My first story, it's kinda cringe, hope someone enjoys it
Prologue: The Bards' Secret
This tale was whispered in hushed tones, passed along like a forbidden 'secret' among the most libertine bards and poets. Shared only with select audiences, far from prudish ears and affected ladies (especially plump ones) who might take offense.
As guests gathered around bards near tables laden with devoured delicacies, the story unfolded. In opulent court halls, always after grand feasts; when most were half-drowsy, and the slender maidens from the feast's start now sat sleepy and sated. Without corsets and with belts loosened for their swollen bellies' comfort. Stuffed from food and drink, their full stomachs straining against bespoke silk gowns.
After hours of revelry, etiquette faded, displaced by the pleasure (and bloat) of gluttony. With greasy fingers and smeared lips, ladies listened to this tale, often laughing and whispering behind hands. They compared the witch to some plump friend, or even to acquaintances who grew fat after exhaustion, childbirth, or age.
I - Sing, O Muse the Gluttony of Morgana
Once, in a kingdom on the brink of collapse, where war and famine ravaged once-prosperous lands, young King Alaric inherited a crumbling throne. His father, a great warrior, had fallen in battle, leaving behind an occupied realm and a people desperate from crisis. Alaric, inexperienced and overwhelmed, felt powerless. Though well-intentioned, he lacked governance skills and was easily deceived by corrupt nobles, worsening the nation’s plight. Flaws aside, the young heir possessed charisma and vigor—constantly traveling the realm, meeting allies, battling enemies, and receiving all manner of illustrious or infamous figures who might aid him. His charm made him beloved by the populace, given the circumstances.
Though a fierce warrior, the king lacked military strategy. He won battles through zeal but lost the war from tactical naivety. The enemy conquered fortified cities one by one, cornering the capital. Under siege, the city’s provisions dwindled. Then one day, the witch Morgana appeared at his palace. Though Alaric had wasted time on false prophets and charlatan mages, this being a superstitious era where all feared magic, he received her as he rested on his throne—despite past disappointments.
She was an elderly woman of grotesque appearance. Cloaked in long, dark, loose, worn garments. A hooded tunic hid her wrinkled, time-ravaged face. Her spine curved not just from age, but from her own bloated body. Greasy gray hair escaped her hood; her wart-covered hands clutched a gnarled wooden staff. Obese, with a prominent belly swaying under billowy clothes. Sagging breasts strained her robes. Her lower body was immense—a huge rear dragging on the floor, cellulite sometimes visible through fabric layers. Her face, carved by deep wrinkles and warts, personified decay. None could guess her age or how she stayed well-fed during famine. Perhaps someone so foul knew dark arts.
— "I can free your kingdom, young king," Morgana rasped, her voice seductive despite her repugnance. "But all things have a price."
— "I’ve heard promises from other 'mages.' Prove your worth or my guards will drag you out!" Alaric brandished.
— "Many pretend to power with tricks or persuasion. But true power is recognized in the light of day."
With that, the sorceress raised her staff toward the ceremonial table. Muttering Ancient Tongue words while clutching a small crystal sphere. A beam shot from her staff. When light hit the table, it trembled like a possessed thing. A loud crack made guards tense, though harmless. As smoke cleared just as guards moved to seize her, the table now overflowed with fine dishes.
The sight delighted the hall’s starving occupants. Nearly all whispered for the king to heed her.
— "Is this proof enough? I’d speak with Your Majesty privately."
Alaric agreed. The witch proposed a pact: she’d free the kingdom from invaders and bring prosperity, but in exchange, the king must surrender body and soul. Reluctant yet desperate, Alaric accepted.
II - Blood Rain
That same night, the pact was sealed. In a private dungeon cell, Morgana invoked ancient magics. After placing a comfortable bed, she drew a magic circle with a sacrificed lamb’s blood. Chanting in the Ancient Tongue before the sigil, candles snuffed out as a heavy atmosphere consumed the space. Unnatural voices and laughter mixed with dying men’s laments beyond the walls and soldiers’ battle cries.
