The Royal Selection

Fifty years had passed since Margaret III was crowned as queen. Fifty long, prosperous years. But it was time. Margaret was aging. She still held formidable power, but finally, after fifty years, it was time to choose her protégé. It was time to select a princess.

Fifty prospective royals filed into the banquet hall, all garbed in the finest of silks and jewels provided by the royal clothiers. The servants whispered to the sides. Out of these fifty women, who came from noble families, farmsteads, and even the battlefield, one would stand above the others. One would become their princess - and then, their next queen.

Twenty-five women stood to the left of the long, ornate dining table in the center of the hall. Twenty-five stood to the right. At the head of the room, reclining on a gilded throne, sat Margaret herself. She was a living legend. Rumors swirled around her with none sure of what was true and what was fiction. It was said that her ebony black hair had a mind of its own, ripping apart her enemies. It was said that she could triple her already formidable size, reaching over twenty feet in height. It was said that her silver tongue could seduce anyone to follow her words, even to their demise. Even now in her older age, the prospective royals couldn’t meet the queen’s eyes. Each one knew instinctively that, if they did, their nerves would betray them then and there and they would flee.

Margaret raised a hand. From two side doors on opposite ends of the banquet hall came more servants, each one laden with platters upon platters of delicacies. Whole roasted game fowl, vats of succulent stew, arrays of foreign fruits - even plates of delicately prepared shark, despite how far the castle was from the ocean. The prospects could barely suppress their hunger as the banquet table was filled to the brim with these irresistible arrangements. Some couldn’t, as was heard by the frequent low gurgles that accompanied reddened cheeks and heavy gulps.

Finally, with the table full and the castle’s many servants on standby near the hall’s edges, the queen moved. She rested her head on her hand, leaning on the arm of her throne. She said one singular word. “Begin.”

Like that, the fragile sense of grace and dignity that had surrounded the prospects was shattered. The women set upon the lavish feast in a frenzy, filling their plates with as much food as they could before digging in. While they knew there was no rush, they also knew that if the queen was displeased with their efforts, they would be rejected. So as they ate, if they saw another eating faster than them, they would go that much faster. Such was the endless cycle of gluttony that drove the women to feast far beyond their means.

As mentioned, these women came from all walks of life. These various upbringings affected their manners and their habits as they devoured their quarry. The noblewomen ate as quickly as they could while still observing (most) of the manners they’d had branded into them as they grew. Their forks and knives clinked furiously against their plates, moving as many small bites of food to their mouths as quickly as they could.

Alternatively, those that lived outside of the cities or had known hunger during war cared little for manners. They abandoned their silverware entirely, opting to grab hold of whatever they could reach and cram it into their hungry mouths. More than one of the prospects could be seen with an entire leg of lamb in one hand and a handful of roasted potatoes in the other. Manners meant nothing in the quest for the throne; it was rumored that, in her own competition, queen Margaret had lifted a vat of stew to her lips and drained the entire pond of thick food into herself in a single go.

Despite the prospects’ equal eagerness to eat, it wasn’t long before true colors began to show. Several women began to slow down, grimacing between each bite and clutching their middles. Some even began to gag, forcing down food with hefty swigs of ale. Yet still, despite their clear discomfort, they ate.  And as they ate, they grew.

There were only three requirements to become a prospective princess: one had to be between the ages of eighteen and twenty, unmarried, and trim. These rules stand in order to ensure that princesses have time to learn while young, are unattached to others, and are willing to put in the effort to keep themselves fit even when subject to a lavish lifestyle. A slovenly queen would doom the country; only a queen who could push their limits, both physically and mentally, would be able to bring the Queendom to new heights. Thus was the Royal Selection borne, and thus was the reason why fifty women now crowded around a long table, displaying taut and rounded midriffs through elegant dresses. Goddess save the queen. Long live the queen.

Minutes passed. The sounds of eating changed from eager gulps and frantic clinking to loud belches, gurgling stomachs, and sickly moans. There wasn’t a single prospect left without a bloated belly straining the seams of their garments. The rich fabric only served to exacerbate their discomfort, tightly restraining their overstuffed midriffs. It was around this point when the first women were eliminated. Thirteen of the weakest eaters, sporting only middling middles, were escorted from the banquet hall, tears falling down their green-tinged cheeks.

Just as the weaker eaters were being culled, the strongest competitors were making themselves known. A tall, muscular woman, born on the northern flats in a farming village and a loyal soldier of the local militia, had continued to eat without stopping the entire time. Her emerald-green dress seemed to be crying for help as her gargantuan appetite tested the abilities of the castle’s clothiers. Meat, fish, potatoes, greens - anything the dark-skinned war hero could reach, she was cramming into her mouth. More than once, she would run out of food near her and she would scoot over, bumping another prospect out of her way. These prospects would take one look at what they were up against, compare the bulge of their own stomachs against hers, and then willingly forfeit, accepting that there was no way to best such a beast.

