FAT FICTION | Chapter 9 - Under the Queen's Spell (An X Chapter) (Patreon)

His hands moved over her sides, down to her hips, then back up as if he could not decide which part of her astonished him most. Fatama let him explore, guiding him with soft sounds, a hand in his damp hair, the occasional press of her body against his when he pleased her.

Paul kissed along her soft jaw, then hesitated at her throat.

Fatama tipped her head back.

“Go on.”

His mouth touched the soft, flabby skin beneath her chin, then the crease in her neck. She felt the shiver in him when he realised she liked it. His hands slid around her, finding the heavy curve of her arse through the velvet.

Fatama made a low sound of approval.

Paul nearly came undone from that alone.

She took his wrist and led him to the curtained room at the back of the cottage. The bedroom beyond was lit by candles and fireglow, the bed wide and carved from dark wood, covered in green blankets and gold cushions. Fatama stopped beside the bed.

Paul stood before her, breathing hard.

“Undress me,” she said.

His hands shook when he reached for the first clasp.

The gown was complicated: laces, hooks, hidden ties, embroidered panels. He worked slowly, almost painfully careful, until Fatama covered his hands with hers.

The next lace came free faster.

Then another.

The bodice loosened.

Fatama watched his face as the velvet opened, watched desire and awe move over him. When the gown finally slipped from her shoulders, Fatama stood before him vast and bare and crowned, her body lush. He huge frame was adorned with rolls of fat, cellulite, and folds he wanted to explore forever. Her breasts hung heavy against the upper swell of her stomach. Her belly was enormous, soft, deeply real, marked by faint stretch lines and shadows where flesh folded and rested. Her hips flared wide. Her thighs were thick and powerful. Her thick calves melted into her ankles. Paul whispered her name.

She liked that.

She sat on the edge of the bed, and the mattress dipped beneath her. Then she crooked one chunky finger.

Paul came to her.

She pulled him between her thighs and kissed him again, harder this time. His hands found her shoulders, her pillowy arms, her flabby sides. She tugged his tunic up and he helped her, stripping it over his head. The linen shirt followed. 

Fatama ran her hands over his chest.

She kissed down his chest, slow enough to make him grip the bedpost. When her hands reached his waistband, he stopped breathing again.

Fatama looked up.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” he said immediately. Then, softer but steadier, “Please.”

The word pleased her more than she expected.

She undressed him with unhurried care, making him endure the intimacy of being seen. By the time he stood bare before her, he was flushed, hard, and trembling with the effort not to rush.

Fatama leaned back on her hands.

“Look at me.”

Paul did.

“All of me.”

His gaze moved over her body, no longer darting away. Crown. Face. Mouth. Heavy breasts. Belly. Hips. Thighs. The whole grand, soft, hungry vision of her.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Fatama reached for him.

Paul came into her thick, padded arms.

For a while there was only kissing, touching, the hot press of skin against skin. Paul’s mouth travelled over her whole body, learning what made her sigh, what made her laugh, what made her fingers tighten in his hair. He kissed her throat, her chest, the heavy softness of her belly. He worshipped her with lips and hands until her breath grew uneven and her body relaxed beneath him.

Deeply pleased.

When his mouth moved lower, he looked up for permission.

Fatama’s answer was a hand in his hair and a command spoken like a blessing.

“Yes.”

Paul obeyed.

He sunk his face deep between her thighs and down into her fat, wet pussy. The first touch of his mouth made her inhale sharply. The second made her grip the blankets. The third drew a low, rolling moan from her that seemed to fill the entire cottage.

Paul heard it and became devoted.

He pleasured her as if the sound had unlocked something in him, as if every fantasy he had ever hidden was being translated through his mouth, his tongue, his eager hands gripping her thighs. Fatama spread herself more comfortably on the bed, one hand buried in his hair, the other resting on her own belly as pleasure built through her in slow waves.

He learned quickly.

Too quickly.

Her teasing stopped. Her commands grew shorter. Softer. Rougher.

“There.”

“Again.”

“Don’t stop.”

Paul did not stop. His tongue moved back and forth. He drank from her as she gushed. 

Fatama’s body tightened beneath him. Her thighs framed him. Her breath broke into sounds she did not bother to hide. When pleasure finally took her, it rolled through her with such force that she cried out, back arching, fingers clenched in his hair, the whole bed creaking under the movement of her body.

Paul stayed with her through it. His mouth plunged deeper than ever around her chubby lips. 

Gentle when she needed gentle.

Hungry when she pulled him closer.

When she finally loosened her grip, he lifted his head, breathless, flushed, dazed with satisfaction.

Fatama looked down at him.

The queen had lost none of her power.

If anything, she looked more dangerous now.

“Paul,” she said.

He swallowed. “Yes, my queen?”

Her smile returned.

Slow.

Wicked.

Fond.

“Come here.”

He climbed up over her carefully, bracing himself on his hands. She guided him into place, settling him where she wanted him, letting him feel the full heat and softness of her beneath him. His body trembled against hers.

Fatama cupped his face.

She kissed him.

Then she drew him in.

The first joining made them both go still.

Paul made a broken sound against her mouth. Fatama held him there, letting him feel it. Then she moved.

Fatama guided him with hands on his hips, with the slow roll of her own body beneath his. The rhythm found them gradually, then all at once. The bed creaked. Paul’s breath came fast at her fat neck.

Fatama wrapped one thick leg around him and pulled him deeper.

He said her name again and again, sometimes as Fatama, sometimes as my queen, each version rougher than the last. 

He kissed her shoulder. Her mouth. Her chest. He held her as much as he could, though there was too much of her to hold at once, and that seemed to drive him even wilder. His hands kept moving, greedily, as if every fold he touched revealed another.

Fatama watched him lose himself in her.

She loved it.

Loved his flushed face. Loved his shaking arms. Loved the way desire stripped him of everything but wanting her. Loved the way he looked at her because of her size, not politely around it, but because she was so fucking fat! Because she was soft and heavy and powerful. 

Pleasure built again, slower this time, deeper. Paul felt it in her before he understood it: the tightening of her hands, the change in her breathing, the sounds rising from her throat. He tried to hold on. Tried to make it last. Fatama saw the effort and smiled.

“Good knight,” she whispered.

That was enough to ruin him.

Paul came with a desperate, helpless sound, burying his face against her as his body shuddered. Fatama held him through it, stroking his damp hair, murmuring praise against his temple until he softened in her arms.

For several minutes, neither of them moved.

Paul lay against her, breath gradually settling, one hand resting on the vast warmth of her belly as though afraid she might vanish if he stopped touching her.

Fatama ran her fingers through his hair.

“Well,” she said at last.

Paul gave a breathless laugh against her skin. “Is this usually how your chapters go?”

“No.”

He lifted his head.

Fatama smiled.

“Usually I edit them first.”

That startled a real laugh out of him.

The sound pleased her almost as much as the rest had.

In the outer room, the writing slate glowed brighter. New words appeared on its surface, silver and certain.

The mortal entered the queen’s story and found he had not been trapped there. He had been invited. And he accepted the invitation well. 

Fatama looked toward the doorway, then back down at Paul.

His eyes were half-lidded, soft with exhaustion and wonder.

She touched his cheek.

“You may return to the diner whenever you like,” she said.

Paul’s hand moved slowly over her belly.

“Do I have to?”

“No.”

“Then not yet.”