Chapter 3: The king's private chambers
The world had shrunk to the dimensions of her body. Clara no longer thought in terms of days, but in meals. The gnawing emptiness would arrive, sharp and insistent, and the only thing that mattered was the next platter, the next bowl, the next rich, heavy morsel to silence it.
She was propped on the overstuffed couch now, a mountain of silk and flesh. Walking to the great chair had become a laborious, two-servant affair she dreaded. Her breaths were shallow, each one a conscious negotiation with the weight settled high in her chest. The servant, a different one today—a woman with kind, tired eyes—held a goblet of thick, sweetened cream to her lips.
“Slowly, my lady,” the woman murmured. “The King wishes for you to finish this before the roasted goose.”
Clara drank. The cream coated her throat, a slick, cold river of fat. She could feel it joining the vast, sloshing sea inside her. Her skin, stretched taut over the immense dome of her stomach, felt hot and thin, like parchment held too close to a flame. She remembered kneading dough, the firm, resilient push-back of the gluten. Her body now had that same over-risen quality, soft and immense and on the verge of collapsing under its own scale.
The doors opened and Oberon strode in, his energy a sharp contrast to the room’s heavy stillness. He was beaming. “My rose,” he said, the pet name landing with a strange, possessive warmth. “Look at you. Absolutely breathtaking.”
He came to stand before her, his eyes performing their usual, appraising circuit: the shelf of her bosom, the sweeping curve of her middle, the way her thighs merged seamlessly with the couch cushions. “The growth this week… phenomenal. Simply phenomenal.” He reached out and traced the line where her jaw used to be, his finger sinking into the softness of her cheek. “You’re leaving the others in the dust. That simpering girl from the southern isles? She complains of heartburn. Heartburn! A trivial inconvenience.”
Clara managed a small, breathy sound that was meant to be a laugh. Speaking required too much air. Her world was internal, a landscape of digesting food and expanding tissue.
“I have a surprise,” Oberon announced, his eyes glittering. He snapped his fingers. Two attendants wheeled in the great scale from the corner of the room, its polished brass gleaming. A familiar dread, once sharp, now dull and distant, stirred in Clara’s gut. The weigh-in.
“No, no, my dear, don’t look so apprehensive,” he chided, seeing the flicker in her eyes. “This is a celebration. You’ve worked so hard. You’ve been so… obedient.”
The attendants approached. The process was now routine, a practiced, humiliating ballet. They slid strong boards beneath her, their faces strained with effort. A grunt escaped one of them as they lifted. The world tilted. Clara closed her eyes, focusing on the feeling of the boards against her back, the only solid thing as she was hoisted into the air. She felt immense, a continent detaching from its moorings.
She heard the clatter of weights, the murmuring of the attendants. Then a sharp, delighted intake of breath from Oberon.
“Nine hundred and twelve!” he proclaimed, his voice ringing with triumph. “Do you hear that, Clara? Nine hundred and twelve pounds! You’ve gained sixty since the last reading.”
They lowered her back onto the couch, the impact a soft, seismic event. Oberon knelt beside her, his face level with hers. His excitement was a palpable force. “You’re more than three-quarters of the way there. My thousand-pound queen is within reach.” He took her hand, his own surprisingly cool. “How do you feel?”
How did she feel? It was a question from another lifetime. She felt the constant, low ache in her joints. She felt the pressure on her lungs. She felt the ghost of the village baker’s hands, now too small to ever knead dough again. But she also felt the profound, narcotic satisfaction of a hunger perpetually sated, the power in this passive act of creation.
“Full,” she whispered, the word a mere puff of air.
Oberon laughed, a bright, genuine sound. “Good. That’s the point.” He stood, brushing a non-existent speck of dust from his tunic. “Now, about that goose. And I’ve had the kitchens prepare a black truffle and foie gras stuffing for it. Your new favorite.”
