was shrieking the exact opposite!

“Appalling!” Spat Nadia, slamming down her iced lemonade with a vengeance, and spilling the sugar bowl. She elaborated loudly, jabbing a jewel-encrusted hand at Kyra while the poor young belly dancer panted and her head spun dizzily.

“Young lady, you have grown so disgustingly fat you cannot even perform a simple routine! Let alone win this year’s Competition! How dare you allow yourself to be so grossly lax, when you know this family depends on your meagre winnings to support a few of our basic needs! Don’t you know what sacrifices we’ve made for you? Scraping together enough silks to make new wraps to go around your fat bottom! Allowing you to keep most of your costume jewellery, when even my poor daughters have had to go without!”

In the smaller carved seats beside her, Nadia’s silk-clad quartet of dumpy daughters joined in the condemnation of their panting cousin Kyra’s grossly unsatisfactory lack of fitness. They each were, of course, the very biggest of hypocrites! “Biggest,” being quite literal! For Nadia Shah’s four daughters ranged from chubby to exceedingly fat! The youngest, Mina, wore a new wrap of sky blue silk skimpy enough to belly dance in, but her wide thighs touched all the way to her knees and bulged from seventeen years of pampering and absolutely no exercise. And the eldest, Lena, who was five years younger than Kyra, though no-one would guess from Lena’s average looks and three chins that she was the younger cousin, was still fatter and more wheezingly unfit! Indeed, Lena’s belly spilled further over her lap than her mother’s, and she breathed heavily from the exertion of sitting upright throughout the thirty-minute performance her mother had commanded, rather than laying back on the reclining couch she preferred to inhabit on such a sweltering hot afternoon! 

“Oh...” Kyra pleaded, and slumped to the floor on her back. Her bare belly bulged up and down, dripping with sweat, as Kyra pumped her diaphragm in an attempt to suck in the air her exertions demanded.

“... I don’t,” pant, “feel so good! My heart can’t take any more, Aunt Nadia.” Cough.

Nadia bared her teeth.

“Don’t dare think you can excuse yourself so easily, Fat Kyra! That bottom of yours is so wide you’re scarcely fit for the brothel, let alone the Sultan’s stage! Heavens forbid you present such a flabby spectacle at this summer’s Competition! We need the prize money! Your earnings this year have slumped as badly as your fitness, and the coffers are bare! Do you know you only brought in eleven dinars last month! Eleven dinars! A whore earns more!”

Aunt Nadia was practically frothing at the mouth! Eleven dinars was indeed less than the earnings of a top courtesan, and much less than Kyra had earned from dancing in some past months when the Sultan had frequently demanded she perform to important dignitaries and paid accordingly. But it was a substantial sum nonetheless, and Kyra was at a loss to understand how her aunt could be so outraged about it. Eleven dinars, in fact, was a surprisingly large amount to earn at the tea-houses to which Kyra was presently being dispatched to dance six nights a week. The summer was so baking hot that few ventured out, trade was down, and the more lucrative performances simply weren’t available for any belly dancer at the moment, no matter how good! If anything, Aunt Nadia should be blaming Lena or Mina, to whom she had delegated the business of hiring Kyra out.

“But, Aunt Nadia! Trade is down, and-“

Stop making excuses, Kyra! The reason you’re losing so much money is because you’ve been stuffing your face with disgusting street food, swilling gallons of wine, and skipping your exercise routines!”

“I can’t exercise as well as dance six nights a week, Aunt Nadia! I ache all over every morning, and I’ll sprain something if I exert myself any more!” Kyra protested with a sob.

“You can and you will, Kyra! Poor Mina had to make do with an allowance of only one dinar last month because of your laziness! And only two for Lena! Even though, as the eldest, she requires a generous allowance in order to secure a good marriage!”

Lena Shah’s fat cheeks and chins creased into an avaricious smile, at the prospect of her mother’s favourable opinion leading to more gold next month, and more parties at which to court suitors! Although why such a spoiled sister as Lena might be of interest to a young man rich enough to interest her was anyone’s guess. 

Kyra choked down a scream. Lena, the eldest! Lena was five years younger than Kyra; the idea that Lena ought to pursue a rich marriage first was outrageous! Not that, even with Kyra’s renowned beauty, a daughter of the heavily-indebted Shah family had many prospects.

Aunt Nadia continued her diatribe.

“And so, young Kyra, if you have to dance seven nights a week, to earn Lena a little spending money, you shall! And, henceforth, I shall have you perform this very routine twice, every afternoon, until that fat bottom of yours is back down to a respectable thirty-eight inches at the very fattest!”

Kyra groaned.

Twice, I say!” Nadia snapped. “That means now, you ungrateful fat pig!”

“But Aunt Nadia, I’m exhausted!

Aunt Nadia bristled at being answered back, and yelled at the top of her lungs

Up! You’re tired, because you’re too fat to drag yourself through a few simple dances, but I will have you slim again, Kyra!” Nadia snapped, before wheezing for breath, taking a heavy gulp of iced lemonade.

Abu the drummer sucked air through his teeth. His “impossible dances” were very nearly just that. Kyra Shah had spun, dashed, and raced her way through their lethally fast steps with few slips, and it hurt Abu’s professional pride to hear her so accursed. Also, Kyra was clearly exhausted, and he hated to imagine what another six hard dances would do to her. It was an absurd demand!

Kyra reluctantly pushed herself up from the floor and assumed an elegant shape. She sucked in a breath...

... But chubby little Mina, of all people, spoke up! She had just received a messenger, who had whispered in her ear while everyone’s attention was elsewhere.

“Mother!” Mina gasped, wobbling her fat thighs together on her seat in delight.

Nadia Shah gave a sour look.

“What?”

“A request for a private performance, tonight! At the Lapis House! Two dinars!”

Nadia Shah’s expression twisted. She huffed.

“Oh, very well... Bah!” The matriarch spat, and tried to guzzle more lemonade, only to discover her glass was dry! She directed a sharp look at Lena, who had just swallowed the last of the iced, sweetened drink with a gulp that made her fat cheeks wobble.

Meanwhile, Kyra slumped happily, and wiped sweat from her face. She’d be excused the brutal exercise session her Aunt demanded if she was to perform tonight!

“Mother.” Lena flushed, embarrassed at taking too much lemonade, but thinking nonetheless of the two unexpected golden dinars of which all had just learned. “May I have one of the dinars? Since I only had two for my pocket money this week?”

Nadia bristled.

