BBW The Uncontainable - by Marlow

Discussion in 'Recent Additions' started by Marlow, Mar 10, 2019.

  1. Jul 17, 2019 #41

    Marlow

    Marlow

    Marlow

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    (16, continued from above)




    Diana marched out of the building. The tractor’s engine roared to life. Miranda slowly exhaled, shivering.


    The remaining workers returned to their duties. Two picked up one of the tubs, slid its lid off, and hoisted it over the first trough: fresh pudding oozed out, overflowing the trough. The others followed suit.

    The fat bodies in the stalls began to stir. They flopped onto all fours and crawled toward the troughs, licking their lips and grunting with excitement. Beside Miranda, Tabatha lurched forward with a huff and raced—as much as her bulk could race—toward the closest trough.

    Miranda grimaced. The workers were still in the room, tidying up. She cautiously got to her hands and knees and set off with a plodding crawl.

    Her belly, given how so much of her weight settled in her sides, didn’t reach the floor like so many others, but it wobbled and swung as she moved. She felt her thighs jiggle behind her and her lovehandles bounced side to side.

    She could feel one of the workers staring at her. Catching up with the corpulent crowd, she pushed herself between two of the chattel, lowered her face into the trough, and pretended to eat. The sounds of gulping, grunting, and groaning surrounded her.

    Something closed around her neck: a metal collar. A chain tightened and someone hauled Miranda away from the trough. She cried out and scrabbled at the collar, but found herself too paralyzed by panic—or too overwhelmed by the intoxicating aroma of the pudding—to resist its pull.

    One of the blindfolded men held her leash. Once she’d gotten her bearings, he pulled up the slack and led her across the room, leaning against her weight. Miranda coughed and twisted, but found herself following along like a reluctant dog.

    He dragged her into an empty stall and pushed down on her flanks until she sat. The blindfolded woman clomped over and set down a deep bowl of pudding.

    “You’re behind,” she said, nudging the bowl with her foot. “You need to catch up or your offering will be refused.”

    Miranda gaped. The pudding oozed over the lip of the bowl. She glanced across the room; Bridget’s pile of blankets remained still.

    The woman placed her hand on the back of Miranda’s head. After a moment she began to press down, pushing Miranda’s face into the bowl.

    Miranda winced. The flavor of the pudding hit her tongue and she shuddered. Before she could stop herself she was slurping it down, drinking as greedily as anyone at the troughs.

    The man and woman stood beside her for a few minutes, watching until she’d worked her way through half the bowl. Miranda paused to belch and massage her flooded belly for a moment. When she dropped her face back into the bowl for more, they finally walked away.

    She shut her eyes and lapped up more pudding. A shape filled her vision: a jagged pyramid, a colossal temple, rising up from an arid plain.

    A new hand pulled her from the bowl. Miranda swallowed one last mouthful and wiped pudding from her eyes. Bridget’s face filled her vision.

    “You okay?”

    Miranda belched. “What?”

    Bridget glanced over her shoulder. “They’re gone. They all left.”

    “Oh. Mmph.” Miranda glanced down at the bowl and winced at how little pudding remained. “Yeah. Um. Okay, right, let’s go.”

    She staggered to her feet. Bridget helped her up and offered her her clothes. Miranda struggled with the blouse for half a minute, only to throw it away and wrap herself in one of the horse blankets.

    They stumbled out into the pasture and started toward the road, but froze. Miranda stiffened; Bridget’s grip tightened around her arm.

    The field was covered with hundreds of crows. As Miranda and Bridget gaped, the birds stopping milling and fluttering about and turned, in unison, to stare back at them.

    One of the birds, somewhere in the center of the flock, let out a plaintive caw. A rifle cocked behind Miranda’s ear and a hand seized the collar around her neck.

     
  2. Jul 17, 2019 #42

    Tad

    Tad

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    The great white north, eh?
    Oh, you definitely have the horror vibe turned up here. Nicely done.
     
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  3. Jul 23, 2019 #43

    Marlow

    Marlow

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    Chapter 17

    A drizzle had pattered against the windows of the old cargo van as it trundled uphill. It soon grew to a torrential downpour, pounding against the roof of the Whately farmhouse. The afternoon had given way to evening and what remained of the grey light outside filtered between the slats of the boarded-up windows.

    Bridget thrashed and kicked one last time, but it was fruitless. Her ankles were duct taped together and her hands were bound behind the back of a wicker chair. She blew a strand of dark hair from her face and glared at the floor.

