FatspeakDrabble/Immobility and Nobility

[2nd person. Female reader and maid. Immobility, feeding, mild teasing, being sat on by your maid.]

Ever wonder what being an immobile noble’s like?


For the common folk, being so fat that they can’t even move under their own power is an unthinkable thing. The amount of changes they’d need to make in their day-to-day lives made it a harrowing notion all on its own, if they could even fathom that someone would willingly make themselves so immense. After all, what would compel someone to gorge over weeks, months, years, until their stomach is blubbery enough to reach their shins; their biceps alone are fatter and thicker than a normal person’s torso; their ass heavy enough to reduce their luxurious chaise longues and dining chairs to kindling whenever they sit down?

Well, in your case? Plain and simple hedonism, and being able to slake your many appetites with your family’s considerable wealth; as soon as you hit adulthood and become the sole inheritor to your family’s estate, every other day was marked with some manner of bacchanal feasting. Importing fine elvish pastries and light-bodied wines in the summer, heady goblin wines and orcish-style spiced meats for the colder seasons… all things which can take a heavy toll on one’s waistline, especially with how regularly you gorge yourself into a barely-coherent stupor. When the entire upstairs part of your manor became off-limits to you - you could think of more enjoyable ways to get breathless and sweaty than hefting your tree-trunk thick legs high enough to navigate one step, let alone entire flights of them - you merely had your bedroom’s furniture moved downstairs, and allowed your beloved servants to use the upper floors at their own discretion. Your routine had barely changed; if anything, you were simply walking (or waddling, as the case may be) much less, now that your bedroom was so much closer to the kitchen, which soon meant that the pounds would pile on faster still.

Eventually, you stopped having your finery tailored every time a seam ripped or button burst off; it simply wasn’t worth having it fixed, only to outgrow it a week or two later. Your belly was certainly doing a fantastic job at covering your crotch, and it wasn’t as if your clothes were doing much to hide all those rolls and folds. It was hardly a problem for you, either; one less thing to bother with in the mornings and evenings, and your maids certainly made their enjoyment of your nudity apparent whenever they spotted you. If anything, eschewing clothes had been a boon for you.

And immobility? Well, it was the most drastic lifestyle change you had faced yet; the total inability to get out of bed, even with one of your servants pulling at your pudgy arms while another sank their hands into your back-rolls in an attempt to get you into a standing position, took some getting used to. Having your meals brought into your bedroom and set upon a sizable bedside table, before being fed to you, one forkful at a time, simply because the spare tire of lard around your arm kept you from lifting your hands to your face without a considerable amount of straining. Baths were replaced with a cadre of especially handsy maids diligently scrubbing every roll and fold of your bed-filling body with various exotic soaps and perfumes… yes, the first few weeks of immobility were a marked change from your usual lifestyle. But you weren’t sure if you ever wanted to go back; in fact, you wanted more.

-----

Like most mornings, you awaken to the soft, melodic clatter of serving trays being wheeled down to your bedroom, followed by the creaking of your door.

“Good morning, ma’am!” You give a lazy wave of your chubby hand as one of your maids comes in, pulling with her a sturdy metal trolley, packed with covered trays.

“Mmh… moohrnin’...” The prim and proper young woman stifles a giggle when you speak; it wasn’t uncommon for your maids to be amused by your… difficulties with speech, but it was still enough to make your flabby cheeks turn a vivid shade of red. And that blush only grows worse when your expansive stomach lets out a deep, rumbling growl that would put a starved beast to shame.

“Sounds like someone’s hungry~!” She says with a little sing-song tone in her voice, resting a white-gloved hand upon your belly apron; even after months of being teased and groped by her and the other maids, you still feel a shiver run along your spine as her delicate fingers sink into your warm, yielding flab. Nibbling your lip to try and stifle a moan, you simply nod in response, watching with rapt attention as she lifts the lids off of those trays. The room is filled with a myriad of scents; the rich, savoury aroma of cooked pork, the ambrosial sweetness of honey and crepes, the delicate aroma of strawberries and cream… you can already feel your mouth watering as the maid reveals each dish to you, the process filling you with more desire than any striptease could ever hope to do. With a little wink, she rests a hand on her hip, looking at you expectantly. “So, which would you like first, my lady~?”