“Certainly not, Lena! I will have one dinar myself, for essentials, and with the other Kyra will treat you and your sisters to a fine meal! It has been far too long since she treated you all, and I am sorry to say she simply is too lazy and fat of late to provide the allowance you deserve, my darling eldest! You must reprimand her, and exhort her to eat far fewer sweetmeats! And when she is fit again, I promise that you, Lena, shall have all the dinars you deserve!”

Lena pouted and huffed. A fine meal with her sisters was one thing, but it was not as good as a golden dinar!

“You!” Aunt Nadia waved an arm of golden bracelets at Kyra. “Go and prepare yourself at once! Prince Qassim is not to be kept waiting!”

Kyra licked her lips hungrily. “Prince” Qassim was merely the head of a rich merchant family, but Kyra was a libidinous girl, and Qassim was a virile and handsome man in his thirties, and she enjoyed fucking him – which was what a “private performance” at his palace entailed. And it got her temporarily off her aunt’s shit list. So she slunk off to her room with all the dignity she could summon, while her cousins bickered over who deserved extra pocket money.

 

*

 

Kyra Shah rolled her hips erotically. It was hard to roll them any other way, because she had a rock-hard and potent prince between her strong thighs, and she was fucking him skilfully on his bed of purple silks, in his bejewelled bedroom! Indeed, the first half hour of their time together had vied with the six “impossible dances” her Aunt had demanded of Kyra earlier that evening, in terms of athletic effort! But it had been considerably more enjoyable and, having made her bedmate explode into her three times, Kyra had settled on top of him into a ** [se-date] rhythm she could maintain for hours...

Anyway, where had we gotten to?

Lapis means stone, by the way, so a mansion called the Lapis House is just a stone house. The family palace of Qassim Qassimid should really have been called the Lapis Lazuli House, after the precious blue stone that had made his family one of the richest in all Fatgrabah, and with which their palace’s walls were adorned, inside and out. But it was called the Lapis House because his ancestors had been as illiterate as they were wealthy, which was very.

Qassim himself was somewhat more literate than his forefathers, but education wasn’t his best feature. His best feature, so far as the women of Fatgrabah were concerned, was that Qassim Qassimid had become the head of his family at the age of thirty, when he was still handsome, fit and virile enough to properly enjoy the wealth. By fucking the most eligible women of Fatgrabah silly, of course! And he had most certainly enjoyed it! He’d taken a sixth, and indeed seventh wife, both voluptuous belly dancers, and kept at least five of them pregnant at all times for the past four years since he’d inherited! His wives had mysteriously (or perhaps not so mysteriously) grown rather fat and too pampered to keep up with him and so, in addition to keeping them well fucked, Qassim Qassimid liked to spend time enjoying private dances with Fatgrabah’s finest exotic dancers. Dancers who had not – yet – grown too fat to fuck for hours on end. Dancers, in other words, like the sensuous Kyra Shah.

Ugh!”

Kyra’s eyes defocussed as she felt a fourth huge load of her lover’s hot cream splurt into her, and she herself orgasmed simultaneously, and heavily. But she soon recovered: she was a very horny young woman, and no matter how virile the man under her hips might be, he was only one man! And Kyra Shah was not a woman whose lust could be sated by one man. Perhaps not even by two or three!

Kyra squeezed her thighs and gave a cry of appreciation at the heavy orgasm she’d been given by Prince Qassim’s huge cock. After recovering, she realised he was trying, quite weakly, to shift her off him in order to take a break.

“Enough, Kyra! I can’t take any more!” Prince Qassim panted. “You’re insatiable!”

Kyra pouted. But then she obliged her paying bedmate by shifting off of him and stepping off the bed to stand where he could better admire her physique – oh, and she just happened to do so next to a side table bearing a dish of sticky dates, from which she plucked a few and popped them into her mouth.

“Mmm!” Kyra enthused. The dates were drizzled in sweet honey, and absolutely delicious.

Qassim drew himself up onto silk pillows and mopped his brow.

“Kyra! You are magnificent! Not even six of Fatgrabah’s finest whores at once can make me come so hard as you – and they’ve certainly tried!”

Kyra preened at his words, which she took as an unalloyed compliment of her prowess.

“Well, I am Competition champion, my prince. And dancing six nights a week does give me an appetite...” Kyra licked a sticky date, before biting and swallowing. “... For the bedchamber, as well as for your plate of delectable dates, of course! I trust you don’t object to my eating them up? I have to keep my strength up for later!”

Qassim’s eyes bulged. Truly, the curvaceous belly dancer was magnificent. The sight of her naked but for a few skimpy silks, and eating fattening dates as voraciously as his most arousingly greedy wife, was almost too much! He could feel his cock hardening for her, but if Kyra Shah rode him again so soon he feared he might expire!

“Would you like more?” Qassim croaked. “You must be famished from your exertions?”

Kyra gave the question a thoughtful look as she chewed, swallowed, ate some more dates and then licked sticky syrup from her lips. She ran a hand over her lower belly, and Qassim prayed the sight would not make him orgasm so hard as to pass out, or burst his heart! Her curvaceous tummy was plush and a little swollen – as well it should be, with the pound and a half of exquisite dates she’d just devoured like a light snack!

“I don’t know if I should, my prince!”

“You must!” Qassim said. “After taxing your libido so hard, I beg you must allow me to feed you properly to replenish your strength!”

“Oh.” Kyra licked the last date and ate it. “My libido isn’t taxed, my prince! I have plenty left: a raging, fiery lust, in fact, and I trust you will allow me to mount you again soon and slake it on your powerful cock! However... I am a little hungry.”

Qassim was in awe of the insatiable young beauty! Oh, if only her family were not so precariously indebted, he would make Kyra his eighth wife in an instant! Alas, it was impossible! But he could still fuck her... And feed her up!

Prince Qassim reached for a golden bell, at the ring of which his bedroom door immediately opened to admit a serving girl with a swollen tummy.

“Bring meats, quickly, girl! And the cake trolley! And wine, and more dates!” Qassim demanded in an urgent rush, before returning his attention to Kyra’s large bust, as she jiggled her boobies erotically.

“Oh, my prince!” Kyra declared. “A whole cake trolley! Even I shall have to be careful at that! I confess my bottom is a tiny trifle larger than it was last summer, and it is important for me to ensure my physique remains perfect if I am to retain my title as Competition champion! Yet, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear that with your instruction to indulge me with the choice of a whole trolley of sweet desserts, plus wine for which I have a bit of a weakness, you were trying to make my bottom a little plump!”