Beneath the dungeons, the king sweated cold; hearing a cacophony above—unworldly yet indistinguishable—helpless to prevent his throne’s fall. The lamb’s blood glowed red on stone, revealing in dim light that the witch had disrobed. With unknown energy, she shoved the young king onto the bed. Mounting him not like a succubus, but like a nightmare’s suffocating dread, she took him. He’d sworn not to interrupt the ritual. He was a hostage, immobilized and bound, doomed either way. He surrendered his body, having nothing left to lose.
He’d never lain with such an aged, ruined woman. Had candles burned, he’d have vomited. Her hips moved in slow, hypnotic rhythm, each motion draining not just his pleasure but his life force. Barely moving, he soon wearied from weight and tension. Between gasps and moans, they climaxed. The witch, more satisfied than ever, climbed off as the youth passed out. Alaric couldn’t see, but the ritual worked. That same night, enemies breached the citadel and nearly took the royal fort. But at dawn, an unprecedented storm rained thick, boiling crimson fluid from the sky. Whatever it was, it burned invaders’ skin. Panic erupted as they screamed like men in boiling water.
By morning, the siege lifted. Corpses littered roads—mostly foes. The enemy camp stood deserted, tents scorched. Enemy king and generals, terrified by this phenomenon, signed a truce; content with plunder for now. The kingdom began recovering. Fields bloomed. People returned to peaceful work.
III - Nights of Pleasure and Torment
But the witch hadn’t acted from kindness. The ritual siphoned the youth’s vital energy, and she wouldn’t stop at one night. She vanished after the first encounter, yet always reappeared suddenly, lustful even when the king swore he was alone. If first nights were horrific, he gradually grew accustomed—though waking increasingly exhausted. But he noticed Morgana changing, growing younger nightly. Where he once shut his eyes waiting for time to pass, now he began to enjoy it, and she reciprocated.
Life force drained from king to witch. Through carnal acts, she rejuvenated, becoming younger and sensual while he withered, thinned, and grew too weak to rule. Alaric’s nights with Morgana were a mix of pleasure and torment. The witch, now dazzlingly beautiful, seduced the young king. She led him to bed with slow, calculated movements, fingers sliding over his skin while whispering power-words in his ear. Her full red lips explored every inch of him, sucking not just pleasure but vitality.
Alaric felt trapped in a cycle of desire and exhaustion. Nights were intense, but each dawn left him weaker. His once-strong body grew pale and gaunt, eyes sunken and weary. He barely rose by day; nights were consumed by the witch.
IV - Behind the Cloak (Flashback)
By day, she hid, recalling her past. She was ancient—234 years old—having prolonged her life through occult rituals to study dark magic. In youth, she’d been beautiful and seductive, the opposite of her current state. As she matured, curves blossomed into loveliness. But rebelliousness led her to scorn human contact, especially men, remaining surprisingly chaste for such a sensual girl. She isolated herself, studied the Ancient Tongue—not Philosophy but Heresies: Demonology, Alchemy, Necromancy, Occultism. Many youths fell for her; she rejected all, driving some to suicide. For years, in a forest hovel restored by spells, she studied scrolls alone. Her goal: wield magic to control the world in her image.
But aging alone made her unstable and rage-prone; she spent most time conjuring food and devouring banquets solo. The food, artificial but nourishing, lacked true flavor. She tended cats roaming the woods—many transformed youths or men. And killed incautious maidens nearing her hut from pure envy of youth.
Decades of mad, lonely study made her a shadow of her former self. Spells initially preserved some youthfulness despite bloat, but as she fattened, magic failed, aging her further. Her suffering bore fruit; she became one of history’s greatest sorceresses, yet her spirit withered. In sleep-spells, she saw her lost beauty and mourned handsome suitors and the life she’d squandered. Even the false-tasting food frustrated her.
Learning of the kingdom’s plight, she enacted her life’s plan. Using a newly-learned spell to steal youths’ vitality for rejuvenation, she crafted the crystal sphere her ancient grimoire required to store victims’ energy. With effort, she mounted her broom and flew invisible to the capital.