BBW Lady Luck - by Marlow

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Well-Known Member
Feb 5, 2013
Chapter 19

A crimson sunrise broke out over Kingston Harbor, setting aglow the heavy mist that had crept in overnight. The shroud swirled between the towering ships’ masts in the waterfront and floated through the town’s hungover streets. It hung especially thick in the headlands, concealing from onlookers the silent, finely dressed procession making its way uphill through the trees.

They arrived at the ruins of an old fortress and divided into two parties, glaring across at one another. The handsome young doctor took up his central position in front of a half-buried guardpost and summoned the unsatisfied gentlemen forward.

Colonel Rafaga, despite the shortness of the interval, had shifted into an even whiter coat and a plumed hat. His hot rage had hardly subsided and he stamped about, his incessant nose-breathing echoing off the fortress walls.

Captain Brise had not changed his coat, but carried it in his arms like a wounded compatriot, the marinade-stained cuff bleeding up his sleeve. He stared at Rafaga with a deep, silent loathing.

Their seconds presented themselves—a fellow naval officer for Brise and Lord Windham himself for Rafaga—and mumbled uselessly about a peaceful resolution. Surely, they pontificated, there must be some less violent means to satisfy the aggrieved parties. Neither the duelists nor the crowd of witnesses had walked all this way for peace, however, and the overtures were quickly abandoned. Brise and Rafaga each reaffirmed their demands for satisfaction.

It was a sizable crowd, the captain and the colonel being popular figures in town. Many of the partiers had gone home to sleep off their excess or gone to the taverns to continue it, but these had been replaced by friends and eavesdroppers who had heard the word: Brise and Rafaga were fighting for the hand of a mysterious, alluring French noblewoman.

“And where is the lady in question?” asked the doctor, who had hoped to steal another glance at her posterior. “Has she anything to say on the matter that might allow us to forgo this most barbaric and unnecessary bloodshed?”

They looked around. Madame de Ville-Chanceuse was conspicuously absent. After some murmuring it was agreed that she had not traveled with them from the party.

“Perhaps it is for the best,” observed Captain Brise. “She is a refined woman, surely of delicate sensibilities. The field of violence is no place for her.”

“It would risk staining her immaculate gown with your execrable blood,” agreed Colonel Rafaga.

“So you admit to a propensity for staining precious garments.”

The doctor sighed and gestured for the seconds. Pistols were inspected, loaded, inspected again, and finally offered to each combatant. The two men paced out to their appointed marks, trying not to quiver.

“Gentlemen,” proclaimed the doctor, “when I release this handkerchief, you may begin advancing and fire your shot. I ask you one final time: will you consider another course to satisfaction?”

“I will not,” declared Brise.

“Nor I,” growled Rafaga.

“So be it.” The doctor raised his handkerchief. The duelists cocked and raised their pistols. The crowd held its breath.

A small boy crashed through the underbrush, panting. He stumbled across through the line of fire, waving a slip of paper.

Brise and Rafaga hurried to uncock their guns, glancing to their seconds in angry confusion.

The doctor read the note, crumpled it, and looked up. “Gentlemen, I recognize that this may be somewhat irregular, but before we resume this murderous endeavor I must beg that you follow me.”

“Outrageous,” the colonel cried. “Follow you where?”

He reread the note. “A…bakery, sir.”


Well-Known Member
Feb 5, 2013
(19, continued)

Morning light wafted over messy plates, bowls, and bottles, over a bedspread spattered with glazes, fruit jams, and powdered sugar, and over a pair of flabby bodies, one snoring into his pillow and the other sucking custard from her finger.

Licking her lips, Adelaide swept the finger around the rim of the pie tin, but there was nothing left. With a disappointed burp she let it fall; it clattered down upon the other discarded plates.

“Mon…dieu,” she gasped, breath coming short.

A glance over showed that Mr. van Adem was too deep in his slumber to register the noise. He lay pressed to her side, reaching affectionately across her waist, and as she gingerly sat herself up against the headboard her belly engulfed most of his arm.

It was so full that its crease had disappeared. Strange pressures and sensations swirled through its mass as the various conquests of her long, indulgent night loudly mixed with one another. She lifted up the loose nightgown she’d borrowed and massaged it with both hands.