He left her then, with the kind-eyed servant and the promise of more food. The servant brought a damp cloth and wiped the sweat from Clara’s brow and the corners of her mouth. The touch was gentle, human.
“It’s a lot, isn’t it, my lady?” the woman said softly, her voice barely audible.
Clara’s eyes, heavy-lidded, focused on her. It was the first time anyone had acknowledged the reality of it, the sheer physical toll, without the filter of the King’s obsession.
“The gold…” Clara breathed, the sentence too long to finish.
The servant’s eyes darted toward the door, then back. She leaned in closer, her voice a conspiratorial thread. “The others… the ones who didn’t make it. They said the gold arrives for your family regardless. Every month. Like clockwork.”
She straightened up quickly as the doors opened again, the goose arriving on a silver platter, its skin crackling, the air filling with the decadent, funky scent of truffle and liver.
The information settled inside Clara, a new, hard kernel amidst the softness. The gold was guaranteed. She had already saved them. The contest, her transformation, was no longer about desperation. It was about something else entirely.
The servant cut a piece of the breast, the stuffing oozing out. She brought it to Clara’s lips.
Clara opened her mouth. The flavor was overwhelming, rich beyond reason. She chewed, swallowed, and felt the emptiness yawn wide once more, a bottomless pit that was now the center of her universe. She was not doing this for them anymore. She was doing it for the next bite. And the one after that.
The other women watched her from their places at the grand table, their expressions a messy cocktail of awe and mortification. Isabella, her own considerable frame seeming almost delicate in comparison, clenched her jaw, her eyes hardening with a competitive fire. She would catch up, no matter what it took.
Clara dominated the head of the table, a vast peninsula of silk and flesh. The servants had needed a special, reinforced bench to seat her. She paid the others no mind, her focus locked on the plate in front of her, heaped with glazed eel and butter-soaked potatoes. She ate with a relentless, mechanical efficiency, shoveling the food in with both hands.
“Slow down, you’ll choke,” the other girl, Elara, whispered, her own fork hovering over a single piece of fowl.
Clara didn’t even look up. The food was the only thing that mattered, the only thing that quieted the roaring void inside her. The gold was already secure, the king’s favor was a given; this was purely for her now.
Isabella stabbed a sausage with violent determination, shoving the entire thing into her mouth. “See?” she mumbled around the food, challenging Elara. “It’s not that hard. You just have to want it.”
But wanting it wasn’t the same as needing it. Clara’s need was a physical law, a gravitational pull drawing all sustenance toward her center. A deep, internal pressure began to build, a urgent signal from her body that had nothing to do with hunger. She realized, with a distant annoyance, that she had to go.
The thought of the effort involved was overwhelming. Standing required planning, a coordinated heave that left her breathless and dizzy. The walk to the privy chamber felt like a marathon she no longer had the stamina for. It would mean stopping, and the emptiness would return, sharp and agonizing, before she even got back.
So she didn’t. She made a decision, a simple, pragmatic calculation in the fog of her hunger. She shifted her weight slightly on the bench, a subtle, almost imperceptible adjustment. She let the tension in her muscles release, focusing past the discomfort, and kept eating. A warm, spreading wetness seeped into the silk of her dress, the sensation muted by layers of fat and fabric.
It was a small surrender, a quiet acknowledgment of what she had become. She reached for a honey cake, the stickiness coating her fingers, and took a large, satisfying bite. The shame was a faint, fleeting ghost, quickly drowned out by the sweetness on her tongue and the profound, heavy fullness settling in her core.
The shame was a faint, fleeting ghost, quickly drowned out by the sweetness on her tongue and the profound, heavy fullness settling in her core. Clara simply gestured for another honey cake, her fingers sticky, as a servant discreetly spread a fresh linen sheet over the damp spot on the bench. The other women pretended not to notice, but Isabella’s eyes, sharp with rivalry, narrowed slightly before she defiantly shoved another pastry into her own mouth.
