A Bountiful Princess

by Megapone

Rating: mature
Tags: Anthro, Second Person, Romance
Length: 3891

Princess Luna has taken a liking to modern Equestrian cuisine. A lowly Lunar Guard is chosen to help her gorge herself on scrumptious food—and to please her when she requires it.

Princess Luna has taken a liking to modern Equestrian cuisine. A lowly Lunar Guard is chosen to help her gorge herself on scrumptious food—and to please her when she requires it.

Contains: Gradual weight gain, belly rubs/massage, a chubby/fat/obese Princess, and stuffing/some belching.

Edited coverart by sirmasterdufel., with original found at Derpibooru ID 1196624. Editing by Troublesome Beast.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2016-08-04 02:40:01 UTC

Chapter One: Second Helpings

"Now, this is a feast!"

Laughter fills the private dining room of the Royal Sisters, Celestia's hearty chuckles mixing with the chortling of the butler. From her place at the tail of the table, Luna beams at her sister, a light splash of sauce still staining her cheek.

The Lunar Princess licks her chops, eyeing the rest of the dinner with obvious lust. The table, lined with a clean white cloth, is absolutely laden with food—rich, bountiful, delicious-smelling food. From your place at the door, your own mouth waters at the scent—but a Royal Guard can hardly desert his post to gorge himself at the side of royalty.

Luna, however, bears no such restriction. Having finished her "appetizer" with aplomb, she eyes the trio of courses before her with the unrestrained air of a starving mare. Celestia giggles, holding a napkin to her mouth to hide her lips. She dabs delicately at her cheeks to wipe up a few crumbs.

"Enjoying modern Equestrian cuisine, Lulu?" Princess Celestia asks.

Luna pats her stomach. "Indubitably," she says. Grinning, she reaches for the next helping. "And there's so much of it!"

From your place at the door, you can't help but smile quietly. The enthusiasm of the newest addition to the Palace for everything around her is incredible. From the moment she returned to Canterlot, Princess Luna has held a voracious appetite for everything around her: culture, media, and now, cuisine. You feel a strange shiver go down your spine as you watch her survey the table with the unmistakable gaze of an apex predator, though. For all her eagerness outside of the dining room, the banquet hall seems to be where she's most enjoyed her time thus far.

As Princess Celestia nibbles regally upon her stewed carrots, Luna dives into the feast around them with gusto. She all but moans as she gulps down a heaping mouthful of mashed potatoes, her cheeks bulging around the oversized helping. Every inch of her hide seems to vibrate with an amazing lust for life and life's pleasures. She swallows—and then takes the next one.

Your eyes can't help but wander as you watch her...well, eat! Your left flank is covered by one of your barracks-mates, but her gaze is steeled stonily forward. Not a muscle of her toned body twitches, and her muscles are taut beneath her coat. Yours, on the other hand, you notice guiltily, have relaxed, your jaw going slack as you take in the unequalled experience of Princess Luna simply eating.

The guilt squirms in your belly, and you grab a firmer hold of your spear, noting that the point had strayed from its vertical alignment. Your leather-hide wings rustle as they curl back against your shoulders; for a moment, your comrade's slitted eyes flit over to you, but as you pull yourself up straight, she nods, almost imperceptibly, and resumes her position.

But the urge to watch—to ogle—is undeniable. You whimper silently, and make sure to keep your neck stiff as your eyes shift to watch Luna satiate her appetite.

Where her dinner guards' muscles are toned and taut, Luna is a being of curves and softness—fullness, like the pure-white moon smiling down over Equestria. Her full breasts bounce lightly over the top of her stout abdomen as she shovels gulp after gulp of hot, steaming soup down her gullet. She moans, almost obscenely, and you feel a heat growing between your legs.

That whirlwind of heat doesn't waste much time before travelling up to your cheeks, too. Struggling to keep all of the blood from rushing to your crotch, you straighten up and try—and fail—to avert your eyes entirely. You've always known that you've had an eye for mares with an appetite...but the sheer power, the sheer voraciousness, and the sheer gluttony of Princess Luna is turning you on in ways that you never could have imagined before.

