Royal Crush

Milia willed herself to suppress her anger. The feast would begin in just a few minutes and she hadn’t the time to ruminate on her assistant cook’s mistake. The girl had burned half of the meat pies, one of the king’s favorite dishes, and Milia had to make them all over again, causing her to run behind. She leaned over the feasting table and carefully placed a few more sprigs of parsley on various dishes. She didn’t need to take such care, in the midst of eating no one ever noticed such details, but they did matter to her. Once she was satisfied, she stepped away from the table and retreated to the servants entrance of the banquet hall.

The shamed cook stood there waiting, head down. Milia handed her the remaining herbs and instructed her to get started cleaning up the kitchens, as punishment for her earlier blunder. Milia hung about, and watched as the servants lit candles around the room and checked the table settings. They all looked rather tired. It wasn’t late in the evening, but they all knew they wouldn’t find sleep for many hours, a fact that already seemed to drain them. But Milia was excited, she was always excited on feasting nights. They only occurred a few nights a week and she enjoyed it each time. The hours upon hours of cooking and preparing, without much prior notice, were draining. But she had the help of the other cooks, most of which were competent.

Milia heard the distant sound of large, heavy wheels approaching. It was a familiar sound, to her and the servants, who hurried to take their positions at various spots in the hall. Milia retreated further into the servants entrance, she wasn’t permitted to be around during these times as she was only a cook. But she had built up rapport with the servants and guards, who let her come and go as she pleased so long as she stayed out of sight.

A few long moments later, the king entered, in all his glory. He was large, immensely large. So large that he could not even walk. He sat comfortably in a wooden cushioned chair with wheels affixed to the front and back, although it was more the size of a bed, big enough to hold the king’s massive form and support his fat-swollen legs from rear to toe. Two strong-armed guards, their muscles straining, carefully rolled the king in. The weight of the chair made it difficult to steer over the uneven stone floor, but any misstep that caused discomfort to the king would cost them dearly.

Milia watched, captivated, as his enormous belly jiggled and shook with each jostle of the chair. He was wrapped in fine robes, layers of expensive fabric, yet the vast, rounded shape beneath was unmistakable. He was the most magnificent being she had ever seen—and would likely ever see in her small, unremarkable life. Cooking for the king was her greatest pride, though she’d never admit it to anyone else. She did so eagerly each day, but feasts like this were her only opportunity to witness him in person. He rarely left his chambers unless absolutely necessary.

His guards wheeled him up to the side of the table, his usual position. He no longer sat at the head, as that made it too difficult to reach his food.

‘First the pheasant,’ Milia thought to herself. She’d grown to memorize the king's habits and favorites, and anything involving meat was always first to meet his mouth. As expected, Milia watched as his fat hands closed around a drumstick from one of the multiple roasted birds. He bit into it greedily, without care or decorum, as if he’d been starved all day. But that was just how he ate, as she’d come to learn. She supposed that was the nature of being a king, to do as you please, be as greedy and gluttonous as you like, without any recompense or judgment. Not to face, at least. Everyone in the castle complained about the king—the footmen, dressmakers, even the nobles. Milia would not be surprised if she were the only one who truly admired him, even if it was from afar.

The king had moved on to the meat pies, holding two in one wand whilst scooping sweet pureed carrots into his mouth with the other. Milia felt the familiar feelings of arousal throbbing between her legs, and she knew she’d properly enjoy herself later once she finally went to bed. She loved watching the king gorge himself, even more so knowing it was on food she’d prepared. The carrots had been boiled to perfection, the pastry pockets filled with care, the pheasant roasted to a golden crisp—all done while wondering if he’d be able to taste her efforts. She couldn’t tell from how he ate, ravenously, but she presumed he must. She’d never received any complaints, not from the king anyway. How could he eat like he did, as much as he did, if he didn’t enjoy it? He must. It was what got Milia out of bed and into the kitchen every morning. She’d convinced herself that no one could feed him as well as she could, no one could make his favorites the way she could. He would certainly notice if someone else prepared his cabbage or seasoned his potatoes.

The far doors leading into the hall swung open. Guards held them wide as they waited for the queen to pass. Milia frowned, a look of distaste on her face. The queen was retched. She sent dishes back at least once a week and was constantly flitting about the castle demanding attention. If it weren’t for the fact that she and the king shared the same meals, Milia would likely spit in hers. She watched as the queen sashayed to her seat, ever late to the feast. A servant pulled out her chair for her to sit and began to serve her some venison and vegetables. It was more or less all she ate, and Milia hated preparing it. The king favored braised beef and rarely touched venison unless it was the only option. Making the dish felt like a special favor to the queen, who took delicate bites while shooting irritated glances at her husband as he loaded his plate with fried cheese.

Milia knew in her heart that her hate stemmed from jealousy. But she clung to it, especially given how the queen treated the king with such disregard. It was rumored that the queen had fattened him on purpose, so she wouldn't have to share his bed anymore. That thought infuriated Milia to no end. It was her—not the queen—who had fattened him! The queen had already borne him three sons, after all, and Milia convinced herself there was no need for them to lay together anyhow.The king’s mistresses were proof of that. Three or four…or perhaps five sweet-faced ladies roamed the halls freely. Milia only saw them occasionally, as they spent most of their time lounging about or strolling the gardens. They were all voluptuous and beautiful, with flawless skin and fine clothes. A stark difference from Milia’s plain freckled face and roughened appearance.