    They’d stripped off her shirt and shorts, but had left her in the absurd bustier, presumably just to ensure her discomfort. Her chest heaved behind its paneling as one of the blindfolded men wheeled a cart across the room.

    The floor was covered in the ubiquitous clutter of the Whately home. The peeling wallpaper was covered in spiraling patterns, centered around the seven-legged curling sigil. A mattress frame was propped up in the corner; the room most have been one of the upstairs bedrooms, but was now only stacked with unmarked boxes.

    “I’m sorry for the mess,” said Diana, with a genuinely contrite pout, “but I wasn’t ready for visitors. You…you weren’t supposed to come back.”

    “Where’s Miranda?” Bridget whimpered. “What is going on?”

    Diana folded her arms. “She’s here. She’s fine. We gave her a room of her own. She is family, after all. Yes. You understand.”

    The blindfolded man hefted something onto the cart. A plastic tube appeared in front of Bridget’s face.

    “A little closer,” Diana suggested. “Make sure she can get her mouth on it without having to lean too far. Yes, like that. Fantastic.”

    “Oh my god,” Bridget sputtered, recoiling from the hose. “That’s…that’s the pudding.”

    “Of course. Yes. And you can have your fill, as much as you can, all day long."

    “What? No. But…why would I…” Her eyes widened. “Oh, no.”


    Diana sat herself on a box. “First…first I was just going to have you join the farmhands.” She gestured at the blindfolded man, who stood silent, awaiting her next command. “But then I thought about just how far behind we are. Yes. Of course, right now you’re pretty small to go straight to pasture, but the boys told me about your…impressive capacity last night and I think…yes…I think in about a year or so you’ll be big enough to need your own stall at the stockade.”

    Bridget squirmed against her bonds. “You’re just gonna keep me tied to this chair? For years?”

    “Of course not. No. Once you’re…more amenable, you’ll be welcome to roam around.” She gestured into the corner. “I’ll have them make up the bed for you.”

    “More amenable? You mean…you mean when I’m too fat to move.”

    Diana smiled. “No, no. You’ll be docile long, long before you reach immobility. Putting ideas in your head doesn’t actually take much time. Putting weight on you, though…unfortunately, that takes a little longer.” She patted Bridget’s thigh. “For mortals, anyway.”

    “What about Miranda? You’re not gonna do this to her, too, are you? She’s—”

    Diana shook her head. “Maybe. It depends. It’s a little different. Sorry. She’s part of the family. She’s part of the queen’s royal lineage.”

    Bridget stared dumbly, lips quivering.

    “I’m sorry. I don’t…I don’t really know how it all works, myself, but I know divinity will guide me. Yes.” She stood and smoothed her dress. “I should go check on her. And you should drink up.”

    She moved toward the door. The blindfolded man opened it and followed her into the hallway. The door slammed shut and Bridget could hear the lock turn as Diana’s footsteps padded away.

     
  4. Jul 23, 2019 #44

    Marlow

    Marlow

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    (17, continued)





    The farmhouse cellar smelled much less awful than Miranda had expected. The walls were a crumbling mess of cinderblock and damp clay and the floor mostly wet mud, with rainwater trickling down from the rotting door, but the scents of soaps and fragrances wafted through the air.


    The cellar was also surprisingly large, stretching out past the foundation of the house and dividing into what looked like catacombs, leading into the dark depths under the hill.

    The broad central area was fairly well-lit, though, by a collection of lanterns and two circles of aromatic candles.

    One circle surrounded Miranda, who woke duct taped to a wicker chair that all but disappeared under her bulk. With her hands bound behind her, her flabby arms squeezed her torso and midsection, giving her an even puffier appearance than normal.

    The baggy clothes didn’t help. Rather than squeezing her back into her discarded outfit, the farmhands had dressed her in a wide pair of overalls and a loose checkered shirt. Miranda could only imagine how ridiculous she looked, but quickly admitted to herself that it was the first time in recent memory she’d worn anything that wasn’t uncomfortably tight.

    She almost felt slim again, at least in comparison to the six-hundred-pound woman seated across from her, in the other circle of candles. Ros was still naked and candlelight danced across the enormity of her paunch.

    The farmhands had at first plopped her onto a pair of the wicker chairs, but her mass had immediately broken one. They tossed its fragments into a corner—where several other broken chairs lay already discarded—and dragged a ratty recliner from the cellar’s shadows. It creaked beneath Ros’ weight and her flanks flowed out over the armrests, but held.

