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"I think," Tav says, the faintest hint of a grin playing at the corner of their mouth, "that you should try to take care of yourself tonight."
Lae'zel huffs out a breath, levering herself a little higher on one elbow to glare at them over the swell of her belly. Even that simple motion threatens to wind her, but that's because she's just a little over-full, surely. Stuffed with roast duck and wild rice and more than a dozen fluffy rolls liberally slathered with butter. "You think that I cannot?"
"I didn't say that," Tav replies, eyes gleaming as all of Lae'zel's bulk wobbles with her disbelieving scoff. "I'd just like to watch. You always give me such a good show."
"Flattery will earn you nothing," Lae'zel grumbles, but she's heaving herself a little further upright nonetheless, leaning into the pillows mounded against the headboard, taking slow, deep breaths as her belly settles between her thighs, forcing them apart. Tav makes a small noise, low in their throat, eyes fixed on her bare, swollen breasts, the way the mottled flesh sags to either side of her gut. Lae'zel grunts, reaching up to tweak a pert brown nipple between thick fingers. She cannot pretend the rapt attention isn't gratifying, in its way.
Lae'zel's other hand trails over the crest of her belly, and she can hear the pitch of Tav's breathing change, subtly, as she traces the curve of a fresh stretch-mark towards her navel. She actually has to strain forward a little to reach it, and that elicits a little pang of something, down deep, a heady mixture of shame and pleasure and panic. She cannot be that fat yet, surely. She's merely bloated with the ridiculous quantity of food that Tav insisted on shoving down her gullet.
(Never mind how deep she needs to dig her fingers in to even feel the stuffed-solid core of her belly, these days. Never mind how eagerly she snatched each morsel from their fingers. Never mind that there remains a tray of pastries on the bedside table, and that her gut is rumbling needily for the hot-sugar scent of them).
Lae'zel tips her head down a little, ignoring the way the heavy roll of her second chin deepens with the motion, kneads at the outer sprawl of one thigh, dimpled with cellulite. She tries not to think about just how wide she's become with Tav's pampering; she's taking up more than half of the bed, certainly, one flabby hip spilling over the unseen divide, the other towards the edge of the mattress. Another few months of unmitigated gluttony and she may well outgrow it. A belated shudder ripples through her for the thought, and Tav makes another soft sound as Lae'zel splays her legs just that little bit wider. Her inner thighs are determined to touch no matter her stance, these days, chafing together with every awkward stride. That alone should be enough motivation to cease making such a hog of herself, but...
But what? Tav is simply too persuasive? All of the rich fare they foist upon her is simply too delicious to stop? Her willpower has grown too weak, too brittle, to refuse them?
Shame and arousal flare within her in equal measure as she fondles the crease between her belly and hip, draws her nails across the stretched, sensitive skin. Tries to buck her hips, finds that she can barely arch them an inch off of the mattress. The simple truth is that she finds the same strange pleasure in this that Tav does, she thinks. She understands being drawn to the pain of being stuffed beyond her limits; it is not entirely dissimilar to the pain of being bruised and marked, the chafing of rope-burn, of restraint. But growing so--spoiled and dissolute, so pathetically overindulged that her belly slaps against her thighs when she walks, that the leather of her swordbelt creaks when she breathes in too sharply...Lae'zel swallows a moan, leans back a little as she works a hand beneath the swell of her gut.
She's needed to be measured for new garments twice in the last month; the sleeve of one of her shirts split down to the armpit when she took too wide a swing during a practice bout, arm-fat spilling free, rippling and swaying. Then a pair of trousers tore at the seat when she thoughtlessly bent over to grab at something Tav had dropped, exposing the dimpled shelf of her arse to the breeze (and the way her joy's pupils had blown wide for the sight had only amplified her embarrassment). Buttons pop free to skitter across the floor when she exhales. Laces cut deep into tender flesh, leaving angry red marks. Sometimes she feels as though she's outgrowing Faerûn itself.
Lae'zel does moan as she grasps the edge of the thick roll that has formed above her groin, so big now that it obscures her cunt from view even when Tav manages to heft her belly out of the way. She's aching, almost sick with need, and the anticipation of relief, the pad of a firm finger applying pressure to her clit while two more curl through slick folds, is so great that she--that she--
--cannot reach? Lae'zel grunts in consternation, upper arm squishing impotently against the cascading folds of her belly as she strains forward, plump fingers only finding more fat-pad. She feels a pang of true panic, then, and she rocks forward, gut pooling against the mattress, finds that the motion only forces her arm wider, and her hand further from its goal.
"Gods above," Tav murmurs, voice breathy, almost gleeful. "Have you gotten too fat to touch yourself already?"
Mortification surges through Lae'zel even as her clit throbs for the bluntness of their words. "No," she snaps, round cheeks flushed scarlet. She shifts her hips, leans back, tries to brace an arm under her belly and heave it out of the way, but it is heavy, and uncooperative, buttery-soft flesh pouring down to graze her thighs regardless. Lae'zel huffs and growls and pants--fingers sometimes grazing her labia, but never reaching beyond. Eventually, sweat-dappled and breathless, she must admit defeat, dropping her gut with a loud thwap, groaning a little for the pressure of it between her thighs.
Tav's shifted onto their hands and knees, now, leaning over to mouth at the wobbling dome of it, practically purring. "Gods, this gorgeous thing must weigh as much as you did at the start of this."
Lae'zel growls warningly, refusing to meet their gaze, face and shoulders suffused with crimson; Tav exhales slowly as she withdraws, pressing themselves deep into her pliant bulk as they lean over her, taking her doubled chin lightly in hand, stroking the apple of her cheek with their thumb. "I know it must be a shock," they say, gently.
It is, some small, distant part of Lae'zel wants to cry out. She has always been a weapon; hewn steel, lean and hard, precise and terrible. Not this soft, slow, indolent thing that cannot even take pleasure when she wants. It is new, and strange, and--and--
--it feels good, and that clamoring part of her hates that it feels good, hates that the wobbling of her mountain of a belly is providing enough friction that she may still be able to achieve orgasm with some concerted effort, hates that she feels a kind of perverse pride for bloating up thrice her size. Hates that the realization is, against all odds, making her hungry.
Tav can feel her gut growling beneath them, she realizes, and they smile, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I'm at your command," they murmur, and Lae'zel feels a slow warmth bloom in her chest, despite herself. All control not lost.
"Do what you do best," she says, after a few moments, and they brighten immediately, leaning away to grab the tray of pastries and place it atop her chest, within reach. They shuffle back, then, hefting her belly and bracing their shoulder against the wall of it, leaning down to nibble at the soft flesh of her exposed inner thigh. Lae'zel groans softly, plucking a pastry from the tray and eying it with some apprehension; oozing cream, lacquered with a sugar glaze. Tav squeezes the expanse of her lower belly, lovingly, and Lae'zel closes her eyes, and takes a bite.