She knew at this moment they’d be complaining about tonight’s possibilities, bickering about who would have to do what when the king called on them. And he would. He always did after a feast, as Millia had noticed. She would give anything to trade places with them, to discover what lay beneath the king’s robes. She thought about it for hours each day, wished it to be true as she lay in bed at night. Mounds of fat and rolls thicker than her torso enveloped him in her dreams. She wondered how far one would have to search for his manhood, and what it would feel like to sink her fingers into his navel. Could he truly not stand, was his form that heavy or was he simply too lazy? What did it look like when they moved him from the bed to his cart? How many men did it take? Did his flesh ripple and jiggle as they did so? These were the questions Milia loved to ponder as she went about her day, thoughts constantly fixed on the king and his body.

A loud belch erupted from the hall. The king was leant back in his chair, hands on his belly. A female servant sprung to action and was at his side in a few strides, rubbing his stomach as he moaned from fullness. Milia cursed herself, she’d been watching but wasn’t paying attention, lost in her own thoughts. She craned her neck, trying to get a better view of the table, but she couldn’t tell how much food remained. She needed these moments, these images of him indulging—they sustained her when he wasn’t near. But there was still time. The feast was only half over.

After a few minutes, the king waved the servant away. He then leaned forward to start eating again. He no longer bothered with filling his plate, he was the king after all, he could eat straight from the serving bowls. Milia watched as the king bit into a turkey breast and spooned peas straight into his mouth. He’d fill his maw and set his hands to reach for more food as he chewed, ready to fill it again. He’d already polished off the pheasant, an accomplishment Milia must have missed, and poured pomegranate sauce over the turkey leg he now held. The hungered sounds of his grunting were like a siren song to Milia, she wanted to draw near and get a closer look at him. She was always at least this far from the king, careful to keep her distance lest she be caught fawning. She ached to know what he felt like, smelled like, how his voice sounded in calm, tender moments. But she’d have to be satisfied with his moaning and groaning, those were just as appealing to her.

The king soon waved the servant away and leaned forward, ready to continue eating. He no longer bothered with filling his plate, and ate straight from the serving bowls. Milia watched as the king bit into a turkey breast and spooned peas straight into his mouth. He’d fill his maw and set his hands to reach for more food as he chewed with loud grunts, the sounds sending a shiver down Milia’s spine. He’d already polished off the pheasant, an accomplishment Milia must have missed, and poured pomegranate sauce over the turkey leg he now held. The hungered sounds of his eating were like a siren song to Milia. She wanted to be closer, to watch him more intently, but she dared not. She was always at least this far from the king, careful to keep her distance lest she be caught fawning. She ached to know what he felt like, smelled like, how his voice sounded in calm, tender moments. But she’d have to be satisfied with his moaning and groaning, those were just as appealing to her.

The king waved his hands in a specific way, and two servants hurried over with warm, damp towels. They wiped the king’s hands until they were free of greasy bits of food, and went to work cleaning his thick, dark beard. Milia wondered how many chins the king might be hiding under there—three at least, she imagined. His fat neck was often obscured by the heavy robes he wore, but she could just catch glimpses of the folds beneath.

At this point, the king uttered that he was growing hot. Milia could just barely hear the sound of his labored breathing. His face had grown flush and his belly rose and fell as if the simple act of doing so was difficult. Three servants moved to relieve the king of his robe, which proved to also be a difficult task. The king made no effort to help the servants in their endeavor, he simply sat there unmoving and out of breath. Milia wanted to run over and shout ‘Let me do it!” as she watched the servants struggle to pull the robes free from their overfed master. But eventually they did. One would think this would be the end of the feast, the king had clearly had his fill. But Milia knew there was still room for more. It seemed as though there was always room for more. She watched as the queen got up to leave, having had her fill. The sight of her leaving was a relief to Milia. The queen never stayed long—she was a slight woman and never ate much, and Milia was glad for it.

The guards returned to adjust the king’s seat. They pulled an affixing rod from each side of it and let the backrest tilt further backward, then returned the rods to keep it in place. With some effort, they repositioned the chair so that the king faced parallel to the length of the table. In this way, the king could still reach to the side for his food, even in his reclined position. He waited patiently as a few servants rearranged the dishes, bringing the sweeter ones closer to the edge. The belly-rubber joined him again briefly, but was quickly dismissed as the king was anxious to continue his feast. He ate lazily now, but happily. He picked up small dishes of custard and ate them leisurely, and would pop sugared almonds in his mouth between forkfuls of cherry torte. 

This was Milia’s favorite part—watching him indulge in sweets, his appetite seemingly endless. His gluttonous eating stirred heated lust within her, but watching the king repose and eat sweets as if on a leisurely picnic made Milia feel like a besotted girl. She was enchanted by him. She fantasized about feeding him herself, rubbing his belly as he gorged on the food she had made with such care. But she knew those would forever be fantasies.

It felt like hours that she and the servants watched and waited for the king as he ate. He certainly took his time whenever he had dessert. He usually would not leave the table until every bit was gone, as if he’d not get the chance to have it again. Milia saw a guard’s head nod with sleepiness at one time. But the king kept on. He was quite full, that part was evident. His right hand never left his enormous belly as his left continued to pick away at the sweets. He sipped spiced milk and munched on flavored cookies, ate and ate until physically distressed, uncomfortable from the feast’s weight in his belly. This was solved by a few minutes break, and then he would continue again. The king ate as though no one were in the room with him, as though it were just he and the food and he wished to make their moments last for as long as possible. Milia regarded her food as an extension of herself, she could grow closer to the king with every meal he ate and every pound he gained. He may not know of her, but he knew of her food. And that was all she needed.