The Slob Duchess

Sitting in the expensive chair, in her expensive dress, Clara rubbed her hands together expectantly as her plate was set in front of her.  "Ah, such tasty looking lamb!" she cried.

"Yes, my duchess," said the serving girl, as she pulled away.

Clara could not resist the urge to lick her lips.  She was 18 years old, and was a member of the aristocracy, but of a lower station; her father was merely a baronet.  However, she was very beautiful: she had pale skin, and lovely pale blond hair, and green eyes that glimmered above her plump cheeks.  She was slender, but a bit pronounced in the bottom, her twin buttocks visible even through the elaborate gown she now wore.

And this beauty had been her salvation: she had caught the eye of the son of His Lordship the Duke of Beaufort, at a ball that both had attended.  Courtship had begun, one thing had led to another, and they had found themselves in love and engaged.  No sooner had this happened, however, than the young noble's father had tragically died, making him, all of a sudden, the new Duke of Beaufort.  Clara had been comforting and tender to him in this tragic period, which had only increased his desire to marry her.  And marry her he had, so  Clara was now the Duchess of Beaufort, swathed in power, privilege, and luxury.  Her parents were so proud.

"Do tuck in, darling," said her husband the Duke.  They both sat at one end of the huge table in the great dining hall, lit by candles in the twilight of the Spring evening.  Clara and her husband truly loved each other, so they preferred to sit close to each other when they ate, as opposed to some noble couples that sat at opposite ends of their great table.

Clara eyed the plate again.  It was roasted lamb, several racks, covered in a ruby red wine reduction sauce.  A heaping portion of roast potatoes lay at one side of the plate, while at the other, greasy green vegetables were set.  Clara thought it was quite a lot of food, but she'd quickly grown used to eating more than her old portions as a duchess.  Already she was sporting a tummy she hadn't had before marrying the Duke.  So she picked up her fork and knife, cut a bite of the lamb, and put it in her mouth.

"Ohhmm," she moaned.  "This is delicious!"  She cut another bite and ate it.  She ate another bite.  And another.  It really was quite good.  "My dearest, your kitchen makes the finest food I have ever eaten!"

"I'm glad you think so, darling," said the Duke, cutting into his own, smaller share of food.  "I hope you will enjoy the food here for many years to come."

Clara cut another bite.  She gobbled down some roast potatoes.  She ate--and she smacked.  Flecks of gooey red juice spattered down her mouth, and Clara knew it, and she was mortified.  "Ah, ah, so sorry," she said, wiping at her mouth and chin with her napkin.

"Oh, darling, I don't mind at all," said the Duke.

"Ah, my dearest, I must confess..." Clara glanced to the side, and blushed a bit, "I must confess, I have had trouble over the years with my... manners."

"Have you, now?" said the Duke.

"My teachers in etiquette were reprimanding me constantly," said Clara.  "And, if I am honest with myself, it was well-deserved."

"I believe I heard something to that effect," said the Duke.

"The truth is, dearest..." Clara blushed, and could not stop herself from feeling a thrill up her spine as she said it, "the truth is, that if I am not constantly watched, I have a tendency to make a pig of myself, both at the table and away from it.  My mother and the servants constantly reprimanded me for my slovenly behavior."

"Ah, you needn't worry about that."

"Hmm?" said Clara, pale eyebrows rising as she stared at her new husband.

"Darling, I already knew about that," said the Duke.  "I learned of it when I went to court you for the first time.  All your maids and servants tried to warn me about it.  But the truth is..." the Duke smiled lecherously, "I find that very appealing."

Clara blushed.  "D-Do you now, my dear?"

"Yes," said the Duke.  "I find nothing less tolerable than a woman who is too uptight.  Too fussy.  Obviously standards must be kept up in public, for the sake of noble obligation... but when we need not oblige the public eye, why should a woman be too tightly wound?  She should be loose, instead.  Indeed, the looser she is, in her behavior and her conduct, the more I find myself drawn to her.  It is a... prurient interest, I admit.  But it is indeed one of the things that drew me to you."

Now Clara was blushing something fierce.  "My dearest, my lord... do you mean to say that you find it fetching, when I behave... slovenly?"

The Duke grinned at her.  "Darling, that is precisely what I mean to say."

Clara felt a powerful twitch deep in her body.  In her loins.  In her guts.  In her bones.  It felt as though she'd been kept in a straitjacket, but her husband had just undone the padlock on it.

And she smiled.  "Well... well, well, well, dearest... you dirty little boy," said Clara, and she smirked at him.  "I suppose, in the interest of pleasing you, I will be LESS careful about my behavior in the future, not more."