Qassim croaked. “I assure you, Kyra, I was thinking no such thing!” And it was true! Prince Qassim had no interest in making Kyra Shah’s bottom a little plump! For it was already larger than that, and his fancy was to make it larger still!

“Good!” Kyra pouted, as the maid returned and supplied her with a heavy silver goblet brimming with spiced wine plus a side-plate of sticky dates, to which the belly dancer immediately began helping herself. “As long as you’re sure there’s no risk of my bottom getting a little big, I shall be delighted to indulge a little! I am very hungry, after all!”

 

* *

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Chapter 2: Getting Fatter in Fatgrabah (part 2)

 

A sandstorm blew over the bejewelled city of Fatgrabah that night, bringing dry thunder and heat lightning as the morning came.

The roar of desert wind on the shutters stirred Kyra Shah from her slumber, and she yawned massively from under a wrapping of purple silk sheets. As she recalled a memorable night of fucking and eating, followed by much more eating and a little more sex, Kyra’s belly growled louder than the storm. As well it might! She’d gorged it with many pounds of honeyed dates the night before, in between enough servings of rich meat, sugared cakes, and heavy tarts to give all seven of her wealthy bedmate’s wives a bad tummy ache. It was astonishing the young beauty’s belly was only gurgling with the need for a visit to Prince Qassim’s fully plumbed bathroom! Kyra skipped urgently in that direction, and only emerged some time later after having pooped until she was a good ten pounds lighter, at the very least!

“Oof! That’s better!” Kyra panted.

Her belly gurgled its agreement. Along with a pang of hunger that suggested a big breakfast was in order. Not that Kyra needed such a thing! Her greedy belly had just smelted down enough sugars and fats to last her for a couple of days! Not that that would stop it from craving more, of course. It was no wonder the belly dancer’s naked bottom was displaying extra fullness and wobble, for it was storing up some of her tummy’s surplus dietary intake almost like a camel’s hump!

The rumbling of Kyra’s tummy prompted Prince Qassim, her horny bedmate, to awaken from his own heavy slumber.

“Kyra!” Yawned Prince Qassim. “Your tummy sounds very hungry! You must stay for breakfast! In fact, I insist! It would be quite wrong of me to let you travel home until this roaring sandstorm has abated!”

Kyra licked her lips at the prospect of a nice, fatty breakfast.

“I’d be delighted, my prince!”

“Good! Oh, and you can breakfast with my wives! They’ll be very happy to meet you and share the delights of their table! In fact, I believe you already know my seventh: you used to dance with her a few years ago, when she was Yola the Slender!”

Kyra’s eyes widened with astonishment.

“Yola! Fuck me sideways!” Kyra exclaimed. “Good for her! But, um, my prince, isn’t she a little lean for your preferences?”

“Hehe!” Qassim Qassimid chortled. “Not any more, my beautiful young Kyra!”

 

*

 

Few would guess that Yola Qassimid, seventh wife of Qassim, had been the celebrated dancer known as Yola the Slender until her marriage just a couple of years before we first meet her in our story. But it was so! Of course, Slender had always been a comparative term for Yola. With her striking height, a gift of her barbarian descent along with golden hair, Yola had always looked slender, despite her full breasts and a body that made clear she was the daughter of wealthy family who never wanted for food!  Standing a full hand taller than even the striking Kyra Shah, Yola the Slender had bedazzled audiences until, at the age of 24, she had achieved her heart’s desire of marriage to an extremely rich and handsome man who had seduced her to a life of great sex and endless pampering. There was just one snag: Yola had never anticipated just how difficult relentless luxury could be!

“No more honeyed raisin cake! I’m gonna burst!” Yola groaned, to an unsympathetic audience of six other silk-clad and bejewelled women aged between their late twenties and mid forties, all with ripe figures corresponding to various stages of pregnancy and morbid obesity.

“Eat up, Yola!” Snapped the second-youngest woman at the table, who also happened to be the second fattest, with rolls of fat spilling out of her pink silk harem garb. “As the youngest of us, it is your role to finish off the delicacies of our prince’s table, when the rest of us can manage no more! When I was the junior wife, I performed my duties without complaint, even though I once ate so much that I had a minor attack of the heart! So quit complaining and eat, you overgrown hog! It would bring shame upon us – and worse, perhaps even a diminished supply of silks and jewels – if we don’t cram down all this breakfast!”

A sugary tear rolled down Yola’s cheek, as she regarded the vast array of half-consumed fruit pies, roast meats, flatbreads, and bowls brimming with hummus and mashed vegetables. It was far too much! Indeed, it was too much for twenty women, let alone seven fat wives with their bodies weakened by years of gross overfeeding and zero exercise! Especially when they were still bloated from the feasts of the previous day. But, alas, it was the breakfast with which Prince Qassim indulged his wives – partly to showcase his great wealth, of course, via their obesity. But also, Yola had learned, because he liked his bedmates fat. The fatter the better, in fact! Hence why Yola’s obese hips now spread over both sides of her chair, whereas once they had been so fit and lean! Still, it could be worse. As much as Yola’s day to day life involved a struggle to cram down enough rich delicacies to overfeed five strong young men, as least she was obscenely rich, well-fucked, and a mother of two with many more in prospect!

Yola raised a huge chunk of cherry pie to her lips...

... And then immediately dropped it, as she recognised the statuesque belly dancer who strode into the room. A striking beauty – and with artfully disarrayed hair and silks, that clearly implied she’d been very well fucked, morning and night, if Yola was any judge. And Yola certainly was a judge of such matters. Not that there was much doubt, when it came to her lustful old friend, Kyra Shah!

“Kyra!” Yola gasped. Then she added, with a smirk. “Fuck me, you’ve got fat!”

Kyra’s jaw dropped open.

“Fa-“ Kyra gasped. “Look who’s fucking talking, Yola! It’s like there’s three of you! Maybe four. Come here!”

Yola hefted herself to her feet with a grunt, and hugged Kyra to her chunky, barbarian bosom. 

In truth, Kyra was a little shocked to hear her old friend call her fat! Mainly because, bedecked in shimmering blue silk and rubies, dazzling amid the golden marble and lapis lazuli of the garden room, Yola the (Formerly) Slender was the one who was really fat! Fortunately, Yola and she had been the best of friends back in Yola’s dancing years, and they’d trusted each other to viciously critique each other for even half an inch of excess weight gain – but in a friendly way, and done in order to help them both stay in perfect shape. And now that Yola’s excess weight gain was more like half a yard around the middle, it seemed that they could simply carry on in the same vein.

