Chapter 1 - What was left

There was always something left, after the money was gone. Sometimes it was a bean, or a wheel of cheese, a knife and a knapsack, luck, or sometimes it was just hope.

Sometimes it was a little of this and that put together: a little hope, and even littler money, just enough to, say, pay for a cart to transport a ruined merchant all the way to the port city where the last of a once proud fleet limped back home.

She had not come here willingly. A journey back to the port city — a triumphant return, her father had hoped in his feeble, quavering voice — that should have taken two weeks stretched into three, then a full month. Neither she nor her lovely, giddy, kind sisters had anything left to pay for some soldier of fortune to hunt a missing elder, so the matter fell on the sturdiest, cleverest, boldest sister’s shoulders.

Their new neighbor in the countryside had taught her, as a gawky child, before womanhood reshaped her body, the basics of tracking, of woodcraft. She was grateful for that knowledge when her father never returned. She was grateful that her sisters had given her their warmest cloaks and mittens. She was grateful to have found a torn scrap of her father’s heavy coat, leading her through a heavy, thorny thicket of overgrowth into a pristine rose garden, but her gratitude… She had left it there.

A bargain was a bargain, and when her father departed from here, wrapped in warm cloak atop warm cloak, she was left behind, like hope or cheese or luck.

Suzanna drummed her fingers on the glass pane, echoing the drops striking it from the other side. She wished her family had been wholly ruined and held neither hope nor money, pittance though it had been. She might have had to sell herself, but at least she’d be free, surrounded by people in a city. Not alone in a castle riddled with ghosts and one eerie, monstrous lord. Strange servants, golems of furniture or straw or twigs, were her only companions during the day.

She missed the company of her sisters. They were a bit frivolous, but that was precisely why she missed them. Without their effervescent spirits, she found herself dull and low feeling. Her breast ached every time she thought about her frail papa, ginger haired Vivian, and strawberry blonde Charlotte. At least he had the two of them left, after Suzanna was gone.

She wished she could remember her mama better, could have asked her for advice over the last few, hard years, but all she could recall was that was dark haired like Suzanna. Still, Mama was said to be wise, and even said to have the Sight. Perhaps she could hear Suzanna’s silent pleas from wherever she was now, she needed aid and consolation every day.

Everything here was so strange, so otherworldly, and so painfully lonely. Even the small balm she received was more eerie than comforting. Dinner, the only time in her day spent in the company of another, was a deeply odd and even frightening ritual.

The monstrous lord took his seat in the corner behind her, where he could see her but was, himself, hidden. He ate nothing, but merely watched her eat elegant meals served on translucent porcelain plates. He would converse but little and on the most banal topics, though constantly solicitous of her comfort and tastes.

“How did you find the weather this morning?”

“I note that you haven’t touched the foie gras, do you not care for it?”

“That shade of blue suits you. Do you like it?”

She rarely replied with more than a few words, but answered that question readily as if she was conversing at a dinner party . “Blue is my favorite color,” she said, putting her cutlery down. The first night here she had barely remembered what each utensil was for, and she’d only been away from the city and it’s glittering *ton* for a year. “I quite like this dress.”

“Would you like more blue dresses? Or curtains and rugs?” He was kind and attentive yet formal and distant, and the disharmony between these parts put her on edge. She never knew what he might say next. “I do not know what a lady might like for furnishings. I let the Rose Maid inform me.”

How he understood what a scarecrow made of thorny vines said gave Suzanna chills. She was from an ordinary family — well, a mostly ordinary family — but the itchy, tickling feeling of magic in the castle was tangible. Her sisters might not have felt it had they been here, but then, she was always told that she took after Mama.

This mysterious lord was clearly under some unimaginable enchantment, bound to live unseen or alone or who knew what. That had been apparent from the moment she’d arrived, finding that only her staying could undo the magic that bound her father here. As he entered the thicket, a heavy feeling fell on her, the sensation of the magic binding her to this castle.

“Her choices are lovely,” she said, always choosing to speak well of the strangeness around her, “But I would enjoy more blue in my room. It makes me feel calm and free.”

“Ah.” There was a pained note in his voice, and she realized, in a panic, that her remark sounded like a pointed complaint.

“I don’t mean to —“ She still wasn’t sure she wouldn’t be eaten or touched or used in some way, still had an eye on escape once she could figure the rules of the magic out, so she hastened to apologize.

He sighed heavily. His breath and footsteps sounded so heavy. She wondered often about his size, as he gave the distinct impression of being quite large, though she hadn’t even seen his shadow. “Your comfort is important,” he said finally. “Please never hesitate to ask for anything that would bring you happiness.”

“Paper,” she said immediately. “And a pen. Or paints.”

He was silent, but his presence seemed warmer somehow, like his aura was shaping the air around them. “You shall have all of those. Anything else? Books?”

“Perhaps a pet?” she asked, and twitched in her seat, stopping herself from turning around to look at him. “A pet bird? Or a mouse? Something small, I wouldn’t let it be any trouble.”

He sounded truly sad when he replied. “I cannot grant you that, alas. If one wanders in, you may feel free to catch it though.”

“I shall, thank you,” Suzanna said politely. She took her last bite of dinner and washed it down with a small sip of watered wine. “Dinner was lovely.”

“Good,” he said, his deep voice rumbling from the shadows. “Then, before I go, mayI ask: Suzanna, do you love me?”

Her heart hammered in her chest and she gripped the arms of her chair so hard her nails scraped against the wood. “No, my host,” for that was all she knew him as, “I do not love you.”