The gown was just as stained as the bed and pulling up revealed that her abdomen was, too, including a chocolate handprint. She could still feel the butter around her lips and the meringue on her chest. Her unfocused eyes wandered to the nightstand.

There, between an overturned glass and an empty bottle, sat the baker’s last untouched gift, a pungent, tantalizing rum-cake.

Adelaide’s stomach protested immediately. Surely there was no more room. She had long ago lurched across the threshold from naughty discomfort to outright pain.

After a long internal debate, though, the plate disappeared from the nightstand and found itself perched upon the shelf of her gut. She turned it around, studying it with a greedy eye, wondering where to start.

A sound from outside the room was growing nearer, loud enough now to be heard over the thunderous snoring of her naked bedmate and the raucous rumbling over her naked belly: footsteps. There were soon more of them, marching through the bakeshop downstairs and now stomping up the steps. Adelaide had just pushed the first handful of cake into her mouth when the bedroom door crashed open.

Lady Windham entered, chest heaving with triumph. She cast Adelaide a haughty, vindicated glare and turned to watch as her husband brought in the handsome young doctor and the shocked duelists.

“Madame!” exclaimed Captain Brise. “What…what is this…”

“Treachery and dishonor!” roared Colonel Rafaga.

Adelaide slowly and quietly swallowed. The man in the bed stirred briefly, but slept on.

She carefully extracted his hand from beneath her belly and rolled over to put the cake back on the nightstand, giving the doctor the view he’d so desired.

The doctor wiped his brow and turned to Brise and Rafaga. “Satisfied, sirs?”

“Very,” said Adelaide, loosing a long belch.

Rafaga opened his mouth, but Brise grabbed him by the arm. “Colonel…will you permit me to buy you breakfast? I must apologize for my ill-founded words last night.”

“I…Certainly, Captain. I have much to apologize for, myself. But I must insist on paying.”

The doctor led them out before the discussion could escalate further. Lord Windham, nudged by his wife, roused the sleeping man from his bed and got him to his feet.

“Come, my good man. Mrs. van Adem is livid with you, sir, livid. A business owner of your standing…for shame, sir…come, we must clean you up.”

The door clapped shut and Adelaide found herself alone with Lady Windham.

“Get up,” the woman snapped.

Adelaide grimaced. She rolled over with a grunt, slid off the bed, and steadied herself. She scratched her belly for a moment and readjusted the nightgown as best she could.

“Can I offer you some cake?” she ventured, reaching for the plate.

Lady Windham strode forward and snatched it from her messy hands. She was an uncommonly tall woman and towered over Adelaide, staring down her nose with hatred. “I know what you’re after,” she hissed.

Adelaide took a careful step closer, nearly touching her bloated stomach to the woman’s bodice. “You do?”

“You may wear a noble title and a set of diamonds that could finance the channel fleet, but I see what’s truly in your heart.”

“Your ladyship,” Adelaide breathed, breaking into her smirk. She laid a sticky hand on the woman’s slender waist. “From one noblewoman to another…have some cake.”

Lady Windham shoved her away. “You are finished, you fraud. You’ll get nothing from me or my husband, nor anyone in Kingston, so help me…”

Adelaide shrank back.

“You are a thief,” Lady Windham continued, her voice rising. “You are a disruption to polite society. You are not welcome. I have made it known that ‘Madame de Ville-Chanceuse’ is not to be admitted in any reputable house on this island. Go back to your filthy tavern with the other fat trollops and stay there.”


Well-Known Member
Feb 5, 2013
Chapter 20

January, 1812 - Port Royal

Zephyra checked herself in the dingy attic mirror, puckering her lips and making sure the dress showed enough of her bust.

“I talked with Mrs. Jurgen at breakfast,” she recalled, pulling the neckline lower.

“Oh? Did she make more buns?”

Zephyra turned. Adelaide was sitting on the edge of their thatch bed, bedraggled hair fallen over her face, fumbling with a sailcloth bag.

“She’s willing to front us for another month, but no more. We need to be honest with ourselves, Addie. We can’t even afford this attic.”

“But I remember her saying how good we are for business.”

“Yes, but some of us have a habit of eating into all our profits.”