“Oh, I know!” Yola bemoaned. “All I do any more is eat! I swear, Kyra, I haven’t stopped eating for one hour since the wedding! I weigh an absolute ton, I know!  Though you need to look at your ass in a mirror too, Kyra...”

Kyra gasped.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Yola! I think I’d know! Hah, in fact, last night... um...”

Kyra hesitated. She’d paused cautiously before remarking “... your husband fucked me six times, and praised me for being as beautiful and svelte as ever!” It might, after all, not be the most diplomatic thing to say in front of his seven wives. Fortunately, Qassim Qassimid’s senior wife Quinta, a mountainously obese woman draped in yards of flowing silk, intuited the direction of Kyra’s thinking, and dismissed the idea that it might cause consternation.

“You’re going to say our husband praised your slenderness, Kyra. While you were fucking him silly, I imagine!” Quinta said.

“Um, perhaps.” Kyra nodded with a slight smile.

“Yes, you were!” Quinta continued matter-of-factly. “And I’m sure you gave him an excellent fucking too! And don’t worry. Far from being jealous of you, I can speak for all of us when I say we’re grateful for your giving us a rest! Our Prince is quite sexually insatiable, you see! He makes poor Yola come five times a day, and I’m more surprised the poor girl hasn’t popped from all the seed he pumps into her, than from all the food she eats! And he keeps the rest of us with pussy’s as overfull as our tummies, too, and that’s saying something! So don’t fear, Kyra! We’re quite relieved to share him with you!”

“Oh! That’s wonderful!” Kyra enthused.

“But. In case you happened to enjoy having your – still moderately – slender physique praised to the heavens by our Prince...”

“Um, go on.” Kyra nodded that he certainly had.

“... You should realise he like his women Fat, with a capital F!”

Kyra’s smirk faded, a little.

“Oh. Well that doesn’t mean I am fat. Just, maybe, a trifle curvier than when I last danced with Yola...”

Yola, who had stood up with some effort and then started loading half-finished pies, meats, and delicacies onto a quarter of the table nearest Kyra, giggled with amusement.

“Oh, Kyra! You still look good! I’d do you, and I doubt there’s a prince in the world wouldn’t fuck you and make you chief wife –except for the family debt thing – but, damn, girl, you got curvy!”

“I am not!” Kyra protested.

“Yeah.” Yola laughed. “Okay, Kyra, you want to know the test for whether you’re curvy or slender?”

“Uh huh.” Kyra didn’t really crave such a test, but Yola was clearly determined.

“Help yourself to as much of this breakfast as you want! I’m supposed to finish it off, because I’m the junior wife, but I fear I’ll die if I try, so, please, shovel down as much as you can!”

Kyra salivated as she glimpsed the two-foot wide platter of sticky dates behind the stack of butter-drenched breads beside a huge slate of grapes and cheese, and assorted platters of pie, and crumbly breakfast cakes, and sugar-iced pastries, and jugs of lemonade and bowls of fresh fruits.

“Mmm! Yummy! I am a bit hungry!” Kyra needed no second invitation, and grabbed a chair so she could dig in.

Quinta Qassimid patted her chest, wobbling her huge breasts within her shimmering silks as she helped her massive breakfast go down. Then she burped, and arched an eyebrow at Yola.

“I approve of you offloading all that food onto Kyra before we all burst, Yola, but why do you say it’s a test of whether she’s still slender? Couldn’t we just weigh her?”

 “Oh.” Yola smiled. “Well, maybe. But there’s enough food there to kill me, Quinta. So, I’m thinking, if she finishes it, she’s a fat girl in spirit whether she admits it or not.”

Kyra Shah, shovelling down heavy breakfast food like she hadn’t eaten in a week, tuned out her obese former dancing partner’s remarks. But, once she’d filled up, she did intend to take Yola on a vigorous walk. It would do the overfed half-barbarian concubine a world of good to be shown just how fat and unfit her marriage had made her!

 

* *

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Chapter 3: The Cave of Delicacies (part 1)

 

Fatgrabah, the bejewelled oasis, rested amid seven great deserts. The Seven Sands – the Flat Sands; The Desert of Blossoms; the Red; White; and Black Sands; the Maze; and, widest of all, the Endless Desert – channelled a vast wealth of caravans through the Fatgrabah’s mighty gatehouses. But while the Seven Sands ensured piles of cut jewels filled the vaults of the rich, and forestalled the conquering ambition of all but the mightiest barbarian horse lord, they brought one perennial curse. Sand.

Sand. They say it gets everywhere.

At least once a year, a great sand storm would overtop Fatgrabah’s massive city wall and sometimes even the towering alabaster of the Sultan’s palace. At the whim of the winds, Fatgrabah’s streets and the Sultan’s garden alike would fill waist deep with great drifts of red or golden sand, or white dust. It would take a mass of donkey carts and an army of paid labourers days to dig the streets clean. The residents of Sultan’s prison, should they join the work gangs, would earn weeks remitted from their sentence.

Even after countless generations had practiced the best methods to sweep and dig and clean, Fatgrabah on its first evening after a great sandstorm was still a place of streets clogged with dunes. And yet, to the great surprise of new arrivals, it was also a night of celebration – candle lanterns and coloured silks fluttered in the diminishing breeze; fireworks; scented teas; spiced hot wines; strong citrus drinks; storytelling, naturally; and music filled the thronging tea gardens which were the very first places swept clean. After one or more days confined indoors by the scouring sands, the city of Fatgrabah wanted nothing more than to party – and to lust after exotic belly dancers, of course!

And there was other delayed yet important business to be attended to, on a sand-blown sunset.

A man strode through the Garden of Blossoms, and the Old Market. He wore an impatient scowl, a black turban, black stubble, magnificent red and gold robes, and sandals of intricately tooled leather. He reached an archway through a red stone remnant of the old city walls – left over from the times of the wicked Al Ka’ik Sultans – and quickly turned to a side street. The street was steep, scarce a yard wide, and led to an apothecary’s shop. The street was also, to the man’s displeasure buried under six feet of hot sand.

With a sigh, the man shifted his staff under an arm, so that he might make a sweeping gesture, using both hands, and a complex movement of the fingers. As if in response, the last fluttering of the night’s wind gusted at the sand bank, which slipped and slid into the main street. Yet, instead of sloping pile, the sand came to rest in the shape of a flight of steps. Climbing, with a smug expression, and without leaving a footprint in the seemingly hard stair, the man entered the apothecary’s place as the sand behind him began to slump and drift.