"At least when we are not entertaining," said the Duke.

"Oh, of course, of course," said Clara, cutting another big bite and chewing.  Meat juice dribbled from the corner of her mouth, and she smiled.  "We must keep up appearances for company, as you say.  We must--" she paused.  She flexed.  She opened her mouth: "*BUUAAAAARRRRPPPPPPP!!*"

"Well done," said the Duke as his wife's great belch rolled through the room.  "Quite impressive.  Do keep it up, will you?"

Feeling very happy, and more than a little naughty, Clara smirked at him.  "As you wish, my dearest," she said, cutting herself another big bite of meat.
____________________________________________________________________
TEN YEARS LATER

"Ah, this way, my lady," said the serving girl.  "Your lunch should be before you momentarily."

"Oh, *hff*, must you have made me walk all the way from the sitting room?" said Clara, trundling heavily into the dining room.  "I could have taken lunch there.  We could have settled a tray.  Or perhaps you could have fed me."

"I'm sorry, my duchess," said the girl.  "The cook believed that taking your food all the way to the sitting room would have made it too cold by the time it arrived to you.  He knows you prefer warm meats to cold ones."

"*Pff* that I do," puffed Clara, waddling forward.  "Urnf," she gurgled, and felt a pressure in her guts.

*FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFRRRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTT!!!*

"Ahh," she sighed contentedly, waddling as the fart erupted from her vast backside.  "Ah, much better."

*PPRRRTTT!!*

"Oof," she grunted, picking up her lumbering pace as the table was now in sight.  "Too much cheese last night, I think."

The serving girl, walking behind her, visibly gagged at the terrible stench of the duchess's flatulence.  "Well, my lady, you did eat an entire wheel."

"Mmm, that I did," said Clara, with a spoiled, greedy little smile, remembering the great wheel of cheddar on which she'd gorged herself while her husband had sat with his friends.  "A lady must entertain herself in some way, my dear."

"Yes, my duchess," said the serving girl, as the table came into their immediate presence.

28-year-old Clara lumbered to her seat, a specially made chair more than twice as wide as the normal seats at the great dining table.  This was needed, because Clara had become more than twice as wide as a normal person.  Ten years of spoiled, slobbish, luxuriant marriage had turned Clara into a fattened sow of a woman.  She was colossally obese, weighing more than 420 pounds.  Her formerly pretty face had become heavy and swollen.  Her formerly pretty, plump cheeks had bloated into flabby jowls that oozed into a heavy second chin, which now sagged onto the neckline of her dress.  Her dresses were cut especially generously to accommodate the duchess's great size, including room in the chest to manage her hefty breasts, big and pale, as big as the bowling balls her husband loved to amuse himself with on the grounds.  These mammaries were framed by porky fat arms, bulging and bursting with pale, jiggly blubber.

Clara's dress needed even more room, though, to hold in her engorged gut.  Clara had a vast, fat belly, booming in front of her in a great round protrusion of blubber, with a deep, dark navel.  It sagged past her waistline, past her thighs, coming perilously close to resting on the tops of her knees.  The forward bulge of her gut meant that Clara often walked with her arms slightly out to the side for balance, especially when she was feeling full, or especially gassy.

Her belly led the way to the table, where the serving girl pulled out her chair.  "Here you are, my lady," she said.

"Ohh," grunted Clara, settling her tremendous backside into the seat.  Clara's belly may have led the way, but her bottom brought up the rear.  Always more bottom-heavy, even when she was skinny, in her fattened older age Clara had an utterly colossal backside, so big, so wide, so protuberant that she usually did not need to wear a bustle to accentuate it.  Bulging out against her expensive skirts, each buttock was immense, a heavy, hefty, saggy blob of fat, each one as big as the globes that decorated her husband's library.  Clara had a seat that could put a horse to shame.  Indeed, she did not ride horses any more, precisely because there was practically no horse upon which her immense rump could fit.  Even this chair, specially made, was beginning to strain to accommodate the vastness of the duchess' backside.

But, for the moment, it did the job, and with a heavy grunt of exertion, the serving girl scooted her closer to the table.

*PRRT!* came the sharp toot from Clara's anus.  The serving girl grimaced again at the pungent smell.

"Now, now, dear," said Clara, "be quick, and get me my lunch.  I'm peckish."

"Yes, my lady," said the serving girl.