Adelaide put the sack aside and looked down. Even covered by her threadbare chemise, her stomach sagged out over her lap. Her rampant decadence had slowed considerably in the months since Kingston’s elites had shut their doors to her, but she’d still contrived, somehow, to put on another two stone.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

Zephyra sat beside her on the bed. She nodded to the little sack. “What have you got there?”

Adelaide held it open for her. The diamond necklace peeked out with a twinkle. “I wanted to keep them on me, but I thought it might be safer if they were less visible.”

“Probably wise.” Zephyra gazed at them. “Addie, have you thought, at all, about having them valued? Those are some enormous jewels. You could probably sell one of the smaller ones and live comfortably for a time…or buy passage to another island, where the rich ladies aren’t sour on you yet. I can’t even imagine what that massive center-stone would fetch.”

Adelaide frowned. “I think about it every day. But this necklace…it feels wrong to think of it as a commodity. I think back…” She brushed her hair from her face with a shaky sigh. “Everything that happened to put these diamonds into my hands…they will always be priceless to me.”

After a long pause, she tied the bag closed. Zephyra reached up and squeezed her shoulder.

“Sorry,” Adelaide laughed. “I’m never helpful at all. I worry all I do is let you down.”

Zephyra smiled. “As I said when we first met: when you go on to bigger and better things, I’m coming with you.” She jabbed a finger into Adelaide’s flabby side. “You haven’t let me down on half of that promise, at least.”

Adelaide recoiled, jiggling and slapping the hand away.

“Let’s get you dressed,” Zephyra decided. “There’s a brig due in fresh from England and they’ll be desperate for a leer at that growing backside of yours.”

“I don’t know,” Adelaide grumbled. She ran a hand over her midsection. “Lately all the new weight’s been going to this thing.”

The brig appeared late that afternoon, as promised. It lowered its boats and the officers were rowed ashore, doing their best to ignore the boats that put off from the opposite shore, filled with women.

The men aboard, though, could never bear to ignore them. They lined the ship’s rails, hooting and calling out vague and unkeepable romantic promises.

“How long you been at sea, handsome?” Zephyra called back, fanning her bosom.

“Two months to the day,” replied a shirtless mariner, “but I tell you, lass, they were the longest two months ever to pass on this earth.”

She stepped forward in the rowboat, though less gracefully than she’d intended. Adelaide sat against the opposite gunwale and the hull was somewhat lower in the water on her side. “A rough journey, hm?”

“A lonely journey.”

“Poor dears. A lonely journey, you hear that?” she repeated to Adelaide, who looked dutifully sympathetic. “Bless me. You know, handsome, my friend and I were just on our way over to the Broken Belt. Perhaps you and your big strapping mate there could buy us a round—”

“And a nice hearty meal,” blurted Adelaide. She caught Zephyra’s glare and added, “you must be starving for something…heartier than hardtack and peas.”

He turned to his mate. They chatted with each other out of earshot, but Adelaide watched one spread his hands apart and form the word ‘huge.’

“The Broken Belt, eh?” the other asked. “How’s the grog there?”

Zephyra grinned. “Cheap.”


Well-Known Member
Feb 5, 2013
(20, continued)

Cheap it was, and plentiful. The Broken Belt quickly came to life, overflowing with music and laughter as the brig’s crew joined the others for supper.

They started with small beer, attempting to be frugal, but the sailors they’d brought in—and the mates who followed, intrigued by these curvaceous, obliging young ladies—quickly switched to rum. The men plied their lovely new companions with all the fare their advance pay could afford, amused by how much Zephyra could drink and amazed by how much Adelaide could eat.

One of them, having dared Zephyra into a foolhardy competition, fell asleep in his chair before sunset. His mate promptly stole the man’s purse and wagered ten of the shillings in it that Adelaide could not finish that London broil; he lost the shillings and ten more of his own by doubling down on dessert.

Night fell over the harbor and the crowd thinned. Those who couldn’t hold their drink were rowed back to their ships. Those who had secured partners for the night dispersed to bedrooms or wandered out to walk the strand. Mrs. Jurgens put out her stove-fires and began cleaning. A parcel of Portuguese traders by the hearth struck up an off-tune song.

