By her next birthday, Snow White was unrecognisable. The first thing anyone saw when greeting her was not her face, but her tremendous, distended belly, quivering with fullness as she reached for just one more slice of syrupy pie or chicken-stuffed pastry. Her arms sagged, enveloped by layers of heavy flesh, till she could barely lift them. Her legs struggled beneath her, unable to keep up with her rapidly ballooning weight. Any exercise more strenuous than waddling across the room left her gasping for breath, her failing corset struggling to hold back the avalanche of fat.
So, of course, the Queen insisted on an enormous ball and feast to celebrate Snow’s birthday, where Snow herself would be expected to dance with every eligible young man.
“Step... mother, … please…!” Snow’s knees trembled under her bulk. “Can’t I… sit out… just one… dance?”
“Now, Snow,” the Queen said, patting her wheezing stepdaughter’s cheek. “A gentleman shouldn’t be treated so rudely.”
Snow groaned as her stepmother handed her off to a local nobleman, who took her hand with barely disguised disgust. Snow suspected that the Queen revelled at seeing her wobble and wheeze her way across the floor.
The gentleman fled as soon as the song ended, eager to get away from the huffing whale of a princess. Snow swayed, abandoned in the middle of the dance floor, unsure if she had the strength for even one more step.
“May I?” the huntress asked, dressed in her finest formal uniform, extending a hopeful hand toward Snow. “Um, have this dance, I mean.”
“I… don’t… think…” Snow’s head spun, words fled. “So… tired…” Snow gasped, falling forwards. The Huntress caught her in her muscular arms as the princess’s exhausted legs went slack.
“I-I’m so sorry, I-”
“No, your highness!” the Huntress smiled, ears red. She readjusted, giving Snow even more support to lean on. “It’s my pleasure.”
Snow didn’t quite believe her, but her heart fluttered as she clung to the Huntress’s sturdy shoulders.
When dinnertime finally came, Snow was a disaster. Her forehead dripped with sweat, and she could barely speak for wheezing. Her legs twitched pathetically, clearly traumatised by so much movement.
The Queen outdid herself on food. Dozens of roast peacocks swimming in butter, a forest’s worth of fruits and nuts dipped in honey, and hundreds of finely sculpted pastries loaded down the table. The smell was absolutely euphoric. Snow’s stomach rumbled. Even without an apple, she was ravenous.
“And now, the birthday cake!” her stepmother announced.
The kitchen door swung open and four servants rolled out with an absolute monstrosity of a cake. The Queen had ordered it to be in the image of Snow, made at actual size. Every fold, roll, and bulge was executed in chocolate, caramel and thick, rich cream. Delicate icing lips puffed out from the pressure of plump ganache cheeks, rolls of expertly sculpted chins cascaded down her breast, and each fat finger gleamed with exquisite detail. The massive dessert positively exuded decadence. Snow’s eyes widened, her belly roaring at this new target.
The Queen folded a fork into Snow’s fat hand. “Dig in, my dear,” she whispered. “I don’t want leftovers.”
Perhaps if she had not been on her feet all night... Perhaps if the Queen had rolled the cake out after dinner... Or even if the cake wasn't chocolate… Maybe Snow could have controlled herself.
The guests gasped as Snow attacked the dessert with both hands, howling with hunger, double fisting moist, rich cake into her trembling jowls. But the Huntress watched Snow’s progress through her sugary self portrait with a loving sparkle in her eyes. Her heart thrilled as Snow crammed more and more chocolate into a steadily swelling belly. Oh that endless wanting. Was there anything more beautiful?