She left, and Clara reflected on the meal to come.  In ten years as her husband's wife, she had borne him two sons, which had helped contribute to her considerable weight gain.  But that was far from the only explanation.  In truth, Clara had grown rotund because her husband had encouraged it, and because the potential to do so had always lurked within her.  The total permissiveness of the Duke had caused Clara to indulge all her most luxuriant and spoiled appetites, and this had absolutely included a great gluttonous streak.  Clara had found that she loved to eat, that she loved good food and plenty of it.  Indeed, Clara had become more than a little whiny and spoiled, pestering the kitchens for snacks and treats and desserts at all hours.  More than once, the servants had been summoned in the middle of the night to their hoggish mistress' chambers, where she would make them sit as she stuffed her face with the midnight snack they'd brought her.

Clara thought of food now.  She thought of food and she loved it, and she felt a simple, very piggy greed for the meal to come.  "Mmm, yum yum," said Clara, waggling her chubby fingers.  She licked her lips, and trails of drool began to ooze down her porcine face, running into the folds of her fat chins.

"Here you are, my lady," said the serving girl.  She set a great platter in front of Clara, on which were set two delectable roast chickens, as well as a heap of mashed potatoes swimming in gravy.

"Morhf," gurgled Clara, who immediately picked up one of the chickens and tore a chunk off of it.  She crammed this greasy, juicy bit of meat into her mouth, the hot meat juices oozing and running down her jowls.  She tore another chunk off, and crammed this in her mouth as well, then took two tubby fingers and swept a great mouthful of mashed potatoes up into her mouth.

When eating with her husband, Clara would usually use utensils, unless he gave her permission not to do so.  However, for her private luncheons, the duchess had for years now preferred to eat with her hands.  It was so naughty, and titillating, but at the same time so very satisfying.  It was such a deep pleasure for the fat woman to eat with her bare hands.  Clara knew this made no sense, but in her mind, she felt that the food just tasted better when she ate it with her fingertips.

"Slrfp," slobbered Clara as she cleaned the bones of the first chicken.  It was especially useful to use your hands with birds: chickens, ducks, pheasants, and so on.  All the little bones and folds of the carcass meant that quite a lot of meat got missed, if you merely contented yourself with a fork and knife.  But the duchess expertly sucked the bones dry of their flesh.  By now her entire porky jawline was coated in grease and meat juice, and dribbles of gravy and grease had spattered all over her enormous bosom.  Indeed, the fat noblewoman's boobs were so large that they pooled onto the table in front of her, and so they'd caught quite a lot of the carnage of the meal.  Clara had ruined numerous dresses over the years with the sloppiness of her eating, and the rate had only increased as she'd swollen in size.

"My lady," said the serving girl, coming up next to her.  "My lady, your--"

"*BOOOORRRRRRPPP!!*" Clara turned and belched right in her servant's face, rattling the fine china and vases in the dining room with the force of the burp.  She also flecked the girl's face with meat juice and gravy.  She smiled at the girl somewhat sheepishly.  "Ah, do excuse me," she said.

The girl winced visibly as she wiped some gravy off her face.  "My lady, here is your glass of wine."  And she set, not a normal glass, but a big pint glass of rich red Burgundy on the table.

"Ahh, much obliged," said the duchess, her fat arm jiggling as she picked up the great glass of wine.  Clara was not the fondest of spirits, as such.  She did not normally join her husband in his evening indulgences of port or brandy.  But she'd learned to pair wine with food, and had a good palate for this, knowing what of her husband's extensive cellar would best pair with her meal on any given day.  And she could actually drink quite a lot, owing to her considerable heft.  The great size of the duchess meant that she did not get drunk near as easily as most women her age.  So she took a mighty swig of the wine, and gulped it down, a little red rivulet of the liquid running down her fat chins.  "URP!" she belched sharply, and resumed her meal.

The second chicken went down as quickly as the first, and in no time, grease oozed down Clara's face as she cleaned this one's bones, as well.  She'd already scooped the vast majority of the mashed potatoes into her mouth.  Now she suckled on the bones of the second chicken, and guzzled the last of her pint of wine.  She sucked, she guzzled, she gurgled, she slurped.  Her great guts churned and her heavy fat throat glugged as the duchess made it very clear why she weighed more than a fifth of a ton.  As if that were not enough, when the wine was all gone, and every bone was clean, she lifted the plate up.  With a greedy, spoiled glint in her eye, Clara began to lick the plate like a dog.  She lapped up the meat juice, the grease, the remnants of the gravy and potatoes, until none remained.

When her plate was spotless, Clara set it down on the white linen tablecloth, which of course was thoroughly stained.  It bore numerous old stains upon it, stains the staff had never been able to fully remove from Clara's numerous feedings over the years.  "Ahhhh," Clara sighed contentedly.  "Waste not, want *UURP!* not."