    She smiled distantly, sometimes dozing, sometimes staring idly at the ceiling, reacting to nothing. The farmhands, widening the circle of candles, set about washing her. One farmhand worked up and down on each side of her, jiggling her plump flesh as they scrubbed and lifting rolls to sponge beneath. A third mopped the expanse of her belly with meticulous care.

    Once she had been cleaned and dried, they produced several bottles of oil and lotion and the process began anew.

    The cellar doors creaked open and the spindly form of Diana Whately descended the stairs. She’d donned a sleek poncho, but remained barefoot. She smiled at Ros, nodded in approval, and turned to Miranda.

    “I’m sorry for the hand-me-downs. I know it’s always awkward wearing someone else’s things.” She pulled back the hood of her poncho. “But you were shivering and, well, Juliana doesn’t need those anymore, obviously.”

    “Please just let us go,” Miranda simpered.

    “I did! Yes. You were allowed to go. I gave you the check and I sent you on your way. It was just yesterday.”

    “I know, but—”

    “But you didn’t go. Why didn’t you go?” Diana squeezed her temples. “Why didn’t you just leave?”

    “I’m sorry, Diana. I’m sorry. Look, I won’t…I won’t tell anyone anything.”

    “You were never supposed to come at all. But you did, you did. And then you were supposed to leave. I gave you the check and you were supposed to leave. That would’ve given me enough time. It would have taken at least a few days for you to realize that the check was no good and by the time you came back…if you came back…I would have been ready for you then. But now I’m not ready for you. And this is so hard now.”

    Miranda sputtered. “What are you saying? I don’t understand.” She wriggled in the chair. “The check is no good? What is going on here, Diana?”

    “Of course. Of course the check is no good. There’s no more money.” Diana straightened and spread her arms. “It’s gone. We needed it to secure our inheritance.”

    “What? But my…what?”

    “I’d thought you wouldn’t notice when the checks stopped. You’re a big-time manager or something at that big international corporation. You make so much our little allowance would hardly…I…I figured the trust fund checks were an afterthought for you…just more change in your designer purse.”

    Miranda stared. “I wish I had change in my purse.” She shook her head. “I’m unemployed, doing fuck-all back in my shitty hometown, living in a trailer with the world’s worst stripper…the only friend I knew who’d fucked up her life almost as bad as I did. I came here because I need help, Diana. You’re my only family. I’m sorry.”

    Diana’s exhausted face softened. Her eyes studied Miranda.

    “I’m sorry,” Miranda repeated. “I really am. I had no idea I’d be walking in on…whatever is going on here.”

    “But…you did. Yes. You came…and you stayed. For your share of the inheritance. I think I see it now.”

    “You said it’s gone, though. I—”

    Diana leaned closer. “Miranda, the inheritance was never about money. There’s so much more at stake.”

    Miranda glanced at the rotund Ros, now glistening with oil. “Yeah.”

    “Our ancestors…they consorted with deities, Miranda…a dynasty of gods from the world beyond dreams. We…we are in the line of succession. Juliana and I were bred to press that claim. We were the purest heirs.”

    “Diana, what?”

    “The dominion of broken realms, the divine mandate of the black sun, the coronation of a new Queen in Yellow…” Thunder rolled outside. Diana’s eyes bulged. “The first in millennia.”

    Miranda tried to lean away. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”

    “That’s okay. I don’t either. No. I just do what the queen commands.” She looked back at her farmhands. “I’m as much a servant as my blinded friends. For now.”

    “And…” Miranda swallowed, trying to remember what the old man had told her. “You’re going to kill us. Or feed us to whatever’s in your barn…”

    Diana recoiled. “Kill? Of course not. No. You don’t get it. I bring…I bring offerings to the altar.”

    “Offerings,” Miranda echoed, watching Ros. “But is that what you’re going to do to me…me and Bridget? Offer us up?”

    “I don’t know. Maybe. Your friend, yes. She will need a year or two, but yes. She will make a fantastic offering. But you…” Diana waved her hands. “I don’t know how you fit into things, being family. We have to see your dream-journey, see where your soul lives and what it’s made of. And then I will go ask.”

    “Ask?”