The tabletop could not be seen for the volume of emptied mugs, bottles, bowls, and plates. At one end of the bench, Zephyra lolled in the arms of a burly mariner, her bosom hanging out of her dress. She had quietly drifted out of the conversation and now blearily watched the singers, occasionally giggling to herself or turning to share a long, plunging kiss with her companion.

At the other end sat Adelaide, rubbing her paunch beneath the table and making eyes at her own lusty companion whenever it was time for him to raise another forkful of molasses-cake to her lips.

“You’re a Frenchie, eh?” he asked, massaging her back.

“Mm, right there…sorry, what?”

“Said, was you from France, then?”

She paused for a two-part belch and adopted her best attempt at a regal pose. “You have the honor of addressing…and serving…the Madame de Ville-Chanceuse.” She reached for the bag tied at her waist, but decided against it.

He eyed her. “So that’s in France, I take it. But you’re all the way out here in Port Royal, associating with us rum coves?”

“The Ville-Chanceuse estate has…fallen on hard times.” She leaned closer. “And maybe I just like associating with rum coves.”

His hand slid lower down her back. “Well, I can say you ain’t like any of the other French ladies I’ve known. I remember this priggish girl come out when we was in Martinique…”

Adelaide nodded pointedly at the last of the cake. His free hand shot out to provide; the hand on her back drifted down to caress her behind. She shimmied and gave a pleased purr, though whether this was prompted by the squeeze or the cake he couldn’t tell.

“Now I think of it, ha, if you so enjoy associating with some rum coves…” He laughed. “You ladies may want to introduce yourself to Anemone when she puts in next month.”

“Oh? And will that be another man-of-war full of wanton mariners?”

“Nah, a trader we met last run. Squat little schooner with a tiny crew and a funny rig, plies between here and the Antilles. Her master, Mr. Boreas, he tends to take his time and sail leisurely, like. Anemone’s his personal yacht, like, and he sails mostly for the joy of it.”

“How nice for him.”

“Part of the joy he sails it for, ha, is that he likes to bring a few passengers of the fairer sex on the longer cruises…for company, if you catch my meaning, and he’s known to be a very hospitable and generous man, with plenty of funds at his disposal.”

“Generous?” echoed Zephyra, stirring. “Plenty of funds?”

“So they say. Not much of a seaman, but quite a host. And if you don’t mind me saying, I think he’d like the two of you very much.”

Adelaide picked through the various mugs in search of one with any undrunk dregs. “What makes you say that?”

“Why, it’s generally known that good Mr. Boreas prefers nice plump guests like yourselves...with appetites.”

Zephyra bristled. She couldn’t call herself slim, by any means, but Adelaide had eclipsed her at least sixty pounds ago.

“No offense meant,” he added. “I’m rather partial to a sizable backside, myself.” He gave Adelaide’s sizable backside another squeeze and the surprise of it nearly spilled the remaining rum.

She recovered, though, and wiped her lips. “Another round, then?”

Zephyra spoke no Portuguese, but she had picked up a few lines of the traders’ shanty. She sang them, or at least her addled memory of them, at the top of her lungs as Adelaide helped her into the loft.

A sharp hiccup interrupted her favorite line. She tried to resume, but the words had escaped her and another, sadder hiccup punctuated her defeat.

They stumbled together across the creaking floorboards, pausing momentarily to steady themselves against a cluttered table. There they were cast in the pale moonlight that shone in from their one window while Adelaide gulped down a pitcher of water.

She wore only her chemise. It sat lower than usual, one of the straps having parted, but still could not wholly conceal the heavy, slab-like cheeks of her derriere. Zephyra, hanging off her shoulder, wore nothing at all. Her beer-belly and sagging bosom jostled and swung as she swayed. Adelaide offered her the pitcher.

“Can’t fit any more in here,” she slurred, patting her gut. “You…are a bad influence. I can’t remember the last time I was…was this full…”

“I’m not the one who suggested oysters,” Adelaide giggled, easing her into the bed.

Zephyra’s only retort to this was another hiccup. Her eyes closed and she drifted off with a soft moan.