Inside the small shop, the walls were lined with baskets of herbs, the rafters were hung with strings of herbs, and even the air, to a large extent, was filled with the scent of herbs. It was quite oppressive. It drew a cough from the man, as he propped his staff in an elephant’s foot stand, which in turn alerted the apothecary to her unexpected customer.

The apothecary herself, busily stirring a bubbling cauldron, was a delightful sight. Beautiful, yes. Her glossy black hair, noble features, and scanty silk vest would draw lustful gazes in any bazaar or tea garden. Or, at least, they would if all eyes hadn’t already been focussed on her far more unavoidable aspect: her truly gigantic breasts! Bigger than the Sultan’s watermelons, and darkly creamy, her vast breasts dominated her slender body. The straps of her silky red top clung to her front, and although the plunging neckline allowed a good twelve inch depth of cleavage to show, and framed twice as great a width of magnificently round bosom, her orbs were so huge they bulged out by yet more inches from both sides of her skimpy top.

Perhaps the tremendous weight of her boobs explained the apothecary’s pained expression and slightly defocussed eyes.

Or perhaps not.

“Ja… Jafar! Ngh…”

The apothecary swallowed and grunted with exertion as she set down her olive wood stirring spoon, and attempted to stand up straight.

“What brings the Sultan’s grand vizier to my humble premises? Have you…”

Her pained expression morphed into an enthusiastic smile and she licked her lips.

“… Have you decided to take up my offer… Of unlimited sex in return for teaching me the secrets of eastern alchemy?”

The apothecary stepped back from the cauldron to display her figure to best effect – vast boobs aside, she boasted a tiny waist, and a pert bottom clad in loose red shorts.

The grand vizier, by the light of oil lamps not much older than the luscious apothecary, gave a polite laugh.

“Alas, Lady Jellija. You’re not my type: I don’t think I could get past the twenty-three inch waist.”

The Lady Jellija’s eye’s bulged at the polite rejection, and she pouted severely.

“Twenty-four inches! This city of yours is making me as fat a pig being fattened for market! There’s not a morsel to eat without mounds of sugar and fat in it! My waistline is thickening, and my bottom is frankly enormous, and yet you call me too skinny!”

Lady Jellija panted from frustration, apparently pleased to have the grand vizier to berate about her woes. “And that is to say nothing of THESE!” She gathered an armful of bosom, as if emphasis was needed, while massaging her lower back with her other hand.

“They cause me constant backache that not even muscle tonics can cure – and muscle tonics are very fattening, you know! And they’re far too enormous!I can scarcely see my lower body except in a mirror! In fact, Grand Vizier, I find it most appalling that your city’s law requires a professional apothecary to demonstrate the effectiveness of her beauty-enhancing potions on her own body!”

“I think it’s a very good law.” Said Jafar, savouring the apothecary’s petulant complaints as much as the sight of her mountainous cleavage. “Just imagine how many accidental poisonings it has prevented.”

“Oh! Bah! It is not! Not when every young woman in Fatgrabah wishes for larger, bulging breasts, ever fuller than those of her peers! Why can’t they behave like in Amarkand, where any woman who accidentally nibbles a sugared date immediately sends a servant to bring her a slimming potion, lest she bloat and be considered unfashionably fat? Or, heavens forbid, over-busty like a lustful common whore!”

Jafar laughed heartily at the notion.

“As I recall, Lady Jellija, you had to flee Amarkand in the dead of night, after embroiling yourself in some scandal involving a lust potion of your own making, yourself, and three of the royal princes.”

Jellija scowled. “That wasn’t my fault. I imbibed a large dose, thinking only to delight the crown prince… But then he wasn’t enough for me! And neither was his first brother!”

“Not your fault that you’re hooked on the taste of your own lust potion, huh?”

“Yes. I mean, I’m not. I have to sample them. To ensure quality! It’s not like I want to drink so many, ahem ‘philtres d’amour’, that I must then spend nights selling my body at an upmarket brothel just to satiate my engorged libido, and to save my heart from bursting of unslaked passions!”

“I see.” Said the vizier with dripping irony. “Well I’m convinced.”

“So you should be!” Lady Jellija spat back. “It’s just one of the many, terrible burdens on a woman who must, ugh, earn a living.”

“Fatgrabah has many rich men, eager to offer a life of leisure to a busty new wife, Jellija. In case you hadn’t noticed?”

Bah! They would make me FAT! And frequently pregnant too – I don’t know of even one rich man who allows his wives to buy preventative teas from my shop. They prefer to keep them in the harem with swollen bellies! Hah! I’d rather work!”

“I see. And, thanks to my patronage, Lady Jellija, you are able to ply your trade, and in this most upmarket and desirable location.”

“Very small and pokey shop on a little side street!”

“But the location is excellent, Jellija! Amid the richest quarter of Fatgrabah, en route to the Sultan’s palace itself. Could there be any venue with greater passing traffic of affluent young woman eager for costly but modestly effective tonics, lotions, and remedies?”

Jellija pouted. Jafar continued, while examining a jar.

“And, in return, Jellija, all I ask from you is occasional, little favours. Oh, by the way, I’ll take one of these cheap slimming lotions with the added citrus fragrance – the Sultan’s sixteenth wife seems to imagine one of the grand vizier’s duties is to provide her with potions to counteract the fattening effects of spending three quarters of her day in the harem eating dates and sweetmeats washed down with quarts of honeyed milk.”

Jellija sneered at the tale of such wanton gluttony and deserved weight gain.

“Why don’t you make her a potion, using your Eastern alchemy?”

Jafar grumbled, and poked a finger into the side of Jellija’s bosom, causing her to grumble as well. They both watched the jiggle wobble from side to side of her fleshy boobs until it eventually dissipated.

“I could. If I felt she was worth my time. Which, obviously, she isn’t. She can have one of your lotions made with locally-sourced ingredients instead.” Jafar put the jar in a small basket.

“But that’s not why I came to see you…” He proceeded in a more ominous tone. “It has come to the attention of the Sultan’s eyes and ears, by which I mean my eyes and ears, that a vagabond recently arrived in Fatgrabah has been hawking a certain item. An item, I hear, related to a very special destination in the badlands. In short, someone has been offering a map to the fabled Cave of Delicacies!”

Lady Jellija’s eye’s boggled. And she glanced at a plain box on a high shelf that she could not reach without the aid of a step.