The feast concludes only after a seeming eternity of grunts, gulps, and smacking of lips. With a grunt of satisfaction, Princess Luna leans back in her seat and pats her prodigious belly. It's grown from her binge; after downing several dozen pounds of food, she's become pregnant with a noticeable food baby. It's formed a bulge in her otherwise slender dress; as she spreads her luscious thighs out before her, the chair she's sitting in creaks beneath the weight. You think you see her smile.

"Goodness," Princess Celestia says, after a moment. She looks both surprised and impressed; a small smile tugs at her lips. "You certainly enjoyed yourself."

Luna pauses—and then belches, low and rumbling. "Is there more?" she asks hopefully, after a moment.

There is not.

Five minutes later, you find yourself grunting with exertion as you heave your way up the winding stairs to the Lunar Tower. You're a toned, well-built stallion...but your travelling companion is anything but light.

Beside you, Princess Luna huffs and puffs, one well-padded arm wrapped around your broad shoulders. It was Celestia's request that her sister make her way to the Night Court, but Princess Luna had other priorities: namely, taking a short nap before facing her nocturnal duties.

Her food-bloated belly wobbles and and trembles beneath the bulge of cloth at her waist, and she belches with every third step the pair of you take. You're sweating, your knees knocking together by the time the two of you stumble onto the top landing. It's clear that it's no easy task for her to carry her gurgling, well-stuffed gut, and it's long since become clear that carrying a food-glutted, seven-foot alicorn should have been made much more prominent in your job description.

Not that you're objecting. Far from it; this is a perk of the position! You just would have liked to taken more time on the weights at the gym.

She collapses into an armchair large enough to make you feel like a foal, and groans in satisfaction. Kneading her protruding gut, Luna burps again, and then spreads her full legs a little wider.

A moment of silence passes. Her eyes are shut, her expression serene. You stand, somewhat awkwardly, jaw clenched tight and utterly terrified of betraying the rock-hard erection throbbing against your thigh.

Finally, she opens one eye, her head tilting in a feline gesture toward you. "What is your name, soldier?"

You snap off a hasty salute. "Private Meridian, your highness."

She grins. "I must thank you for the—urp—unorthodox aid in transport." She exhales, and makes herself comfy in her great, plush seat. Her lips curl in a wide grin. "Will you do me a favor, Private Meridian?"

"Of course!"

Her smile becomes completely sly. "The kitchens should be running for the night crews," she says. "Won't you fetch a snack for me?"

A snack? You heard her asking for more downstairs, but you'd thought she was joking! The look of lazy hunger on her face, though, just makes your stallionhood stir, and you gulp as you pull yourself up a little straighter. "Yes, your highness!" you bark out.

The kitchens aren't quite bubbling with activity, but there's a steady flurry of motion that never quite seems to end. A sizable portion of the Lunar Guard is awake in the night hours, and the gears of the Royal Palace never quite seem to stop completely. And so it is when you amble into the main kitchen, lost save for a royal mission and a lust for big, well-fed princesses.

It's not long before you find a mare wearing a chef hat; in seemingly no time at all, she's belted out orders at a trio of harried kitchen assistants wearing aprons; a beat later, those sous chefs have assembled a respectable collection of sweets, salty snacks, and—from the remnants of the Lunar Guard breakfast, you assume—a half-dozen piles of silver-dollar pancakes, all slathered with syrup.

As you fidget awkwardly between the assembled kitchen hands, the head chef assures you bemusedly that she's familiar with the appetites of the princess, and sends the lot of you back upstairs well-stocked with a meal large enough to feed a pair of full-grown ponies and their foal. Before you quite step out the door, though, she pulls you aside, and notes that the kitchens are used to setting out snacks, should Luna herself drop by—

"—but you're quite the lucky lad to be bringing them up personally to her bedchambers." The chef winks, then slaps you on the rump. You nearly cough on your saliva as she stalks back to her bubbling pot, cackling all the way.

And so your motley squad sets off to the tall tower looming above the castle, platters and trays groaning with good, rich food. Not a full hour since the royal dinner, your stomach is already grumbling again with hunger. But, you remind yourself, this feast is dedicated to a much worthier feaster.