However, force was not the only chance of victory. A marquess from the east was a blur of silver and savory scents, moving reasonably-portioned bites of food from her plate to her teeth faster than one would think possible. She cleaned plates in record time, delicately dabbing grease and crumbs from her lips with a cloth before setting into the next plate of food. The marquess had no need to force others out; she instead had the many servants along the walls tend to her, demanding for more food to be brought to her seat whenever she ran out. It was difficult to see just how large this prospect was growing since she was one of the few women sitting down at the table, but the ever-growing towers of cleaned plates around her were enough for many prospects to take the hint and give in.

One more prospect stood out, in more ways than one. This woman’s dress had already been straining from the start, as she’d been a last-minute addition to the selection after the queen had ruled that she technically made the cut for ‘trim’. Most of the prospects had perfectly adequate figures, bearing modest busts and hiding modest hips. This particular farm-hand from the southern fields, though, had far more than that. Her chest bulged out from the neckline of her gown, a mountain of cleavage threatening to free itself if she moved wrong, and the dress just barely managed to keep her decent by reaching mere inches past her full hips. Despite holding so much weight, her waist was seemingly slim. It was still solid, honed from years of large, meaty meals and hard farm work. It was just that, in comparison to the rest of her, her waist was… trim.

Now, though, all guise of modesty from the farmhand was gone. With her stomach becoming a fifth oversized curve on her figure, the clothiers’ rushed efforts were put to waste. Her gown easily slid up and over her butt, displaying her plain panties to the whole hall. Shortly after that, her gown’s brazier split open while she reached for an eight helping of stew. Then, with so many faults already present, the garment soon gave in entirely, splitting straight down the sides as the farmhand swallowed a heaping helping of lamb. Luckily, modesty also played no part in becoming the princess. Thus was it that, wearing only panties and a globular gut, the farmhand joined the marquess and the militia women in the final ten.

Each of the remaining women was equal parts stuffed and famished. Only the greediest had managed to make it this far, and while it hadn’t happened yet, each one was a single loose thread away from bearing it all, just as the farmhand was. One might think that, with all they’d eaten, the selection would end from the feast ending, but no. With the final ten decided, the queen waved a hand, and the servants whipped into action. They cleared the empty dishes away, moving the remaining food closer to each woman, and then began to bring in… desert.

Rich puddings, five-tiered cakes, sugar-steeped pies, and sparkling jellies replaced all of the feast’s finished meals. It wasn’t long before the prospects finished their dinners and moved on to their sweets, though it was doubtful that any of them were enjoying the tasty confections.

One by one, more prospects began to drop out. None were being removed by the queen anymore, as none left were the types to simply stop eating. They would only drop out once they were packed absolutely to the brim, unable to fit a single bite more. One woman in a lavender gown doubled over in pain, belching and moaning as her stomach pulsed underneath the strained clothing. Another ate herself into a food coma, starting to snore even as she collapsed belly-first into a cake.

Even the forerunners were starting to struggle. The militia woman found herself starting to sweat. In a moment of weakness, she used a knife to cut her dress along the sides. The small cuts rapidly elongated to massive tears as her restrained gut bulged out of the gaps, giving the militia women a moment of relief.

The marquess would never be so uncouth as to burp, let alone reveal her no-doubt prominent stomach. Between those two factors, she could barely hide the pain and discomfort from appearing on her face. Yet still she ate, packing away plates of sweets just as swiftly as ever. It should be noted, though, that several of the servants that assisted the marquess with reaching more dishes were whispering about hearing distressing creaks and groans from beneath the table. A few even began to shy away from their noble charge.

The farmhand, though having a natural advantage from her already larger size, was in a similarly overstuffed state. Her prominent chest was being lifted up into her face by her engorged stomach, making it harder for her to feed herself with each gulp. Add that to how dangerously taut her tanned stomach looked and it was a wonder that she was still eating at all.

Minutes passed. Then, after an entire hour had gone by since the selection’s start, the table had once again been cleared. Only four women remained: the militia woman, who was barely able to stand anymore and was clutching her gut. The marquess, whose face was pale and her throat constantly swallowing. The farmhand, who had taken to laying on the table and moaning as she massaged the pulsing gut pinning her down. And a small woman who, somehow, had avoided everyone’s gazes. She didn’t seem to have eaten much as her vibrant teal dress, while pulled taut, only showed off a bump the size of a salad bowl. Compared to the gargantuan orb that was ripping the militia woman’s dress to shreds, the mysterious rumbling monster the marquess was hiding, and the towering terror above the farmhand, it seemed like the small woman had only made it so far by not being seen, not from eating.

Margaret sat up for the first time that evening. She clapped her hands, and as before, the servants sprang into motion. The table was not only cleared, but carried away completely, leaving the banquet hall empty. The four remaining prospects lined up in front of the queen, standing up as straight as they possibly could in order of belly size. 

With the table no longer hiding her gluttony, it was revealed that the Marquess was the largest by far. Her cream-colored dress had long since torn, ripping apart at the seems to reveal large swathes of pale flesh beneath. The marquess stood with her hands on her back, clearly struggling to remain standing with such a hefty weight dragging her forward.