“How did you know?”

“Grand Vizier, remember?” Jafar tapped his heavy golden ring of office and smirked. “And, much to my chagrin, I have also learned that the identity of the map’s purchaser… was one apothecary by the name, so the observer believed, of Jellija. I do hope you bought it so that you could give it me as a present?”

Bah!” Lady Jellija grunted. “Of course I did, Master. You know how I love doing things to please you.”

“Wonderful news, Jellija!”

“And I’d be happy to hand it over, once you do a little favour for me, Master.”

Jellija’s lips curled.

“I see. And what might that little favour be?”

Jellija panted hungrily.

“I need you to fuck me!” The apothecary drew herself closer, breasts squishing and silk top straining. “You see the cauldron I’ve been working on?”

“The big one with the green stuff?”

“Yes! It’s my latest lust potion, and frankly it’s my most puissant yet! I passed the time indoors during the sandstorm perfecting the recipe… But, I fear I may have sampled far too much! Now I’m so horny my eyes won’t focus, and I can’t take more than a little step without giving myself an orgasm… So…”

Jellija reached down to the straps of her red silk shorts, which quickly came away in her grip and were flicked aside.

“… I don’t think I can make it to the brothel without passing out from excess desire! But if you, being a reasonably handsome man, promise to fuck me stupid until my needs are met and I can take no more… Then I’ll give you my map. Even though I wanted it for myself!”

Jellija groaned with pleasure as her curvaceous shoulders received an obliging caress, and the city’s most powerful vizier bent over to offer her a kiss, which she greedily returned with a deep slurp. The apothecary wondered if she should remove her strappy silk top – but there was no need, as her breasts were so immensely oversized they already bulged out by the double handful on all sides.

“For the record, you’re too skinny for me, Jellija. But since you’ve slurped yourself silly with your own lust potion…”

“Oh, fuck it!” Jellija gasped, as she felt her puissant potion overwhelm her brain. “I’ll let you force feed me honeyed dates until I feel super-sick – just do me on the table now!”

“Honeyed dates?”

Jellija gulped her approval as a huge handful of the sticky, high-sugar fruit were shoved into her mouth. She was sure to gain weight from this! But – oh, the tribulations of an ex-noblewoman turned apothecary, with a taste for her own potions – she was too horny to care! She’d just have to make sure she got plenty of sex out of the bargain… On the table. Against the shop wall… Then bedroom, until she was slaked. Almost certainly she’d be done by dawn… Or noon, definitely, if not.

Jellija’s gaze fell on her cauldron as she slumped back on her table with a massive orgasm. Hmm. It was full of potion. A potion which she had long been thoroughly… An enjoyer of.

Uhn! May I – GULP – may I have a little more potion to wash down these disgustingly fattening dates? Just a ladle full? Maybe two? Three, or more if you like!”

 

**

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You are a very gifted writer, your style is reminiscent of a fairy tale and you tick all the boxes in the fetish checklist: stuffing, weight gain, humiliation, revenge, breast and butt expansion...

Keep up the good work!

I wouldn't mind buying some of your revised works on Amazon, as I find it easier to read with a Kindle.

Happy belated new year!

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On 1/1/2023 at 5:45 AM, Batman76 said:

Damn but I love Jellija already! The lust and the bust!

I'm pleased with Jellija. Eventually, I'll find an excuse to have someone pronounce her name as "Jelly Jar."

On 1/1/2023 at 12:36 PM, >_< 0_0 said:

Couldn’t Jellija just make a shrinking potion to counter the effects of her cosmetic alchemy? Maybe she doesn’t mind the back pain as much as she says

Perhaps she's secretly proud of her vast breasts... Obviously, because they reflect on her skills as an alchemist, not just because she'd incredibly vain and slutty.

4 hours ago, Borghen said:

You are a very gifted writer, your style is reminiscent of a fairy tale and you tick all the boxes in the fetish checklist: stuffing, weight gain, humiliation, revenge, breast and butt expansion...

Keep up the good work!

I wouldn't mind buying some of your revised works on Amazon, as I find it easier to read with a Kindle.

Ah thank you. I hope to do some more short stories for Amazon - but, ah, it takes time and energy. Also, I quite like getting feedback and more reads, which I get on Curvage. I could edit some old ones for Amazon, and it's be nice if people would like that, but I don't think I'll have time soon.

 

Chapter 3: The Cave of Delicacies (part 2)


 

KABOOM! Ba-Boom! Oom.

Heat lightning reverberated over the rocky badlands known as the Maze, but not a drop of rain was forthcoming to relieve the sweltering and dry night air. Just the monotonous howl of dusty wind.

In years gone by, no great horse lord of the steppe would have considered leading his entire horde into the Maze. The desert cities beyond were as soft and weak as they were rich, and had yielded up tribute to mere horse princes, with but the merest fraction of a horde at their command. In the meantime, the horde itself would pillage the vast and equally soft cities of the eastern plain, for jewels, silks, and the valuable learned captives that were to be had from there.

Looking out from the smoky and fur strewn interior of his pavilion tent, the horse lord Khal Ouglei ground his teeth in frustration. His inheritance was only the merest fraction of his forefathers’ horde. The rest was scattered to a hundred cousins and disloyal opportunists, for the conquest of eastern cities had brought ruin on his family – and perhaps not even by the conscious design of the sneaky eunuchs who ruled there! It was, instead, the very plunder of wealth and luxuries that had undone the heirs of the Great Khal. And of all the conquered luxuries that had ruined his inheritance, Khal Ouglei reserved his greatest hatred for the sweet, softening luxury of sugar!

Sugar!

The Khal’s growl echoed like the heat lightning.

Sugar, added to myriad recipes, was to blame! Its sweetness had proved irresistible to the wives of the horse lords – for three generations, ever since the conquest of the upper east, they had abandoned the wholesome fermented horse milk and cheeses on which they were raised, and gorged themselves soft upon cakes and pastries, until they could do naught but lounge their flabby bodies on silk cushions, and grew too weak to bear strong heirs. Weak heirs had died as young men, as was natural and proper, but so many had done so that the succession became chaotic and finally broke. The succession that, by right, should surely have delivered the whole great horde to the strongest heir – Khal Ouglei, naturally!