The rest of the kitchen aides follow you only as far in as the foyer to Luna’s chambers, dropping their accumulated feast on a nearby table and leaving you quite alone with the ravenous alicorn in the next room over. The full mass of the caloric calamity seated by the entrance to the bedroom leaves the table groan beneath its weight, and your cock twinges against your thigh as you make your way through the door.

You find Luna laying back on her bed, her tall body spread out across her bed. Her big, rounded tummy is a sharp contrast to the lithe, shapely arm she's draped across her middle, rubbing it gently as she groans. Whether she's groaning from fullness or hunger, though, you have no idea.

She's also—you notice, your cheeks turning a bright crimson—removed her dress. As you approach her bed, the first food-laden platter weighing heavily in your trembling hands, you see that she's wearing nothing more than a pair of thigh-height leggings, a pair of clean white panties, and a full, well-stuffed bra. Two plump globes of breast-flesh rest tantalizingly on her upper abdomen, but the real attraction is her stomach. The soft rise and fall of her taut belly seems to echo the beat of your palpitating heart, and you find your uniform’s crotch growing hotter and harder as you watch her fingers dig deep into her rounded gut.

The silver tray slides softly onto the bed, and your shoulders tense up as you snap back to attention. Luna, though, turns eagerly with a raised eyebrow toward her gift. Her eyes widen.

"Are those," she breathes, "pancakes?" Her fingers squeeze around her belly, her thumb pressed lightly against her shallow belly button. The slight shuddering moan she adds isn't helping you in the pants department. At all.

You nod. Her smile flickers, and then spreads to cover her entire face. She licks her lips and eyes the platter with shameless interest.

"Perhaps my favorite of the modern world’s breakfasts," she murmurs, idly stroking the curve of her plump breasts. "The future is simply...delicious."

You think you see a soft shudder of pleasure go through her shoulders as she speaks—no, purrs the last word. An echoing shudder goes through your groin, and you bite your cheek as an unmistakable arousal worms its way down your taut, muscled thigh.

You bow stiffly. "Yes, your highness," you say. You hesitate, then venture: "There's maple syrup, too."

Luna's sigh sounds almost like a moan. "Feed me," she orders, breathily.

You blink. You freeze. Your erection nearly bursts out of your pants.

"Your highness?" you finally say. You're not really able to say much else; your throat has decided to seize up like a dry waterwheel.

She eyes you with a vague, indolent sort of interest. "What?" She grins, and pats her belly comfortably. "I am clearly much too full to get up and feed myself. You seem like a bright, strong young stallion. Surely you would be happy to service your princess."

Don't let the wings pop out, you tell yourself. A bead of sweat rolls down your forehead. Don't let the wings pop out. Don't let—

Pomf.

You tuck them away in a flash—but you see the wicked glint in her eye. The satisfied curve of her lips. She knows.

And she likes knowing.

So you blush, you bow your head, and you step toward the bed of the Princess of Night.

It's as if she had never eaten a bite of dinner at all. Princess Luna snaps ravenously at the first slice of pancake you dangle over her muzzle, and chews it down with a groan of gluttonous delight. Her cheeks bulge rapidly, lips smacking with the shine of syrup as its sticky sweetness drips down her chin. Your legs tighten, thighs flexing in an effort to divert blood from your crotch—but it's no use. Your erection stands tall, proudly tenting the tight slacks of your Lunar Guard uniform, and you think you catch an intrigued flicker of Luna's eye toward it as you throb. A bead of sticky, amber syrup slips down her perfect neck, and you swallow along with her, a massive wad of pancakes bulging out her neck as it travels down to fill her stomach.

Her belly's volume had gone down slightly while you were gone, but any headway her digestion may have made is quickly demolished as you help her scarf down gulp down mouthful after mouthful of hot, sugary sweets. Your ancestors once worshipped this alicorn as a goddess, you recall hazily.  This is your sacrifice, you realize, your rite in honor of divine beauty.

Luna's long fingernails caress her swollen belly as you raise a pitcher of cold milk above her, and she guzzles down the dairy by the quart. When she finishes off the pitcher—without ever pausing for breath—you hear her groan, a sound carrying more need than mere hunger, and then belch one more time.