After her was the farmhand, though only by a hair. The militia woman was right after her, and then came the small woman. They stood in front of the queen, awaiting the next part of the selection. They waited as the queen observed them, eyes flicking between them. Then… she spoke.

“One last test,” The queen stated. Her speech was cold, harsh. She gazed down at the prospects, judging their reactions to her words. “You begin as one. Stop at any point and you may not continue. At the end, you will be judged on size and size alone. I will hear no complaints.”

The three forerunners regarded one another warily. One of them would be the next princess. All they needed to do was last longer than the other two.

Moments after, several servants came back into the room carrying four large barrels, each with a hose attached, and a tall table. The forerunners all gulped. The table was placed before the prospects, with not one of them being tall enough to reach the table’s edge. A barrel was set atop the table in front of each prospect, the ends of the hoses handed down to them. Each one placed the hose into their mouth. Then the queen raised her hand. Four servants atop the table swung a hammer each, smashing the top of each barrel. Ale rapidly sped down the hoses, eventually reaching the mouths of the prospects below. They began to chug.

A chorus of moans, groans, swallows, and gurgles began to fill the banquet hall. The forerunners were already each so stuffed, so packed full of food that every single gulp of ale made their bellies swell outward another centimeter. Their middles bulged before the queen’s eyes, rapidly ballooning into taut orbs of painful tension.

The militia woman was the first to give in. Mere moments after starting, she reeled back, belching and retching as she clutched the sides of her gut. Ale spread across the grand palace flooring, but that mattered little to the militia woman. Her stomach pulsed and groaned, earnestly rebuking her for ever daring to force so much into it. The militia woman collapsed to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks as she desperately rubbed her stomach, begging for the pain to stop.

The farmhand was the next to fall. She let the hose fall from her mouth and took one step back, then two. Then she toppled over flat on her back. The force of the fall made the nearby floor shake, yet the woman’s behemoth belly was packed so tight that it didn’t wobble a centimeter. The farmhand’s eyes fluttered shut and she fell asleep then and there, her snores a faint whisper compared to the angry roaring coming from her gut.

With her two rivals gone, the marquess continued for another five seconds before confidently kinking her hose to stop the flow and pulling it from her mouth. She had already been the largest, and now she had been the last to remain chugging. The marquess, confident in her victory, handed the kinked hose off to a servant and allowed herself a single hard-earned belch. The cacophonous noise almost seemed to rattle the walls during the seven seconds that it lasted, filling the marquess with a strange mixture of shame and pride. She would have to allow herself more chances to relieve herself as such once she became princess. Yes, once she became the princess…

Strangely enough, despite the forerunners all having relinquished their hoses, the sound of gulping still filled the room. The small woman in the teal dress was still chugging ale from her hose. Strangely enough, despite that she’d been chugging for even longer than the marquess had, the bulge of her belly had hardly grown at all. Well, that was fine, the marquess supposed. The queen has said that size was what mattered. No matter how much the peasant woman drank, so long as she didn’t swell, it meant little.

At least, that was what the marquess thought. But after several minutes of gulping ended in the small woman pulling the hose from her mouth and only leftover droplets of ale falling from the hose, the noblewoman had become reasonably worried. Where was she putting it all? She couldn’t be taller than five feet, and she was thin as a rail! Where was she putting it all!?

All noise stopped as the queen rose. Even the farmhand, who had been lazily snoring away, seemed to snap awake and go silent when the queen took her first step. She approached not the marquess, but the smallest of the women. Then she addressed the teal-clad woman. “Why is it that you hide your prowess so?”

The small woman blinked. “Uh, s-sorry for speakin’ rudely, your majesty, but I don’t know much. I jus’ thought this dress was nice and fancy, and it’d be a darn shame to ruin it.”

The queen laughed, a glorious and enamoring sound. “‘Tis no matter, street urchin. You stand equal to a marquess at this moment; please, hold nothing back.”

The urchin pursed her lips. “Well… if’n your majesty says so…” Then she inhaled for a moment before letting out a deep breath. As she did, the small bulge in her dress expanded at a lightning fast rate. The sound of fabric being torn filled the hall as the teal dress instantly burst into scraps. The former forerunners’ eyes all widened as a vast expanse of bare skin surged forward right in front of their eyes. Within seconds, the small woman had gone from having a small but prominent bulge to having a mammothian stomach large enough that, should she lean forward, she could likely lay on top of.

The queen gazed down at the stomach before her. Then she turned to the others. “As you can see, the selection is over. The next princess has been decided. Urchin, tell us your name.”

The small woman, scarcely able to understand what was happening, managed to utter, “S-Sammy, your majesty.”

Margaret nodded. “The next era shall be the era of queen Samantha! Goddess save the queen!”

The militia woman, the farm hand, the marquess, and all the servants responded, some with more disappointment in their voices than others, “Long live the queen!”

Sammy still couldn’t quite understand what was happening. All she’d wanted was to sneak into a fancy party, eat some free food, and sneak back out again. Now she was becoming a princess? Despite that, the only concern in her mind was if there would be some kind of celebration since she’d won. A celebration with plenty of food. She was feeling a hankering for some meat after all that ale…

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Long Live the Queen.