    “Yes. I’m sure she’ll be in a more talkative mood once she’s consumed Ros. It’s usually the best time to ask for advice. But, anyway, first we need to see what’s in you, like I said.” She crouched down and peered up at Miranda.

    Miranda squinted. It might have been the candlelight, but Diana’s eyes looked different. The striking blue of her irises was gone, replaced by a pale yellow.

    “Are you ready?” she asked, lips curling.

    “What? No—”

    “It’s okay. I wasn’t either, but they showed me what I needed to see.” Diana reached around Miranda’s girth and tore away the duct tape. “Go ahead, get up.”

    Miranda scrambled up from the chair. She immediately looked to the door, but the blindfolded men promptly turned to watch her.

    Diana pointed over her shoulder, down the shadowed catacombs. “You stayed because you saw something. You came back to learn more. Down there…down there you will see what you came for.”

     
  5. Jul 23, 2019 #45

    Tad

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    The great white north, eh?
    *ominous organ music*
     
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  6. Jul 27, 2019 #46

    weaverof

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    This is really good! Subtle amount of Innsmouth mythos makes it work even better. Queen in Yellow? Also, anyone else hungry for pudding?
     
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  7. Aug 3, 2019 #47

    Marlow

    Marlow

    Marlow

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    Chapter 18

    Miranda swallowed and turned. Her foot found its way into a broad puddle and she stepped back with a start.

    “It’s okay,” Diana droned. “Go look. I’ll be right here. Yes. Go down and see.”

    The candles flickered in a sudden draft. Miranda took a long breath, then found herself waddling forward into the shadows.

    The light faded quickly. Miranda glanced back, but there was only darkness behind her.

    The basement had grown impossibly silent, as well. The drumming of rain outside had disappeared, along with Ros’ labored breathing and the splashing of the farmhands’ sponges on her skin.

    Miranda reached out blindly. After some flailing, her hand found a hanging cloth. Eager for any support, she seized it. It proved to be a curtain and after some hesitation she pulled it open.

    Blinding golden light spilled in from a doorway behind. Blinking, Miranda ducked her head and stepped through.

    The ground beneath her feet suddenly turned from mud to dry, dusty gravel. Miranda stopped and waited for her eyes to adjust to the light flooding her vision, wondering how the basement draft had risen to a steady breeze.

    The basement was gone. Miranda found herself outside, standing on a broad, desolate plan, mostly rocks and swirling dust interspersed with patches of wilting grass. Miranda turned and gaped: there was no sign of the Whately house, nor the blasted hill it sat atop, nor any of Kade’s ubiquitous cornfields.

    The sky was an awful pale yellow, like the afterglow of a thunderstorm. The sun hid behind a long ripple of dark clouds, but seemed strangely dim. Its faint corona lingered like a halo above the empty landscape’s only visible feature: a colossal ziggurat, looming on the horizon.

    Two lines stretched out from the structure: a river, flowing away to the west, lined with oared ships, and a cobblestone road, leading in from the east, lined with hundreds of people on foot.

    Miranda took a cautious step forward. A wind brushed her exposed skin and wafted through the sparse grass, but there was no rushing or rustling in her ears.

    She neared the road and its crowd of travelers. They trudged along, single file, all dressed in tattered linens, each carrying a hefty offering: baskets of vegetables, jars of grain, sacks of wine, racks of slaughtered livestock. No one said anything or acknowledged one another. They simply stared ahead and continued their march. Their feet made no sound on the flagstones.

    As she approached, Miranda found an unclaimed tray waiting on the ground, loaded with roasted chickens. Glancing around, she picked it up, inhaled the savory aroma, and slipped herself into the line of pilgrims.

    She tried to greet the person behind her and apologize for cutting him off, but her voice failed her. He ignored her, anyway. Marveling at the overwhelming silence, Miranda frowned and tried to keep pace.

    The line continued steadily toward the ziggurat. It passed through a ring of gardens, mostly picked clean and left with only a few withered plants. Priests and acolytes appeared along the path, dressed in opulent jewel-studded robes, greeting the pilgrims with muted waves and solemn bows. The line wound between a few squat buildings and past a long, pillared hall before finally reaching the base of the immense ziggurat.

    It was built from gleaming obsidian stones, each the size of a mobile home. A staircase led up the center of the nearest face. Two huge guards, armored in bronze and brandishing curved spears, stood at the base of the staircase, inspecting each pilgrim’s offering before ushering them up.

