Chapter 4 - lesson 004: solving

Emerith glanced up at me with embarrassment creeping up her face. She slowly glanced from me back to the pale flesh of her bared bum, and then back to me again. It had developed a thick enough shelf it was more than visible to her at a casual glance. Her cheeks were pink as could be, her pride undoubtedly injured. “What on earth are you doing this is uh, a violation of my privacy” she insisted suddenly, her voice wavering all the while. She flicked her wrist, and a wave of force slammed the door shut on my face. Albeit not before wobbling her new curves a bit as It was cast. That was an entirely new descriptor. To describe my first apprentices spell casting, as “wobble inducing”. On another day, I might’ve been more flabbergasted at her rudeness. However, I was much more concerned with the reasoning why. I had no idea how it was she was packing on additional blubber after only consuming a single breakfast a day. Sure, it was hardly a peasant's meal, but at the time I couldn’t discern how it could be producing such visible results on her womanly frame.

After some more noises signalling her squeezing into a new dress, she joined me at the little table in her study. The tea had long since gone cold unfortunately. The amber floral dress she had squeezed her way into looked more like it was painted on. And her posture was incredibly stiff. She was one rough motion away from it sharing the same fate as her last piece of attire. Though it looked more strained at the middle than by her bottom. It hugged the clear curve of a pot belly that had begun to develop. The taunt nature of the fabric highlighting its rounded protrusion. It was less than flattering. But almost every witch tended towards the sexier end of the dress fitting spectrum. If nothing else I was hopeful that she could at least still conceal it with a corset. However, uncomfortably. She stiffly took the seat across from me and took a sip of cold tea, flashing a brief sour expression before mustering her poker face. “Your night wasn’t too restless I hope?” she asked flashing me a confident smirk. It seemed we’d be playing the denial game.

“Ah not at all, I slept quite comfortably, I even slept in my robes after studying, they make them oh so comfortable” I taunted her in a drawl. “Ah, yes well, back in the day I hear powdered wigs were the style of the time, I wonder how well yours fit” she taunted me, but the blush on her face indicated she was already losing this game. “I’m not that much older than you, especially by the standards of witches, and particularly by the measure of master and apprentice” I said being sure to remind her of our respective roles “Though you’d be my senior, if such things were measured by circumference” I mused escalating my assault. “Circumference?” she baulked, albeit in a slightly restrained fashion owing to the tightness of her dress. Before we could continue our sparring match a rather unearthly noise disturbed us. Namely a growl from her middle, which once more caused it to draw my ire. How on earth it was getting bigger was beyond me. The sensation of ignorance beset upon me, the most painful feeling of all for a witch. “Perhaps we should grab some breakfast, it’s later than usual?” she chuckled but she was staring down at it, in an obvious manner. As if surprised by the extra depth it had in how it projected from her middle.

As we gathered for breakfast the question continued to taunt me and I wound up being rather poor conversation. As Emerith finished her first slice, I began my academic method of think. I was somewhat aware of what caused someone to acquire blubber, namely, overeating and lazing. As my apprentice polished off her second slice of cake, I became convinced neither was present. So, I jumped to less natural hypothesises. As she scoffed her fourth slice, I considered the possibilities of her being hexed by her rival. By the time she was licking her lips clean of her fifth, I had moved to considering a side effect of her own spell. Yet all such options were eliminated as I would’ve surely detected them. By her eight slice, I admitted I was a total loss. I simply had no idea. Until it struck me. Eight. Eight slices of cake. Was that not a rather huge amount, it had been three at most when we had begun the week. I glanced across the table, and saw the absolute state of my apprentice, an image which rendered me feeling rather stupid indeed.