“More cream,” Clara breathed, the words thick in her throat, and the servant obeyed without hesitation.
Months unraveled in a soft, greasy haze. The feast table became a distant memory, replaced by the constant, mechanical presence of the feeding apparatus Oberon’s engineers had devised. Clara now resided on a vast, padded platform near the fireplace, her body a landscape of rolling hills covered in fine silk. Polished copper tubes snaked from a bubbling vat of nutrient slurry directly into her mouth, delivering a continuous stream of calories that required no effort beyond swallowing.
Her arms, sunk deep into the softness of her sides, were useless; her world had contracted to the view of the gilded ceiling and the sound of the pump’s steady rhythm. Oberon visited daily, his presence a wave of opulent cologne and possessive praise. “You are exceeding every expectation, my dear,” he’d whisper, his hand resting on the tremendous curve of her belly. “You are becoming legend.”
Isabella, meanwhile, had taken a different path. After that last, competitive meal, she’d declared herself bedbound, refusing to move a muscle unless it was to eat. For three months, she was pampered and fed in her own chambers, her body swelling, her gut becoming a taut, prominent sphere that dominated her frame. She reached eight hundred and ninety pounds, convinced she was closing the gap.
“I need to see her,” Isabella insisted one afternoon, her voice strained by the pressure on her diaphragm. “Wheel me to the king’s chambers. I want to see Clara’s progress for myself.” Her attendants exchanged wary glances but obeyed, maneuvering the heavy rolling bed through the palace corridors.
The doors to Oberon’s chambers swung open. The air was thick with the cloying smell of warm oil and slow-cooked meat. Isabella’s eyes scanned the room, past the king who stood smiling by the fireplace, and found the scale.
A scream, raw and full of terror, ripped from her. Clara was there, but she was unrecognizable. She was a pale, immense mound of flesh, motionless on the reinforced scale, its dial frozen at 2400 pounds. A network of tubes was fused into her, connected to a whirring machine that pulsed like a mechanical heart. She was a blob, a monstrous, breathing monument that bore no trace of the baker from the village.
Isabella’s scream died in her throat, choked off by the sheer, impossible scale of the thing that used to be Clara. The body on the platform was a pale, sweating mountain, its surface glistening under the chamber’s low light. There was no face, just a fold of flesh where eyes might have been, and the arms were thick, inert columns sunk into the sides of the main mass.
A low, wet gurgle emanated from the center of the form, followed by a long, resonant fart that filled the room with a foul, greasy smell. The air, already thick with the scent of warmed oil and slow-cooked meat, now carried the sharp tang of human decay. Clara’s body shuddered, a seismic shift of fat and fluid.
“More,” a voice rasped from within the folds, a sound like gravel grinding in a bag. It wasn’t a request but a command. One of the blank-faced servants, a young man she hadn’t noticed before, moved with robotic obedience. He climbed onto the platform, his knees sinking into the softness of her thigh, and began working his way toward the hot, soaked opening between her legs.
“More cream while you fuck me!” Clara screamed, the words slurred and guttural, yet piercing in their demand.
Isabella watched, frozen, her own considerable weight feeling insubstantial, a mere shadow of this grotesque reality. Her mind recoiled, unable to process the scene unfolding before her. The servant, his expression vacant, produced a pastry bag filled with thick, vanilla-infused cream and brought it to Clara’s mouth as he continued his mechanical motions.
“Feed me,” she grunted, and he obediently squeezed the bag, the cream oozing over her lips and chin. She ate, swallowing great gulps of the sweet paste between ragged breaths, her consumption a frantic, desperate rhythm. She didn’t stop, her mouth working relentlessly, even as the servant’s body was drawn closer, pressed against her by the shifting of her immense form.
Then, with a sudden, terrifying lunge of her head, her mouth gaped wide and enveloped the servant’s upper body. There was a muffled cry, abruptly silenced. A wet, cracking sound followed as she swallowed, her throat distending in a wave of muscle and fat. A powerful, full-body shudder wracked her, a climax that made the entire platform tremble.