    Miranda stared up at the temple’s peak. There didn’t seem to be a line of pilgrims returning from their ascent. A ring of birds, though, circled the zenith: crows, barely discernable against the clouds overhead.

    The line stopped as Miranda reached the guards. Their helmeted heads considered her for a moment before looking past her: a pair of priestesses were hurrying toward Miranda, robes billowing.

    Miranda backed away, dropping her offering and turning to run, but ran into the shield of another guard.

    Despite her weight, he hefted her up and spun her around. The priestesses studied her, plucking at her hair and skin, conferring with one another with complex gestures. Their eyes bulged with amazed realization and they pointed to the pillared hall.

    The guards led Miranda across the temple grounds. As they departed, the pilgrims still in line turned to her and began to kneel, one by one.

    She was directed into one of the smaller buildings. There a crowd of priestesses silently surrounded her, stripped her of her clothes, and bathed her. Miranda contemplated resisting, but the fragrances were too inviting and too relaxing and there seemed to be no malice in anyone’s eyes. Once they’d pulled her from the bubbling basin, they styled her hair, anointed her with perfumes, and wrapped her in a flowing golden robe.

    Under a hazy sunset, they led her into the pillared hall. Two massive tables ran the length of the interior, set for a lavish feast and packed with a spread of food far richer and more magnificent than the meagre offerings she and the other pilgrims had been carrying. The ceiling was tiled in a mosaic of gold, with a black orb at its center.

    Between the tables, at the head of the whole arrangement, was raised a broad marble throne. The priestesses placed Miranda in its wide seat and backed away, bowing. Behind them, the tables were suddenly lined with people, indulging and reveling, though making no sound.

    Miranda squirmed and tried to get anyone’s attention, trying in vain to protest and voice questions but producing only more silence.

    An older woman appeared. With a reverent bow, she presented Miranda with a silver tiara; at its center gleamed a brilliant, amber-tinted gemstone. She placed it delicately on Miranda’s head and immediately everyone in the hall paused and turned to watch.

    The old woman was handed a tall clay amphora, filled to the brim and dripping with a fragrant, heady liquid. She smiled and held the vessel’s mouth to Miranda’s lips.

    Miranda leaned away, but the amphora followed. The old woman gave her a reassuring grin. Miranda stared, took a long breath, and allowed herself a sip.

    The amphora tilted up and its warm contents flowed into her. It tasted like a wine, with its sour, intoxicating bite, but felt much thicker; heavy, even. It was a fascinating and strangely enjoyable treat and Miranda found herself taking a much longer draught than she’d planned. She pulled her lips away and coughed, shaking her head.

    The drink rushed down from her throat, filling her unprepared stomach with a sudden pleasure that swept through her body like a white-hot fire. Before she knew what she was doing, she reached up and seized the amphora, voicelessly pleading for more.

    The old woman nodded. She raised it up. In the corner of her vision, Miranda could see the gathered guests’ throwing their hands up with joy. Before her eyes closed, she saw priestesses approaching with platters of food. Their irresistible aromas swirled and filled her thoughts; her mind raged with a singular desire and she cried out to be filled.

    She drank; she ate. She was aware, briefly, of a heaviness in her stomach, and soon of a roundness in her lap. But then she was aware of nothing but hunger and satisfaction.

    Outside, the line of pilgrims resumed its march. A rumble shook the ziggurat as something moved, deep beneath its stones.

     
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  8. Aug 3, 2019 #48

    Marlow

    Marlow

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    (18, continued from above)




    Hunger, thirst, want, desire; satisfaction. Time disappeared.


    Miranda drifted in bliss. Something rocked her gently, to and fro.

    Her vision registered clouds, beginning to part. She was staring at the yellow sky, lounging idly atop a mound of cushions. There were still no sounds, but for so long now the only stimuli of any interest to her senses had been flavors, textures, and the pressure of oversatiated fullness that the silence had mattered little.

    She was on her royal pleasure barge, floating along the great river. Attendants stood close by, fanning her with palm fronds, taking turns dropping fruit and sweet meats into her mouth or lifting the bowl of wine to her lips. Nude dancers of all shapes and sizes writhed over the boat’s main deck in elaborate fertility rites.

    Through the haze of pleasure, a question slowly, faintly regained coherence in her mind: where were they going? She turned her eyes down from the sky and gazed forward to see what lay ahead.