‘My lady’. From anyone else it’d seem reverent, respectful. From her, though? It sounds so teasing, so condescending; ‘a lady with the table manners of a wild sow, and the body of a prize-winning heifer’, perhaps.

“...Why doohn’t you c-chooshe shomethin’ for me?” You grin impishly as you make your suggestion, your puffy cheeks encroaching on your vision as you do so. Now it was her turn to be caught off-guard; this was a first for you, asking your maid to take over and feed you whatever she wants. Her own playful smile is replaced by a look of thinly-veiled shock, her lips parted slightly as she fumbles over her words. She clears her throat, regaining some of her composure and taking a polished fork from the trolley and, with a practiced motion, scoops up a generous piece of honeyed crepe for you, lifting the morsel to your awaiting maw. All at once, the mix of sweet flavours wash over your tongue; you moan softly as you crane your neck back slightly, making a show of gulping the forkful down.

That devilish little smile returns to the maid’s lips as she watches you eat, and she lifts up that plate of crepes, resting it atop the swell of your gut. A little yelp passes your lips as the cool porcelain touches your sensitive skin, and she takes that opportunity to stuff another helping of crepes into your mouth, this forkful being a fair bit bigger.

“Now that I think about it, perhaps I shouldn’t call you ‘my lady’…” She muses aloud, and you nod along; you’re curious to see where she’s going with this, but for the most part, you’re just hoping she’ll continue to feed you. Which she does, thankfully, rolling up one of the thin pancakes and plucking it off of the plate, holding it just above your greedy gob and waiting for you to open wide before gradually feeding it to you. “Maybe ‘my lardy’ would be more apt for you, you ravenous blob~”

Your eyes widen a touch -- being ogled and felt up was one thing, but this was the first time your maid had openly insulted you like this. You feel something stir in the pit of your gut; it was such a blatant breach of decorum, insulting her betters like this!

And you wanted to encourage her bad behaviour. With a little grunt, you heft your arm up, placing your hand upon the small of her back and gently pulling her towards you, feeling her lithe frame squish against a stomach that probably weighed more than her entire body ever would.

“Mmh… shince yooouh’re bein’ nice enough to… f-feed me…” You begin, nodding towards the pillowy mass of your gut. “Maybe y’ shoouhld… come an’ get c-coohmfy?”

The maid lets out a mirthful giggle when she realises just what you’re suggesting; without missing a beat, she pulls the trolley full of food right up to your bed, kicking her shoes off before climbing up; the frame creaks ominously under your combined weights, and you groan in a mix of pleasure and unease as she gingerly lowers her body down onto your stomach. You’ve felt a broad gamut of strange and wonderful feelings since becoming bedbound, but her stocking-clad legs sinking into your elephantine gut has to be a new favourite. She plants one hand on your shoulder, presumably to keep herself steady as she gets used to such a wobbly seat, and the other picks up the remaining crepe from that plate. You open your mouth once more, expecting her to be as careful as last time, but to your surprise she all but jams the honey-soaked pancake into you, her fingers squishing into your cheeks as her gloved hand covers your mouth; she doesn’t relent until, after some struggling, you chew and swallow the sizeable snack.

“Gods, you’re softer than any bed I’ve sat on…” She coos, leaning closer, until you can feel her warm breath on your sweat-damped face, your laboured breaths flooding your senses with her delicate perfume. “I wouldn’t mind sleeping, riiiight here~”

“N-Nooht ‘till ah’ve eaten… a-ah’d hate t’ wake you up with muh stomach groohwlin’...”

You have a strong suspicion that your lazy days are going to be a lot more interesting with this maid around.