No more pancakes. "That's all," you say, somewhat gently, and somewhat relieved. Her voracious appetite had slowed down somewhat after the fifth heaping pancake platter, but your wrists had been cramping from cutting each jumbo-sized griddlecake into a biteable piece.

Luna just exhales. Her great belly rises more than a good foot above her, and her hide is taut and swollen with food. Her eyebrows furrow, and she tries to push herself up into a sitting position—and fails.

With a fwump, her tall alicorn body collapses back onto the bed. The mattress trembles, and you watch in awe as her great gut bounces forward to smack against her delectable thunder thighs. Luna belches again, and groans bloatedly, massaging her gut fitfully as she stares up at the top of her four-poster bed.

"Private," she groans. "Won't you—help me sit up?"

You leap to attention. The food-baby in Luna's stomach is obviously large enough to cause even her trouble, and you find your trained muscles heaving with exertion as you struggle to lift the seven-foot alicorn and her two-foot, wobbling belly from the bed. Luna's voluminous cleavage bounces and strains against her brassiere as the two of you manage to push her upright, the thrust of her broad shoulders pushing her full breasts forward until you can make out the outlines of her fat nipples.

Your hand involuntarily tightens around her shoulder blade, and you realize that your other one is gripping tightly at her luscious hip. Cheeks flushing, you force your wings to stay against your back with only the greatest exertion of your will. Her belly, great and round and heavy, hangs proudly over her waist to press against your forearm. It's almost a relief to let go of her, but you can't help but feel your pants creak as your stallionhood makes its satisfaction very well known.

Luna sighs, and cozies herself up against a pair of large, fluffy laced pillows. "Ah," she says. "Much better." She smiles down at the great globe lying in her lap, and gives it a soft squeeze. A groan slips past her lips a moment later; you can see her lush thighs flexing as the weight of her food-stuffed belly presses down upon them.

"Happy to be of service, your highness," you say, hastily. You offer a bow. "If that will be all—"

"No." Luna's voice cuts over yours like a knife. She turns to regard you lazily, and then smiles. Gesturing to her swollen stomach, she says, "I seem to be a bit bloated from my meals, Private. Would you perhaps help release some of that pressure?"

She couldn't have possibly just asked that.

Luna's smirk twitches; can alicorns read minds? "Just a massage, perhaps," she murmurs. Her slender fingers pinch around the circumference of her well-stretched belly, depressing it lightly. "The royal masseuse is so far away, and I simply could not begin my Night Court with such a...weight bearing down my figure."

Since your admittance to the Lunar Guard—even before the return of Luna herself—you've known one simple truth: When royalty snaps, you jump.

And a certain part of you, right between your legs, is leaping for joy.

You’re grateful for the crook of her finger, beckoning you onto the mattress—as you clamber onto the thick, rich quilt, you can’t help but be thankful that your obstinate boner will be less noticeable from this angle. Luna grunts, belching again as she shuffles her great form over, the platoon of pillows accommodating her head from any angle as she makes room for you. Even on her king-sized bed, you can’t help but imagine how little room might be left if she keeps up this calorie-packed diet. The thought only makes your pant leg tighten further around your throbbing python.

You can hardly believe it as your fingers touch the bare hide of Luna’s belly. Your cheeks blush a deep, crimson red, and you feel your leathery wings flutter nervously behind you. The light armor of your uniform feels unbearably hot as your fingertips bounce gently against the princess’ swollen gut. Luna groans softly, pressure releasing itself past her lips as you begin to knead her taut stomach with your thumb.

“Very good,” she says. She slides a possessive hand up your forearm; even lying down, her figure dominates yours—her hand wraps easily all the way around your muscular bicep. Luna smirks up at you. “A bit firmer this time, if you would be so kind.”