When it passed, she seemed to expand, her skin stretching tauter, her dimensions visibly larger, as if the act of consumption had instantly added to her monumental bulk.
The terrible, wet stillness that followed was broken only by the whir of the pump and Clara’s heavy, rattling breaths. Isabella, paralyzed on her rolling bed, could only stare at the horror, her own body feeling suddenly small and insignificant. She watched as the remaining servants, their faces masks of practiced indifference, began the process of cleaning the platform, mopping up the mess with brisk, efficient movements.
From the vast, pale mound, a fold of flesh shifted. A single, bloodshot eye emerged from the crease, fixing directly on Isabella. A guttural sound, part speech and part digestion, rumbled forth. “You,” Clara slurred, the word thick and wet. “Come closer.”
Terror should have made her flee, but a morbid, sickening curiosity rooted Isabella to the spot. Her attendants, sensing a command from the king’s favorite, hesitantly wheeled her bed nearer until she was at the platform’s edge. The smell was overwhelming up close—sweet decay and sour sweat.
Clara’s immense arm, a pillar of soft, warm flesh, shifted with a gelatinous quiver. She struggled to lift it, the effort Herculean, and laid her heavy hand on Isabella’s own swollen stomach. The contact was electric. Isabella flinched at the heat, the shocking softness of Clara’s touch.
“You feel it too,” Clara rasped, her eye gleaming with a strange light. “The emptiness. It never really goes away.” Her fingers, surprisingly delicate despite their size, pressed into Isabella’s taut belly. “It just gets bigger.”
A shiver, wholly unfamiliar, ran through Isabella. It wasn’t disgust. It was a terrifying flicker of recognition, of shared hunger. Clara’s touch, instead of repulsing her, stirred something deep and dormant. She felt a warmth pooling low in her own body, a response to the overwhelming mass and pressure of the woman before her.
“Touch me,” Clara commanded, her voice a low thrum. “I want to feel… another. Like me.”
Isabella’s hand trembled as she raised it. Her mind screamed in protest, but her body, addicted to the constant fullness, betrayed her. She pressed her palm against the colossal curve of Clara’s side. The skin was hot, stretched to a porcelain smoothness, and yielded under her touch with a profound, heavy softness. A jolt of pure, shocking arousal shot through her.
“See?” Clara whispered, a trickle of saliva tracing a path through the folds of her chin. “It’s better than the food. It’s real.” Her breath hitched. “I can give you the formula. The real one. Not this slop they feed the others.”
The spell broke. Isabella snatched her hand back as if burned. “No,” she gasped, her heart hammering against her ribs. “I’m… I’m leaving. I’m getting out of this place. I’m going to lose all this weight.” The words felt hollow, a desperate incantation against the hunger Clara had awakened.
Clara’s eye crinkled, a grotesque imitation of a smile. “You won’t,” she breathed, the certainty in her voice absolute. “You’re already one of us.”
Isabella signaled frantically to her attendants, who wheeled her away with haste. She didn’t look back, but the sensation of Clara’s warm, immense flesh stayed imprinted on her hand. That night, back in her chambers, she pushed away the tray of rich foods, determined to reclaim her former self. But sleep wouldn’t come. All she could feel was the ghost of that massive, warm body against her palm, and all she could think about was the profound, crushing fullness she had felt there. The emptiness inside her yawned, wider and deeper than ever before.
The emptiness inside her yawned, wider and deeper than ever before. It was a cavernous thing, this hunger, and Isabella’s resolve to starve it felt as flimsy as parchment. By dawn, she was ringing the bell for her attendants, her voice hoarse. "The usual," she croaked, "and double the honeyed oats." The fight was over. Clara’s touch had been a key, unlocking a deeper, more insatiable need.