Her excessive figure was on display to be fully seen. The thickened girl had leaned back in her chair slightly, likely due to the discomfort of her own overfull stomach. Her breasts once manageable had grown exaggerated and thick, big and hefty they swayed with a slight wobble, at her heavy breathing. Her rear at least balanced her out with its expanded girth, a bottom with a thickness to match her top. It was growing wider than anything else, and its side were threatening to spill over the edges of her chair. Her increasingly padded hips having become noticeable handholds with their visible breadth. Yet her plump curves were harbingers of a far more insidious swell. Her middle was a visible dome, a full-blown orb that strained her poor dress to its maximum extent. However concealable it might’ve been when it was empty, when it was well and truly stuffed it could not be ignored. She looked practically gravid, but the only thing she was full of was cake batter and greed.

Her sensual yet relaxingly common face, was so smeared it with sugar it looked like she had overapplied makeup. Yet it was also filling out slightly, her cheeks had rounded slightly, in a way which oddly suited her. Her feminine lips were curled in a pleased smile, that still conveyed the obvious discomfort of being so over engorged. Yet as quite visible as all of this was, it was her eyes that I found truly noticeable. They were half lidded languidly. Her gaze somewhat distant as if she had become lost in some forbidden bliss. She somehow managed to look more drunk on pastries, then she had when she was drinking. It was baffling. Albeit also a tad comical, in a rather dark way. I tilted my head and glanced over to the poor baker. Who looked with borderline fear at the cake she had for sale. It was the last emotion a woman of respectable standing show be eliciting in a business owner.

“Could you just humour your old master for a moment, and inform me numerically how much pastry you’ve consumed over this past breakfast?” I asked her sceptically. My voice seemed to snap her free from her reverie. Before she answered she licked her lips clean of sugar. “Well, you see if this is all I’m eating for the day, I’ve got to eat a bit extra, otherwise I’ll be hungry in the evening” she said her tone lazy, and clearly not quite catching on to my meaning. “Yes...but” I started to explain but my patience was gradually slipping. “But this!” I said reaching under the table and grasping a handful of her taxed gut and eliciting a groan from bloated apprentice. It wasn’t the most dignified display from me either. An action most unbecoming a witch of my standing. But my patience was dwindling. To say nothing of the fact, being with her rewinded me to the witch I had been when I was training her, mentally speaking. “But you can hardly starve me, it’ll be hard to get anything done if I’m beset by hunger pain” she protested. But the wobble of her overfull gut betrayed the gravity of the situation.

“Well in that case.... the course of action is obvious” I stated, and I saw a flash of fear in my apprentice's eyes. “No more cake” I said with a sigh. “What no, isn't it only proper for a witch to eat pastries, I have an image to maintain” she protested fervently. She occasionally glanced down to the empty plate, as if it was striking her it might’ve been the last one to fill her burgeoning belly. “To which of the following is that image of yours closest?” I asked her, slipping into my teacher voice. “A sleek, dangerous, mysterious and enticing woman of power, class and femininity” I began, unable to keep from gesturing to myself. “Or a greedy, porky, wobbly mess of a woman who tears out of her dresses and strikes fear into the hearts of dining establishments” I finished rhetorically. Emerith went quit for a little bit. Her poise and pride quickly deflating. “The later...” she admitted staring down at her bloated middle. “So?” I continued. “So...no more cake” she agreed defeatedly. “At least till after I get all this under control and hosting the witch's ball is in my rear view” she added licking her lips. There was an obvious barb about rear views in there somewhere. But I decided to let her off easy.

Rather than get up and risk her dress, she teleported us home, and teleported a coin purse back to her table. It seemed like she could retain her aim when she was stuffed, unlike when she was drunk. She spent the rest of the evening lying back on her bed and whined when I told her I’d be cooking her breakfasts again. She had always hated my cooking, back when I was teaching her. But I suspected that was simply because her more common upbringing gave her a poor pallet. Certainly, her taste in booze couldn’t be trusted. With my steady hand steering her diet, I was sure I could get her weight under control. She likely wouldn’t be as sleek as some of my more accomplished apprentices. But her weight would at least get down to the level of where her curves could distract from her girth. Or at least that was the plan.