You nod, all too eager to please your princess. “Yes, your highness,” you murmur, bobbing your head. You scarcely dare to make eye contact—the very act of touching the princess’ naked stomach feels...intimate. Sensual. Your erection is raging in its effort to break free of its cloth prison, and each brush of your knuckles against Luna’s food-swollen belly only leaves another drop of sweat beading on your brow. When Luna groans again, her big hands coming up to squeeze at her motherly hips, you feel a drop of warm, slick wetness sliding down the inside of your thigh. You gulp, and hope she doesn’t notice.

“Ooh,” she hisses, grunting in obvious pleasure and relief. “Yes—much better.” You hear her thick legs sliding across the quilt as her potent thighs rub together. You keep rubbing, though; as your thumb slips over her popped-out belly-button, the two of you seem to moan together, though yours cuts off in a stifled whimper as you realize that yours was aloud. Besides that, you increasingly find it to be an unwelcome effort to keep your eyes off of her well-padded cleavage...but from the ways her fingers are twitching, if you dare even ponder such a thing, it seems it’s an effort for her to keep her hands still.

The room is silent, though. You dare not speak, and Luna is seemingly content to simply lie there, relaxed and contemplative, as the gentle sloshes and gurgles of her belly sound in time to the rolling of your shoulders. It’s a wonder to behold: the literal fullness of the moon, and in glorious repose.

And then she says, “I must say, it’s quite pleasant having a middle this large.”

“Oh?” you said—or try to, anyway. You stumble over the syllable, and it winds up sounding more like a half-interested grunt. “Really?”

“I think so,” Luna says. She holds up a hand; you pause in your massage of her bloated belly. A gentle smile warms her face as she presses lightly against her stomach. She actually giggles—giggles!—as it wobbles and wiggles and sloshes above her. “The weight feels…satisfying. And it looks so very round, doesn’t it?”

You try not to sweat. You really do. “Yes,” you say, “I suppose.” You can’t betray what you’re feeling—not here. Not now.

But that smile—oh, she must know everything! Luna’s lips curl upward in a predatory smirk, and she nods toward the rising mountain of her food-stuffed gut. “Almost like a pillow,” she says thoughtfully, “don’t you think?” Her eyes focus expectantly on you. Testing. Waiting.

Your mind goes blank. You can’t—no! That thought is too entertaining, too pleasant, too...enticing to even contemplate. But that smirk—and that glorious belly—and then it gurgles again, and nearly all of your self-control flies out the window right then and there. You want to agree, loudly and gleefully, to worship her belly, to offer to fetch more food, to ask her to push you down onto the bed and grind that swollen gut against your equally swollen cock—

You shut down. Luna waits for a moment, and then chuckles.

“Quite soft as well, I'd wager,” she says, playfully. She bounces her fingertips up and down a few times above her navel. Her smirk is terrifying, not only in its apparent knowledge, but in its...welcoming of that knowledge. It seems almost encouraging, and as a professional, but junior member of the Lunar Guard, you’re all both petrified and electrified at the sight of your liege and greatest fantasy eyeing you like a delectable piece of meat.

“I—I suppose so,” you finally stammer out. Your wings feel painfully cramped behind you; they twitch and jerk anxiously against your toned shoulder blades as you struggle to force your arousal down. Luna accepts your reply with obvious grace.

Nodding, she looks across and meets your eyes. Your gaze links with hers, and time seems to stop.

“Perhaps you’d like to try it,” she says. The tension in your muscles is laughable compared to the lazy, confident ease with which she speaks. Her voice is a sharp contrast, though, to the flash of her eyes toward you. “It’d be a shame for such a soft pillow to go to waste.”

You try to deny her. You try to refuse—to turn her down. It would be unprofessional. It would be improper. It would be—

But those eyes freeze yours in place. Dark blue eyes deeper than the greatest sea encompass you, swallow you up—and then you see that taut, round pillow rising gently with her every breath. "Your…"

She shakes her head softly, then her smile grows almost feral.  "No.  I, Luna, would like that, very much."

It's not a command. Not, "Your princess."  It's a yearning request, a hunger of its own. Her eyes flash again, and you feel powerless to refuse her—and even more powerless still to refuse the hot, thrashing desire burning in your loins and chest.

Trembling, you lay your head down onto the warm hide of her gut, and lie still as her strong hand wraps tenderly around your shoulder.