The Elf-slave.

Once upon a time, Taralla had run through the forests of her home. She’d felt the springy moss beneath her feet, heard the bubbling streams and the crooning wind among the trees, delighted in the twanging of her bowstring as she felled any who came armed into the sacred groves.
Those times seemed a long, long way away now.

“Hurry it up, knife-ear. I don’t have all day,” the ugly human barked at her in his ugly human tongue, and she tried not to let her temper flare. Her pride had landed her in trouble too many times for her to think that talking back was going to get her anywhere. Instead, she kept her mouth shut and did her best to pick up the pace.
Once, this journey, this short walk down to the river, wouldn’t even have registered in her mind. It would have been too easy, too casual to consider. Now…
She raised a foot and swung it forwards, her fat thighs rubbing against each other as she did so, then carefully shifted her weight onto it, feeling her swollen body quiver and jiggle as she moved precariously forwards. Now the other foot moved ahead, her fat thigh wobbling as it shifted, and she felt her muscles burn with the rare exercise, gasping for breath as she slowly waddled her way down to the riverside where the slaver was waiting.

Every time she made this trip she was slower. When she’d first been captured, she’d made it with hands and feet chained, shuffling along in a furious daze, angry at both the slaver for capturing her and at herself for letting it happen. After a while though, whatever infernal mixture he was feeding her had begun to take its toll on her figure; first it had just been a slight softness of the belly and hips, but before she knew it her lithe, muscular body was buried under increasingly heavy rolls and folds of flab. After just a few months, she’d grown so fat that the manacles dug cruelly into her ankles and wrists, and the slaver had been forced to remove them. At first she’d thought it an opportunity to escape, but by that point she’d become so agonisingly slow and fat that she didn’t have a hope of outrunning him, and after a single failed attempt she didn’t try again. Since then she’d only grown more massive, her belly sagging down ever further, her limbs growing ever thicker, her breasts becoming ever flabbier.
Back when she’d been slim, she’d always wished to be bustier. Elves, as a rule, tended towards flat-chestedness, but she had been even flatter than most; after these few months in the slaver’s care, however, her chest had swollen to match any buxom adventureress. Perhaps it was a side effect of that awful paste was he was feeding her, or just a natural tendency to store fat on her chest. Like almost all free elves, she’d never been anything but visibly, exceptionally slim before her capture, so it wasn’t as though she’d have known if she did tend to store fat on her chest. In any case, this certainly wasn’t worth it. Sure, she had breasts now – but they were flabby, swollen things, drooping down heavily to rest on the massive swell of her belly.
That was another thing she’d never had before; a belly. She’d had a midsection before, of course, but never a belly; never this separate, sagging, bulky thing that moved and jiggled with a mind of its own as she moved, providing yet another constant irritation to make walking that little bit harder.

“Get a move on!” the slaver complained, watching her slowly, agonisingly waddling her way towards him, “I thought you elf-types were supposed to be agile ‘n’ elegant an’ all that. Speed it up!”
Scowling to herself, Taralla tried to move faster, but she simply couldn’t. She couldn’t see where she was stepping – the bloated swell of her belly saw to that – and her lungs felt ready to burst with the strain of supplying oxygen to her absurdly oversized body. The muscles in her flabby legs felt ready to give out entirely as she took the last few steps towards the water, sweat pouring down her pale flanks and giving her massive body an unhealthy sheen. Gasping, she sank to her knees in the river mud, the cold water finally cooling her overheated body.
“’Bout time,” the slaver muttered, eyeing her wobbling, sagging form appreciatively. “Looks like yer ready.”
Taralla looked up at him, eyes bleary with exhaustion and sweat, double-chin quivering with the motion.
“R-ready?” she managed to wheeze, and the slaver grinned.
“Aye,” he leered, “Let’s get you washed up. It’s time for you t' go to market."