The Elf-slave - Market.

ONE SUCCULENT ELF
PRE FATTENED
GOES WELL WITH ONION GRAVY
ONLY 300 DENARII

The crude sign hung around Taralla’s neck was the only thing the slaver had given her to wear, and reading the upside-down human lettering had finally struck the reality of her situation home. Somehow, even after months in the slaver’s care, her body bloating fatter and fatter with each passing week, her muscles deteriorating as fast as her once-stunning looks, she’d still nurtured hope of escape. It had been faint and distant, certainly, but it had been there. Perhaps her next owner would let her lose some of the extra weight and she could escape, or maybe they’d even be sympathetic enough to her situation that they might free her and let her return to her people. There must be some humans that weren’t just thuggish brutes, right?

Now though, as she stood naked in the bustle of the slave market, weathering the lusty stares of passers-by as she wheezed and puffed and groaned at the strain of standing unsupported for so long, that hope was finally flickering into nonexistence. She was destined for a dinner table, and from this there would be no escape.
When she’d imagined her end, back in the forests and the sacred groves, she’d envisioned a grand battle against the humans, seen herself laying down her life to defend their sacred places. That would have been a good death. She certainly hadn’t imagined herself traded into her fate as a fat, overfed commodity, her precious elven body wasted as the centrepiece of some soon-forgotten feast.

Someone had stopped in front of her cage, and with an effort Taralla managed to raise her head high enough to make out the figure of a sharply-dressed man. His mouth was twisted into a satisfied grin as his gaze raked across her bare body, taking in the sagging orb of her belly, her swollen, overfull breasts, her excessive backside. His eyes lingered on the way her fat thighs almost swallowed her knees in their drooping folds, and the way they were themselves almost buried in turn by the hanging mass of flab that was her belly, drinking in the size of her with a speculative pleasure.
His examination continued for an uncomfortably lengthy period of time. Eventually, however, he stepped suddenly forwards, one hand extending through the bars of her cage towards her.
“Oy! No touchin’,” the voice of the slaver barked from beside the cage, and for the first time Taralla felt a surge of gratitude towards her captor. It was to be short-lived, however.
“Do I look like some commoner here to leer at the merchandise?” the stranger sneered, his lip curling as he pulled his gaze away from Taralla and onto the slaver, “I’m obviously interested in buying. Now, may I?” He straightened his coat, drawing attention to the expensive satryskin trimming and glimmering gold buttons.
The slaver scowled narrowly at the stranger, but after a moment he set himself back down on his stool and gestured towards Taralla.
“Go ahead,” he grunted.

Again, the stranger’s hand extended through the bars, and this time there was no reprieve. His long, gloved fingers slowly wrapped around one of the fat rolls adorning her flank, digging into the pliant flab as he gave it a firm squeeze.
“Good tone…” he muttered to himself, as Taralla felt her cheeks flush red with impotent fury. There had been a time when she could have strangled this devil to death with her bare hands, felt the life whimper out of him as she grasped his throat – but that time was long since gone, and now it was his fingers on her helpless body.
His hand slid over her gut, the silk of his gloves dragging slightly on her smooth, sweaty skin, stopping only at the deep tunnel of her navel. Once there, he carefully inserted first one, then two, then three fingers into her tight belly button, frowning slightly as he forced them in to the hilt.
“Narrow. Deep, though,” He looked up at Taralla, lip twitching in amusement as he caught the suppressed fury on her face, “Maybe we can fit a carrot in there. Don’t worry - the symbolism is never lost on the guests.”

Before Taralla could consider spitting in his face, he was already moving on, pulling his fingers out of her belly button – almost losing his glove in the process – and reaching into the cage with his other hand so he could heft the full weight of her gut. His shoulders and arms strained beneath his fashionably-tight coat as he heaved, lifting the swollen bulk of belly a few inches into the air before releasing it to collapse back down again, watching as it jiggled frantically with the disturbance.
“Very good, very good,” he nodded, continuing with his evaluation, “Heavy, yet not excessive. A good fat belly can make for a whole meal on its own…” He trailed off as for a moment he kneeled, and Taralla lost sight of him beyond her swollen belly as he examined her thick calves and fat little feet, inspecting her plump toes one by one.

“Mm, good, good,” he said to the slaver as he straightened back up again, giving the other man an appreciative nod, “You see a lot of foot injuries with this sort of merchandise, but this one is in good condition.”
The slaver grunted, pleased.
“Trick is to stop ‘em walking as much as possible,” he explained, “And to keep the path clear when they do hafter. They can’t see where they’s treading.”
“Quite, quite,” the stranger agreed absently, spreading Taralla’s fat fingers with his own narrow ones as he searched for any flaws on her hands, “She’s in very good condition indeed.”
Suddenly though his hands were at her chest, squeezing handfuls of the flabby, toneless flesh of her breasts with careless violence, and she couldn’t help but gasp.
“These, on the other hand, aren’t nearly so perfect,” the stranger scowled, lifting her weighty left breast and letting it fall back onto the swell of her gut, “Did you use any supplements?”

The slaver hesitated.
“No, just natural herbs an’ roots,” he coughed, “She was already, uh, buxom for an elf when I caught ‘er.”
“Mhmm,” the stranger frowned, obviously unconvinced. Still, he turned back to Taralla nonetheless, his gloved fingers prodding at her chubby cheeks and double chin. “Face is good,” he continued his appraisal, “Upturned noses are popular, as are green eyes. Open your mouth.”
Lost in a daze of humiliated exhaustion, Taralla didn’t even hear the order until he gave her lips a sharp flick with one finger.
“I said, open your mouth!”
Lips smarting, cheeks burning, she let her mouth fall open, a wheezing gasp slipping out as she did so. Her perfect white teeth, perhaps the only part of her body that hadn’t been ruined by the past year’s abuse, shone against the delicate pink of her tongue and gums.
“Wider.”
She opened her jaw further, feeling a trickle of nervous sweat running down her bare back as she did so. It navigated the folds and rolls of her back fat, making her shiver as it traced its way southwards, before eventually disappearing for good between her enormous buttocks. The muscles of her flabby thighs were beginning to quiver from being forced to hold her upright for so long, her fat quivering slightly as she struggled to stay upright.
“Wider.”
Tilting her head further back, she strained her mouth open wider. Even her tongue felt flabby in her mouth, having grown lazy from months of eating nothing but thick paste and rare opportunities to speak.
“Wider!”
With a long, exhausted groan, Taralla forced her jaw open as wide as it would go, and finally, finally the stranger grinned.
“Just big enough for an apple!” he laughed somehow innocently, his voice filled with genuine childish glee, “Bag her up – I’ll take her.”