Adelaide blew out a long breath and set herself on the edge of the bed. She peeled off her chemise and let her fat spread out in the moonlight. A scrap of paper fluttered out from the chemise as she cast it aside. Stifling a belch and reaching gingerly over, she opened the note and blinked blearily at it.

Anemone,” it read, in the burly seaman’s barely legible scrawl, “J. M. Boreas, supercargo,” followed by the address for a local shipping company.

She flipped the note onto the makeshift nightstand and laid herself down. Zephyra promptly draped an arm over her midsection and cuddled up. A rat wandered across the floor, paused to glance up at them, and scurried off.

Adelaide stared out the cracked window. She could see one of the great mansions up on the hill, aglow with the warmth and wealth of some fabulous party.


Well-Known Member
Feb 5, 2013
Chapter 21

February, 1812

took her time, as foretold. She arrived in Port Royal a fortnight later than expected and loaded her cargo with incredible sluggishness, her master and meager crew apparently more interested in the taverns than their own trade. But when they finally set sail again, they departed with a pair of pretty, plump passengers.

Mr. Boreas had taken no convincing. He was immediately captivated by Adelaide, who had come to the wharf in a dress that had stopped fitting twenty pounds ago, wiping jerk spices from her lips. He took a little longer to warm to Zephyra, but a bosom like hers, properly displayed, had never failed to stir his humors. A long, long night at the Broken Belt was followed the next afternoon by an invitation to tour Anemone.

If the ladies were in need of conveyance to any eastward destination, why, then Mr. Boreas was their most humble servant and, if they pleased, would along the route be happy to share with them all the hidden delights of the Caribbean.

Anemone was a lazy, slow-sailing lug, compared to the racing swiftness of a naval frigate like Tryphena. She took a bizarre, convoluted course wherever she went, as though simply happy to be afloat on the sea, dancing to and fro over the endless turquoise. There were only a few hands aboard, which limited any complex maneuvering, and Boreas took in the sails at night to let her drift idle under the stars.

They put into Santo Domingo, ostensibly for trade goods and provisions but in fact to fit Adelaide and Zephyra for luxurious new dresses. It was a timely visit, for Adelaide had only continued to grow wider and Zephyra’s simple handmaiden’s attire had deteriorated to little more than an apron and rags. Now, when the ship hove-to for its always elaborate evening feasts, they could both attend in full, blooming regalia. And they left the dinner-table in full, besotted repletion.

Boreas was a popular man, however eccentric. The dressmaker seemed used to his ways and every other ship they encountered would sail over to swap news and jovial anecdotes. He would invariably invite the other masters over to Anemone for dinner and his lovely, beaming passengers would be paraded about on his arm.

The visiting sailors would be sent back to their ships with full bellies and ribald memories. Those familiar with the brig and its owner came aboard with gifts. A Portuguese sloop presented Boreas with a wildly expensive bottle of Madeira; in the Mona Passage they came across a friendly fishing trawl, who gave them the local gossip and an enormous yellowtailed amberjack, the pride of his catch, big enough to feed three or four.

It fed only one, but the man could not have anticipated Adelaide’s appetite. Zephyra watched with exasperated terror. Boreas watched with awestruck fascination.

They swung out into the elysian waters beyond the Leeward Islands, Boreas promising to show his guests a hidden gem. They drifted out past St. Lucia, then past Barbados, until other sea-traffic disappeared and it seemed they had the whole ocean to themselves.

The hidden gem, once Boreas finally remembered its bearings, proved to be a narrow, winding island at the southeast edge of the Caribbean with sheltering reef and a glass-calm lagoon. Anemone anchored and they all went ashore together, stripping naked and frolicking upon the beach.

Adelaide’s frolicking was short-lived, but she enjoyed lying in the sand, letting the gentle waves lap at her pudgy feet, the afternoon sun gleaming off the dome of her belly. Zephyra, styling herself a mermaid, teased the men from the lagoon’s shallows.

It was a tiny paradise. Boreas indicated that he was in no hurry and would be happy to dawdle there a few more nights before standing north for Antigua. He proved to be in no hurry indeed: seven nights in a row they returned to Anemone on the evening tide, sunburned and thirsty but full of life, and treated themselves to a feast. At least Adelaide feasted; Zephyra furtively slid a number of her servings to her much hungrier tablemate.