"Are you all finished, my lady?" said the serving girl.

"Yes, my dear," said the duchess.  "Do take it away."

So the serving girl took the plate, and the pint glass, away.  Clara sat there in a comfortable haze.  As much as she loved the act of eating, she might have loved the pleasure of fullness better.  As much as she enjoyed actively stuffing her face, and satisfying her desires, the glutted bliss of feeling that her desires had been satisfied gave it a run for its money.  The heavy comfort in her vast guts.  Clara's green eyes blinked slowly.  She'd need a nap in the next two or three hours.  The duchess' great obesity meant that she snored loudly, which was part of why she and her husband slept in separate rooms, except on nights when they were making love.  So she'd retire to her bedchambers soon enough.  She relaxed a bit more.

*FFFFRRRRRRRTTTTTT*

"Ahh," she sighed as the dining room filled with her fart.  "Tis truly comforting to break wind."  And she felt additional pressure.  So she decided to relax further.

*PPPRRRRRRRRRRTTTTTTTTT!!!*

Now the room truly stank.

*FRRRRRRRRTTTTTT!!!*

An awful, eye-watering stench wafted through the dining room and out of it, and the duchess smiled contentedly at the release of her farts.  Now she REALLY relaxed, actively flexing her gigantic buttocks apart and openly gapping her anus--

*FFRRRRRR-SPLRT!*

Clara's piggy face rippled with the sudden realization.  She felt great, sticky wetness in the immense crack of her backside.  She felt a cold wetness spreading over the back of her dress.  "Oh," she said.  "Hmm, I must have a walk."  And she sat up, and grunted, and groaned.

"Ah, ah, my lady!" said the serving girl, hastily running to her side.  "Don't strain yourself, my lady.  You are delicate!"

"That I am," said Clara.  "Do help me up."  And the servant girl took hold of each of her plump wrists, and with a great groan on her part, the vast fat woman was hauled to her feet.  Clara still felt the stickiness, the wetness, amid the depths of her buttocks.  And she could feel the growing pressure there, but not a pressure to fart.  "Prepare my hat and my parasol," she said.  "I am in need of a walk in the gardens."

The serving girl's eyes widened.  She knew what this meant, by now.  "Yes, my duchess.  Shall I alert the groundskeepers?"

The pressure was building.  Clara knew she'd need to get going soon.  "Yes," she said.  "Yes, do let them know I shall be doing my usual rounds."

"Of course, my lady," said the serving girl.  "Do come with me."

The serving girl led Clara through the immense country estate.  Clara was groaning, and huffing and puffing under her breath.  In addition to her great size, and her vast fatness, Clara was extremely unfit, and out of shape.  It was very rare that she ever meaningfully exerted herself, except on her walks in the garden.  Her skirts swung about her as the huge fat woman trundled heavily through the hallways and corridors.  Her plump armpits, which she did not shave, were trickling with sweat.

*Prrbblll*

A gurgly little fart snuck its way out of the duchess' tremendous backside.  Clara knew she had to hurry, so, as much as she disliked it, she picked up her pace a little.

So she was huffing and puffing as she made her way down the steps of the outer landing, down into the gardens.  "*Hff*, *pff*, *pff*, *wheeze*," gasped Clara, huge belly swinging and sagging on front of her, enormous posterior oozing and jiggling behind her.  Even through her beautiful, expensive gowns, the impressive extent of her obesity could be fully seen.  Even the fatness of her arms was on display through the silk and lace.  "*Kff*, *hkf*," she coughed gently, struggling to regain her breath when she reached the bottom of the stairs.  "Oh... my... *wheeze*... such a lovely day," she said, gazing up at the perfect Spring day with its cloudless, sunny sky.

"My lady?"  She turned.  Another serving girl was there.  "Here is your hat, my lady," she said, holding up a great sun hat.  Clara bent her head, and the serving girl put the hat on her head.  "And here is your parasol," she said, handing the delicate silk umbrella to Clara.

She had, by now, mostly caught her breath.  She could feel the movement deep inside her, but, fortunately, she had made it in time, and there would be no accidents in the estate house.  Clara smiled, still some gravy and grease on her swinish face.  "Ahh, thank you," she said, serene, gentle.

"Please do ring the bell when you are finished, my lady," said the first serving girl.

"Yes, yes, as usual," said Clara, opening her parasol.  "I shall need some tea when I return.  Have it ready for me."

"Yes, my lady," said the first serving girl.  She and the second girl bowed, and walked back up the steps towards the house.

Clara settled her parasol on her shoulder, its beautiful white expanse keeping the sun off her pale skin.  She smiled.