Word of Isabella’s capitulation and Clara’s… transformation… spread through the palace in hushed, horrified tones. It eventually reached the ears of Beatrice, a former contender who had withdrawn from the contest months prior, claiming a sudden illness. Curiosity, a stubborn and reckless weed, had taken root in her. She had to see for herself what the baker’s daughter had become.
She found her way to the king’s chambers, bribing a guard with a family heirloom. The sight that greeted her stole the air from her lungs. Clara was a leviathan of pale flesh, a breathing landscape under the dim light, her form dwarfing the massive platform. The air was a thick soup of scent: warm cream, human sweat, and something darker, meatier.
"Gods above," Beatrice whispered, her hand flying to her mouth.
A low, wet chuckle emanated from the mound. A fold of skin shifted, revealing a single, knowing eye. "Beatrice," Clara slurred, the name a sticky sound. "Come. See what you gave up."
Hesitantly, Beatrice approached the platform. She climbed onto the padded edge, the structure groaning under their combined weight. She was a large woman, over seven hundred pounds, but next to Clara she felt dainty, insignificant. "I heard stories," Beatrice said, her voice trembling. "I didn't believe them."
"Believe them," Clara rumbled. Her immense hand, soft and hot as fresh bread, landed on Beatrice’s thigh. "Stay. Feast with me."
A servant, blank-faced, brought a tray of delicacies and a tall pitcher of thick, vanilla-scented cream. Beatrice, mesmerized by the sheer scale of the woman before her, found herself nodding. She ate a glazed pear, then another, her eyes locked on Clara’s. She reached out, her fingers sinking into the incredible softness of Clara’s arm. It yielded like warm dough, giving way endlessly.
"So soft," Beatrice breathed, her fear melting into a strange, awed arousal.
Clara’s hand moved to Beatrice’s chin, pulling her closer. "So are you," she murmured, and closed the gap. Their lips met, a messy, hungry collision. Beatrice tasted the sweet cream on Clara’s tongue and moaned, her own hands roaming over the vast, warm topography of Clara’s body. She felt the immense, living softness of Clara’s stomach, the heavy swell of her breasts. It was nothing like the hard, competitive world outside this room.
"More," Clara panted, breaking the kiss, her eyes blazing with a desperate need. "I want to feel you. All of you."
Understanding dawned on Beatrice, and instead of fear, a thrilling heat surged through her. She shifted down the platform, her own substantial body navigating the rolls of Clara’s flesh. She buried her face between Clara’s massive thighs, in the hot, wet darkness there. The smell was overwhelming, primal.
Clara cried out, a guttural, raw sound. She fumbled for the pitcher of cream, lifting it with a grunt and pouring it directly into her open mouth. She drank in great, greedy gulps, the cream spilling over her cheeks and chin. "Deeper," she begged, her voice thick with cream and desire. Her body began to rock, a slow, powerful rhythm. "I need more inside me."
Beatrice obliged, losing herself in the act, in the sheer sensory overload. Clara’s giant thighs, each one a pillar of soft flesh, pressed in on her, trapping her. The rocking became more frantic, a tidal motion that was impossible to resist. Beatrice tried to pull back for air, but the movement, the immense pressure, held her fast.
She was being pushed deeper, swallowed by the very softness she had been exploring. Clara’s body seemed to open up and pull her in. There was a moment of impossible, stretching pressure, a sensation of being utterly consumed. Beatrice’s world narrowed to heat and darkness and a final, muffled climax that shook her entire frame.
Then, she was gone.
A massive, full-body shudder wracked Clara, a climax so violent it seemed to rearrange her very bones. The empty pitcher clattered to the floor. Instantly, her flesh surged outward, the skin stretching with a sound like tearing silk. She gained eight hundred pounds in a single, grotesque wave, her form expanding to fill even more of the platform. The overwhelming sensation of that internal expansion triggered another huge, rolling climax that left her gasping, a new, even vaster monument to hunger.