At the end of the week, after a particularly lengthy shellfish dinner, Adelaide watched the sunset from the sterndeck, picking at what remained of a platter of fried conch. The sky blazed a warm orange around a searing golden ray; the sea below was a dark, rich purple, gently rolling in the breeze and tumbling white over the nearby reef.

A glance around the deck showed that the only chair in easy reach was occupied by the first mate, sleeping off his dinner. Adelaide groaned, shifting her weight, and eventually decided to simply rest her gut atop the taffrail.

She reached into the bag at her waist and held up her diamonds against the twilight. She hadn’t worn them in almost two months, nor allowed anyone to see them. Boreas was generous, but his lustful eye also carried a discernible avarice.

Footsteps on the deck made her plunge the necklace back into its bag. She looked back and found the first mate on his feet, staring out to larboard.

He folded his arms, apparently unhappy with whatever he saw. Finding a spyglass he checked again and immediately glanced around the deck for a second opinion.

There was no one but Adelaide. The other hands were below, cleaning up, and Boreas was in his cabin with Zephyra.

“Uh, sail,” he coughed, then repeated it, louder.

Mr. Boreas was not a crack royal navy officer. By the time he came shuffling out of the cabin, buttoning his breeches, everyone else was on deck and the unknown vessel had drawn close enough for all to see. The mariners were hurrying to ready a sail and slip the anchor cable.

Zephyra appeared a few minutes later in a hurriedly-donned nightshirt. She cocked an eyebrow at the men rushing to make sail and stepped over to Adelaide.

“You alright?” she asked, watching Adelaide double over with a wince.

“I think I ate too much.”

Zephyra eyed her, but let it go. “What’s got everybody in such a fit?”

“Apparently there’s a boat—ship, sorry, ship—heading our way.” She pointed out over the water. A tall, three-masted man-of-war ghosted toward them out of the night, silhouetted against the stars.

“Looks like a frigate, maybe,” said the man at the wheel.

“A frigate!” chirped Adelaide. “Maybe it’s Tryphena. It would be so nice to see them again.”

Zephyra squinted. “If that’s Tryphena, she’s a lot bigger than I remember.”

Adelaide giggled. “I’m probably a lot bigger than they remember, too.”

Lanterns flickered to life aboard the stranger. It was soon clear that she wasn’t Tryphena, boasting not only a much skinnier and more modestly dressed figurehead but an entire second deck of gun-ports.

The man at the wheel cursed. Boreas came stumbling aft, bellowing orders. Another light flashed on aboard the approaching ship, illuminating the French tricolor.

Adelaide froze. Zephyra squeezed her hand.

“Cut the anchor cable!” Boreas shrieked. “Square away!”

Anemone lurched as the rope parted. A lone sail filled and caught the night breeze.

Zephyra pulled Adelaide to the companionway as the little ship gathered momentum. Adelaide paused at the top of the stairs, pressing a hand to her churning stomach. The men continued to hurry about them in a panic.

The ship listed drunkenly. A second sail was unfurled, but not secured. Adelaide had eased herself almost to the bottom step when a heart-stopping, wood-splintering crash threw her to the deck. Anemone had struck the reef.

The voices on the maindeck became even more frantic, turning on one another. The hull groaned and creaked beneath them. Zephyra closed the hatch and hurried down into the lower deck. The sound of oars splashed toward the ship.

Zephyra helped Adelaide to her feet. Adelaide instinctively patted her bag. It was empty.

“The diamonds,” she hissed.

They grabbed a pair of night-lanterns and began their search. The voices overhead went silent as a boat thumped alongside and boots stomped onto the deck.

Zephyra split off into an open cabin. Adelaide bent low and crawled along the stowed provisions, stomach sloshing and swinging side to side.

But there, between two casks of beef, she found her necklace. She seized the enormous center-stone with her free hand, pushed herself gingerly to her feet, and turned to shout for Zephyra. The maid had disappeared.

A tall, gaunt French officer stood at the bottom of the stairs. He looked over, turned, and stepped into the light of her lantern. Adelaide immediately recognized the icy, hateful eyes and they immediately recognized her.

“Quelle chance,” said Captain Aubert, “Ville-Chanceuse.”

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