    Her question went unanswered: all that lay ahead in her bleary vision was a dome of flesh, stretching across the horizon. It was her own belly, fattened by ceaseless indulgence to terrifying circumference and too glutted to flatten out. It rippled as she attempted, in vain, to shift herself.

    Panting, she called for help, but still found no voice in her throat. She raised a pudgy hand, stunned by the hanging thickness of her own arm, and pointed to the bow.

    Attendants hurried over. It took several of them, digging their muscular hands under her cascade of flabby rolls, to heave her into a sitting position and arrange the cushions to support her mass. Here Miranda could see more of herself and she recoiled in horror.

    She was bigger than ever, twice her size or perhaps beyond, trapped by the weight of her own stomach. The agile athlete she’d once been was as forgotten as any sense of restraint. She lurched with a silent hiccup and loosed a long but noiseless belch.

    Her apron belly spilled out from her lap, wider than the cushions in many places, flowing down over her knees. Each of her thighs was broader than the shoulder of her strongest servant. She could feel her face sunk within a nest of chins. One of the dancers reclined against the spill of her lovehandle, dozing upon it like a cushion.

    Tables of food were laid out on the deck. Involuntarily licking her lips, she reached a hand to point, but caught herself. Beyond the table, beyond the dancers, beyond the bow of the ship, she could see their destination.

    The ziggurat loomed against the sky, silhouetted by the rising sun. Now that the structure’s reverse side was visible, she could see that a huge gateway had opened in its base. The great river was flowing toward the gate and, inexplicably, continued flowing uphill until disappearing into the murky darkness within.

    Miranda pushed her belly aside for a better look. Many of the attendants were staring ahead now, as well.

    A huge tapestry hung down the face of the ziggurat, above the gaping gateway. It was an inky black spread, emblazoned in gold with a curling, seven-legged sigil.

    A crow lighted on a cushion near Miranda’s head. She recoiled, feeling her stomach slosh.

    Hundreds of crows were circling overhead. As Miranda stared, they began to descend like a swirling black cloud. They landed everywhere on the boat, covering its decks and rails, staring at Miranda. The last bird perched itself atop the swell of her belly, its talons gripping her quaggy flesh.

    Miranda craned her neck, lifting her heavy head to stare past the crow. She could almost see something in the darkness of the gate: a pair of thin eyes, perhaps, glowing with a pale yellow light, staring back at her from within the ziggurat.

    “Caw!” shrieked the crow on her stomach.

    Miranda thrashed in a panic, rocking the barge. The rest of the birds erupted in a dissonant cacophony, cawing and cackling. The boat began to drift faster, pulled toward the ziggurat’s maw by an unseen force.

    Getting to her feet proved impossible. Miranda was simply too big and her muscles too weak. Desperate, she flailed to her left and managed, barely, to roll her bulk off the pile of cushions. The crow flapped away and she flopped face-down onto the deck, almost unable to reach its boards around the expanse of her midsection.

    The crows screamed louder. Miranda squirmed, fumbling around her own girth to pull herself forward, half crawling, half undulating toward the edge of the barge. Her tiara clattered to the deck and rolled away, its amber jewel glittering.

    The shadow of the ziggurat swept over the deck. Miranda fought the urge to look back. With a quavering breath and a desperate, jiggling heave, she hurled her mass over the side. She heard a splash and the world darkened.




    Miranda sputtered. She was lying in a puddle, on her side. The musty interior of the basement coalesced into view.

    Her wrists stung: she was still duct taped to the chair, which lay overturned with her. As she writhed, she could feel she was back in her own body, though her stomach throbbed with hunger. She could feel the denim of the loose overalls and hear the rain outside.

    Panting, she glanced around. Ros and most of the farmhands were gone. Diana remained, though, staring down, her wan face pale, looking just as shocked and horrified as Miranda.

    “No,” gasped Diana. “No, oh no. No. Yes. No. Oh no.”

    Miranda struggled against her bonds, whimpering. The chair creaked.

    Diana turned to the remaining farmhand. “I have to go up to the barn. We need answers. This…she…oh god.” She pointed down at Miranda. “Take her upstairs and wait for me to come back. Yes. Then I’ll know whether we need to make an offering out of her or, or…if we just need to kill her.”

     
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  9. Aug 10, 2019 #49

    weaverof

    weaverof

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    Diana confuses me. Clearly death is the only solution. Death by pudding.
     
  10. Aug 11, 2019 at 7:47 AM #50

    ffju

    ffju

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    This is so intense! What happens next??
     

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