*PRrfllf*

Chunky brown ooze dribbled out from between the cheeks of her bottom.  She was not wearing any undergarments, so it dribbled down her petticoats and her thick, massive thighs.

"Ahhhhh," Clara sighed, relaxed, content.  She felt so comfortable.  She always did, when making her walks.  She smiled happily, and waddled slowly into the gardens.

The great manicured gardens were beautiful, covered in hedges, great swaths of flowers, high trees gleaming overhead.  The sun shone down.  The birds chirped in all directions.  Butterflies fluttered in the air, and honeybees buzzed.  Clara smiled, relaxed and comfortable.  She was so at ease.  She was so at peace.

*Prrtttt*

"Hmmmm," hummed Clara, as she began to poop.  Between the cheeks of her backside, her anus flexed open, and the duchess breathed easily as a gigantic, dark brown turd slid out, oozing from its weight and size.  "Mmm," moaned Clara as the big poop came out more and more.  Clara waddled along, taking in the scents of the flowers, the pleasant temperature of the air, as she kept on pooping, the turd swelling more and more.

*Sprt*

With a final pump, her asshole rid itself of the turd, and it fell down her petticoats, out of her skirt, and spattered to the dusty path of the gardens.  Clara easily, lazily kept waddling along, and her skirts at last left the space, revealing her big turd lying there in the dirt.  Instantly a fly landed on it.

"Ah, the rhododendrons are so pretty this year," said the duchess, as she took another poop.  She did not try to.  She did not mean to.  Clara's anus simply spouted turds as she walked along, and Clara felt the happy, gentle relaxation of defecating, especially defecating amid such beautiful surroundings.  Clara loved to poop amid the gardens.  It was like a beautiful dream, a beautiful, sensual dream, wandering amid the beautiful sights and sounds and smells and relieving herself, comforting herself with the soothing release of her excrement.  She'd started doing it a few years ago and had wondered why it had taken her so long to start.

*Prrrrshlcht*

"Mmmm," hummed Clara, utterly relaxed, utterly calm, utterly at peace, as a a hefty, slimy flow of shit streamed continuously from her pudgy anus.  She'd come to a bend in the path and had turned left, and on this leftward turn, the duchess left a steady trail of turds in her wake, popping and sputtering her poop as she lazily waddled along.  The groundskeepers were, of course, well used to their mistress' vile habits by now.  But they had learned to deal with it, and to clean her droppings when she was done.  It was rather like cleaning up after a horse or a dog, they'd decided.

"Mmm, what is this?" said Clara, stopping.  "I've not seen this flower before."  She bent in for a closer look.

*PPpsssssssssssssssssss*

Clara barely noticed as she heavily urinated, pee streaming from between her legs and spattering into the ground below.

"My, such a beautiful blue color," said the duchess, and as she said this a huge turd slid out of her anus.  She barely paid attention to it as it joined her urine on the dirt path, except insofar as she noticed the continued release of pressure.

Clara's control of her bowels and bladder had seriously degraded in the past ten years, and these days she was functionally incontinent.  This was why Clara had been so eager to get to the gardens when she felt the pressure: because eventually she would simply have begun pooping, whether she was outside or not.  Once a week or so, Clara would empty her bowels as she slept, and she would wake in a heavy mess of her own filth.  The servants dreaded an early morning ring from the bell in her room, because it usually meant that their magnificent duchess had shat her bed yet again.

"Mmm," sighed Clara, feeling better.  The flow of her poop was slowing.  She could take quite a dump when she'd eaten a lot, which was often, and she sometimes had to make more than one round around the garden to empty it all out.  But she was coming around the final corner of the great open rectangles, and her buttocks flexed a bit as she dumped a doglike pile of turds onto the ground.  Clara had, the entire time, kept up the same lazy, leisurely pace, the slow, luxuriant waddle that was fitting for a woman of her wealth, her status, and her girth.  She was satisfied.  She was content.  She'd become a woman of means, a woman of nobility, a woman to whom nothing was denied.  Her husband adored her.  She could indulge in every pleasure, every leisure, every luxury.  She'd been given permission to accept and embrace her worst habits, and she was vastly happier for it.  Clara was as happy as a pig in... well, you know.

*PLRT!*

A big, heavy burst of poop splashed from her anus and plopped to the ground.  And with that, the duchess knew she was done.  "Ahhh," she sighed contentedly.  "Now, I do indeed believe it is time for some tea.  And, perhaps some cake, as well."  She began to waddle out of the gardens, back towards the house.  "Hmm, perhaps some cake AND some pie..."

END