NIKKE WG - Cinderella - Even More Beautiful
A new piece in collaboration with Habi Habi! Please welcome them and their works with us in future!
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She had been 165 centimeters and just shy of a few hundred pounds of flawless white porcelain when her Prince had last seen her. Now the scales in her quarters read eight hundred and eighty-seven pounds, and was still climbing. The frilled lilac dress Grave had commissioned for tonight was already a lost cause. The off-shoulder bodice cupped only the undersides of her breasts; the rest spilled over the lace in heavy, sweating mounds that jiggled with every labored step. Her nipples, thick and dark from constant friction, stamped two damp circles through the fabric. Below the crushed corset her belly hung in a single, taut dome that rested on the tops of her thighs, the skin shiny and faintly lined where new fat had stretched her overnight. Each thigh was thicker than her old waist. When she walked they clapped together with a wet, meaty sound she tried to pretend was not happening.
The Ark’s surface heat made it worse. Sweat gathered in the deep crease beneath her breasts, ran in rivulets down the underside of her gut, and soaked the ruffled hem until it clung to the dimpled insides of her knees. She was flushed to the ears. A little puff of steam seemed to rise from the crown of her silver twintails. She wanted ice water. She wanted a banquet. She wanted to sit down and never stand again. Instead she lifted her chin, arranged her lips into the gentle smile she practiced in every mirror, and murmured a mantra to herself.
“A lady does not hurry. A lady must always arrive beautiful.”
Her stomach answered with a long, traitorous growl.
When she finally rounded the last corner the Commander was already waiting. She saw the exact moment his eyes dropped—first to the cane, then to the way her breasts heaved independently of her breathing, then to the way her hips forced the skirt to hike up one pale, dimpled thigh. He swallowed. His hands flexed at his sides as if they already knew the weight of her.
His thoughts flowed, uninvited: I could feed her until that dress split. I could pin those enormous tits together and go to town on the valley between them. I could bury my face in the underside of that belly while she sat on my face.
He hated how quickly the pictures flashed through his mind.
He hated how hard he was at the thought of defiling something so pure.
Cinderella stopped in front of him, panting prettily, one gloved hand pressed to the upper swell of her cleavage as if that might hide how it overflowed. A bead of sweat slid down into the canyon and vanished.
“Prince,” she said, voice still velvet, still courtly, though it wavered on the last syllable. “Forgive my tardiness. Beauty… requires more of me than it used to.”
She looked down at herself—at the way her own body now hid her feet, at the way the cane sank a little under her palm—and a slow, wondering smile touched her mouth.
“I used to believe beauty was a fixed shape. A glass slipper that either fit or shattered. I was wrong.” She shifted her weight; the whole architecture of her fat shuddered and resettled. “The more of me there is, the more there is to love. The more there is to praise. The only way to become more beautiful…”
She met his eyes, hungry and serene at once.
“…is simply to gain more weight.”
He offered his arm. She took it, because a princess still knew how to be escorted, even when every step made her breasts slap and her belly sway and her empty stomach plead for the feast she already knew he would give her.
She only had to ask…