A eunuch had prattled that if sugar were to blame for the horde’s downfall, then it was the sugar admixed to brew strong wine, or to make the distilled rice spirits of the east so appetising. He’d claimed that consuming no drink but pure fruit wines and grain spirits – which Ouglei’s uncles and great-uncles had first done out of prudent fear for the unsanitary waters of the eastern rivers, and then developed an insatiable thirst for the potent drinks – was the true cause of the gout, giant bellies, and other weaknesses which had plagued the horse lords. Khal Ouglei had had the eunuch whipped for his impudence. It was sugar, damn it – and the filthy, sweet, fattening cakes of civilisation which his female relatives could not resist!

How ironic, then, and how infuriating, that Khal Ouglei should find himself facing the demon sugar in the quest to fulfil his ambitions of restoring and mastering the world-conquering horde of the steppe lords!

A flash of white lightning lit the canyon below the horse lord’s camp. Shadowy carved stone had been scoured clean of sand, by some storm, and the leering face of a fantastical and giant lizard came into stark relief. Its stony expression, ancient and scarred by time, was very nearly as hard as Khal Ouglei’s own. And its gaping maw contained an entrance, of unhewn stone. An ancient, hidden cave.

The Cave of Delicacies!

Within the Cave of Delicacies lay the greatest treasure in the world. So Khal Ouglei had learned from a craven monk. The great treasure was a simple brass lamp. Or, more precisely, it was the all-powerful spirit enslaved within the lamp, and fated to grant the desires of its owner.

To become Great Khan! To command a million invincible warriors! And to bestride the world! Those were Khal Ouglei’s desires. And they would be his, and so soon that he could already taste the invincible power!

Alas, the Cave did not freely yield up its treasure. A thousand traps had slain every man who had ventured in. It was only when the Khal had resorted to sending an imprisoned female thief that he’d discovered the monk’s prattling about “traps to kill any man” had been literal.

But woe and double woe had followed. The thiefess had walked untroubled past myriad blade traps and squeezed through an aperture at the back of the cave, only to find herself in a cavern filled with contrivances to which she was even more vulnerable. Sugar! Or rather, ten thousand sumptuous, sweet cakes and candies, on precious metal platters, lit by the glittering glow of strange gemstones! Bah! The thiefess had fallen utterly prey to the infinite temptations within the Cave of Delicacies, and had been extracted only after Khal Ouglei’s favourite wife had ventured in with ropes, and all the grease that could be extracted from a pig, with which the now-fat thiefess had been hauled out of the cavern for interrogation!

Thrice woe! As the thiefess – now triple the size of the lithe burglar who had slipped into the cave – reported her findings of silver and gold treasures, and ten thousand jewelled plates covering every rock, all laden with exquisite candied fruits and juicy tarts, and pitchers of the freshest cow’s cream; Ouglei’s favourite wife had succumbed to those very same fiendish confections! Hauled out by the same ropes, as soon as Ouglei had realised the danger, she had emerged with lips smeared in chocolate sauce, clothes stained with powdered sugar from tip to toe, a swollen belly distended with candied dates and more, and a deliriously happy expression! It had taken her three days to sleep off the hours-long sugar binge, and she’d awoken with her bottom and thighs so thickened with disgusting fat that Ouglei had banished her from his bed! Worse, she’d exhibited a fiendish appetite ever since, and showed utterly unwilling to work at regaining the beautiful and lithe figure she’d maintained since her wedding day!

But the magic lamp lay in the Cave, somewhere! Alas that no agent he sent in could reach it! They were each too distracted by their vile gluttony for the demon sugar!

Khal Ouglei had sent in wife after wife! All now with ankles tied to silk ropes, and bodies greased with olive oil that they could be hauled out of the narrow opening to the treasure cavern after an allotted time. But none had returned with the lamp! It was, in fact, blatantly obvious that few had even looked, instead devoting their entire spell amid the jewelled treasures to gorging themselves stupid (and FAT!) on the demoniac desserts that filled the place!

The situation was fast driving Khal Ouglei to a boiling rage!

Liu!” Khal Ouglei bellowed into the night.

Yes, my Khal?” Came the soft reply in a foreign accent, as the thickly-dressed scribe emerged from the great pavilion tent.

Prepare my next wife for the cave! And this time, admonish her that she will have a great whipping if she returns with a swollen belly and without the lamp!”

Yes, Lord Khal.” Replied the scribe.


 

* *


 

Zena could taste the sugar in the air, before she even pulled herself through the final tight opening to the glittering cavern!

Icing sugar! It had to be! Only icing sugar was so fine that you could inhale the delicious dust!

A tear rolled down Zena’s angular cheek. She hadn’t tasted icing sugar since before she’d been captured by the barbarians! It was a hundred times sweeter than in even her fondest memories of youth!

Not that Zena had often been been treated to iced sweetmeats, even in the old days! She was a princess of fabled Amarkand… Well, she was, at the very least, the favourite and most beautiful daughter of a very rich and powerful prince in the fabled city, a cousin of the Sultan himself! And as a nearly-royal princess, Zena’s pampered life had been devoted to maintaining her slender silhouette, and ensuring that her widely-admired beauty was kept at its very best, for frequent display to visiting potentates and officials. Light salads without dressing, and small fruits had thus been her staple diet, whereas iced honeybuns had been a rare treat! But there had always been a plateful, for her birthday. Alas, poor Zena, on the very journey to the arranged wedding in the south, where she was to marry into great royalty, had been abducted by filthy barbarian raiders! And although her refined beauty had – of course – caught the eye of the Khal, and led to a life with the certain privileges of a khal’s wife, she had tasted none of the delights of home in the three years since her capture! The heady aroma of her every favourite dish seemed to waft from the glittering cave ahead, and poor Zena could do naught to control herself as she lunged ahead – silk rope around her calves, and threats of punishment by her husband’s lackeys all forgotten!

Zena gulped involuntarily, her mouth filled with drool by the exquisite powdered sweetness in the air.

There!

In the oddly multi-coloured light ahead, on an amber-encrusted platter!

Sugared apricots!

Gulp!

On a gold plate with lapis lazuli: Dates in syrup! A whole bunch!

Zena crawled ahead, and reached for handfuls of the sticky treat.

Swallow!

The dates were, somehow, even tastier than the apricots… Or the sugared oranges that had come from somewhere!

Layered honey pastries!

Gulp!

Iced cows milk!

Glug!

Grapes!” Zena exclaimed in happiness.

By the time the princess had crawled past the grape bowl – only after finishing its succulent, ripe fruits – and the silver tray of iced raisin scones, the invigorating kaf cake (seven slices, thickly iced), a tray of flatbreads stuffed with steaming fried meats of five kinds (all excellent), and a green glass bowl of fruit punch (five whole goblets)… She felt sick. And a little afraid: her stomach was only small, but it was stuffed full, and her abdomen bulged convex. She would surely be punished! But...

But, rolling onto her side and resting against a diamond-encrusted stalactite, Zena’s eyes bulged and she forgot the hard, round bulge of her distended tummy. The sight before her was too much!

Chocolate!

Liquid chocolate!

Flowing molten chocolate!

The dark molten delicacy spilled from the jug borne by a golden statue, atop five tiers of glass and porcelain. The chocolate fountain, amid a pile of gold baubles, stood fully seven feet high – so tall that Zena could not have reached the statuette of a golden woman at its top, even could she rise from her prone position… But she could reach the lowest tier, by crawling over a tray heaped with marshmallows.

Gulp!

Zena shoved a fistful of puffy marshmallows into the chocolate waterfall, and stuffed them in her face with both hands.

Not enough!

Soon, Zena’s head was drenched in chocolate sauce, as she tilted her head back to try and gulp down the flow as fast as it could pour.

Gulp! Swallow! Glug!

Zena had never felt so sick in her life. Not even the time she’d snuck into her mother’s treat pantry and eaten five pounds of dates! She’d been spanked for that – mainly because she had put on weight before an important party! Surely her stomach – only small after a life of restrictive meals – could hold no more than that? Surely she couldn’t gain more than five pounds from her misadventure in the cave?

Tug!

What? No!” Zena gasped, as a rope pulled on her ankles and dragged her back from the chocolate fountain. She made a desperate grab for a tray of splattered marshmallows, and began stuffing them in her mouth as the rope dragged again.

It can’t be time!” Zena cried.

She had been allotted three hours to explore the Cave of Delicacies for the lamp. Surely she had been eating for scarcely a few minutes?

Drag! Twang – rip! Bulge!

The rope had pulled her to the cave’s mouth, by the time Zena had finished stuffing down most of the marshmallows. The silk cord of her snug harem pants caught painfully on a rock, and snapped, and she felt horribly sick as her tummy was squeeze by the narrow stone aperture – but not so sick that she didn’t make a desperate grab for candied oranges!

Oof!” BUUUURRRRP! “Ugh! My tummy!”

Zena burped as she was pulled and dragged, feet first, through the winding stone crawlway, back to the sweltering moonlit canyon, and her husband’s angry flunkeys.

Where is it? The lamp. Give us the lamp!” Demanded a one-toothed ruffian.

Gluttonous whore! No more self control than the others, even with a beating ahead of her!” Exclaimed another – he sounded hysterical, quite possibly at the prospect of his own beating, for another night passed without retrieving the lamp for his Khal.

Ugh!” Zena moaned. A combination of sickness, and painful bruises from being dragged hard through a too-narrow stone passage, against her will, were all expressed in her groan. “I want more chocolate.” Sobbed the former princess.

The LAMP!” Yelled One-Tooth.

I don’t – burp – have it!” Zena sobbed, licking chocolate from around her mouth.

You shall be beaten then!”

No! Wait!” Zena cried. “But I think I know where it is!”

What! Then why do you not have it?” Demanded the loudest of her husband’s ruffians.

Um…” Zena thought quickly. “Because I’m not tall enough!”

What?”

That’s not my fault. Don’t beat me… Oh, my tummy hurts!”

Then where is it? How do we get the lamp for our Khal?”

Aha!” Zena belched. “Help me up.”

The ex princess, once hoisted to her feet, so that her stomach full of chocolate sauce and pounds of other delicacies could no longer fight against gravity enough to come back up, felt mildly better. True, she was coated with chocolate sauce from her once-glossy ringlets down to her toes – she licked a fingerload from the thick coating on her pert boobs, and groaned with pleasure at the taste – and her belly was swollen as if with one of the strong heirs of which her husband often talked. But mildly better. And she did recall something, which seemed important.

The great chocolate fountain!”

The ruffian growled.

No! I mean, there is a golden statue atop the chocolate fountain! I could not reach it, for I am but petite and slight!”

Zena ignored that her poor tummy was far from petite. It was more of the size associated with one of Fatgrabah’s infamous “food whores” after a night plying her trade, in fact. But it was true she was not tall.

I swear, the base of the statue was inscribed with a riddle. It was written in one of the ancient languages of the desert – which I have studied, for I am a princess, and must read and recite poetry! BUUUUUURRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!

Zena also ignored that – while she had been taught to read and write poetry in the ancient style once popular in the Seven Sands – she wasn’t very good.

Well. What did it say?” The senior flunkey demanded.

It said. Ahem. ‘Only the Fattest of Fitties may lift this statue and claim the Lamp.’ I’m certain that’s – burp – what it said.” Zena replied.

The what?”

Well don’t ask me. It’s obviously a riddle. But I think it means that only a very tall woman could enter the Cave of Delicacies, and then reach up to the statue, and she’d have to be very strong to lift it, for it is made of solid gold… And probably the lamp is hidden in the base!”

Hmm.” Mused One-Tooth. “It does sound like a riddle such as storytellers recount.”

Hmm.” Agreed the chief flunkey.

So. Um.” Zena ventured. “Does that mean I don’t get beaten?”

Hah. You have disappointed the Khal both by returning without the lamp, and by stuffing your gluttonous face with so much sugar you must be twenty pounds fatter!”

Five!” Zena retorted angrily. Surely she didn’t look that heavily pregnant? Just, you know, a little bit slightly heavily pregnant!

Hah! So you think, greedy whore! But…” Continued the barbarian, “You have returned with great insight. So… Instead of a hard whipping, you will receive only a light spanking, from your handmaiden.”

Oh!” Zena’s eyes boggled, and she tried to look suitably chastised. She didn’t want to let on, but, in fact, she rather liked the sound of that! Licking her lips clear of a little more of the exquisite chocolate sauce, she made a show of not being too eager to be escorted to her tent for the "punishment."


 

* *

 

 

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15 hours ago, flyer33 said:
19 hours ago, Borghen said:

 

Ah thank you. I hope to do some more short stories for Amazon - but, ah, it takes time and energy. Also, I quite like getting feedback and more reads, which I get on Curvage. I could edit some old ones for Amazon, and it's be nice if people would like that, but I don't think I'll have time soon.

Yes, I get your point: fewer people would read your stories on Amazon and you couldn't improve.

Well, I'm gonna follow you here for the moment.

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