“I didn’t expect so,” he said, weary. Rustling and creaking were heard as he rose, and his foot falls were dull and slow. “Good night.”

Suzanna sat alone in the hall, trembling, for several minutes. She only stood and fled when the gaunt, silent Rose Maid entered to gather her plates.

***

He asked the question every night from then on. It was the last thing he would say before bidding her goodnight. It became a ritual, even familiar, a domestic formality like the final pat to the covers your mother gave when she tucked you in. If he stopped saying it now — how long had it been? Months? Weeks, certainly — she would have felt the evening incomplete.

She still hadn’t seen him, and the question of what he looked like plagued her every waking moment. One detail had finally made itself known. She knew he was huge, at last. The spoon sitting on her plate, carelessly askew, showed her an accidental reflection of a vast and rounded set of shoulders with a deep, nearly black, fall of hair down his back. His clothes were of a charcoal grey so deep they too were nearly black, but a warm, plush, sueded darkness. A welcoming, soft dusk, rather than a grim, cold night.

Suzanna didn’t know that shadows and mystery could be as alluring as brash handsomeness or boasting confidence. As the days ticked by, when he asked her the question she felt her throat catch. No, she knew that she did not love him, but she wanted to know him, to behold him. But that felt too taboo.

Instead, over days and weeks, she settled for glimpses in her wine glass and phantoms flickering across the silverware. He was immense, ponderous, with a heavy brow but that was all she could say. He wore a cowl that hid his features even if she could look at him fully.

There must be a reason why he was so shy of being seen, even as he spoke more to her. Their evening conversations had become something she anticipated all day. She dreamed of him, of caressing a huge, shadowy form, being held by a mystery.

She was beginning to get a sense of his person, and the incongruities of his odd character unsettled her less and less. He wasn’t formal or distant, he was lonely, just as she was, and afraid. But of what? She still did not know, but she wished to quite dearly.

“Do you love me?” he asked again, even as the echoes of their laughter died away in the huge hall. He was so quiet for such a deep voice and such a large frame.

She surprised herself. “I do not, but I might… if I could see you.”

He was quiet for a heart freezing moments before he huffed a gentle laugh. “Are you teasing me, Suzanna?”

“No,” she said, cocking her head to show her neck off to best advantage. She wanted to know him. Her dream last night was peculiar and incomprehensible — right up until the end when her desires had become clear to her. “I am asking for something that would bring me comfort. It is an uncanny thing to not know what your face looks like. We speak every night — we have even begun sharing something of ourselves as we do, and yet, you are a stranger to my eyes.”

The silence that followed sat as heavily, as tangibly as the magic choking the air. “I am quite unlovely,” he said eventually, his voice strained and as quiet as a breeze. “Your peace would be far more troubled by my face than comforted.”

“I doubt that,” she said quietly. “I was quite afraid of your Rose Maid once, now I greet her as a friend when she brings me my breakfast. You are a friend now, how could I see you as anything other?” In truth, she still had some fear for both the Rose Maid and her unseen host, but her desire to see him overcame all else.

“If you insist,” he said. His voice was so low she felt more than heard it, the rumbling bass tingling through her. Fabric rubbed against fabric and his footfalls thumped on the carpet. Her pulse pounded, and she twisted her hands in the napkin resting on her thighs. *Swish, swish* went what she knew must be his thighs brushing together. He was huge.

Cautious, she didn’t turn towards him, so the first thing she saw of him, out of the corner of her eye, was his belly. It entered her field of vision several steps before his chest, or his arms, and finally the edge of the cowl that concealed his face. It was round above, and below it hung down his thighs, bouncing with each step against them like a still pond rippling in the wind. Her hands ached to caress it, to throw herself against him wantonly.

“My host?” she whispered, unsure of whether to rise and curtsy.

His hands — covered with hair so thick it was nearly fur, thick dark claws that were neatly trimmed — moved up and gently pushed the cowl back. Standing to his full height he was taller than the tallest man she’d ever seen, taller than the great grandfather clock in the hall.

“Call me Henri,” he said, whispering. Ah, now she understood his fear. His features were beyond unlovely – they would be called freakish, or monstrous by many. His lips, thin, were taut below the strange boar-like nose, while his jaw and mouth thrust forward as a muzzle did. Lower canines, large, sharp and ivory, jutted up past his lips like tusks. His eyes were small, and, she admitted privately, could best be described as piggish, but they were a deep topaz hue that glittered in the candlelight with intelligence and feeling.

Henri’s cheeks blended with his jowls, with his neck, which sloped into a pair of shoulders quite broad even for his massive build. The deep charcoal of his clothing and the drape of the cloak her wore concealed the details of his chest, but Suzanna felt certain it was just as generously proportioned as the rest of him.

“Do I bring you comfort?” he asked weakly.

She patted the table next to her. “You do. Join me?”

His eyebrows shot up, nearly to his thick mane of coarse black hair, and his piggy eyes grew large. He did not respond but snapped a finger, and, propelled by forces unseen, a chair flew by her side. He seated himself, legs wide to accommodate the vastness of his fat gut, with a low grunt that made her lower belly thrum. “Tomorrow I shall arrange to dine with you,” he said, suddenly commanding again. Had the fire in her sex shone through her eyes? Could he read her that easily?

It was no matter. The fattest male she’d ever known or imagined, sat by her side. His belly brushed the table, inches from where her fingers rested.

And tomorrow, she would watch him feast.

***

It was now easy to see why dining with Henri took planning. The entire table, the sideboard, and several serving carts with golden rails and cunning little cupboards to keep food warm were laden with dishes. It would have taken a family several days to eat this much, but he devoured it in a mere two hours.

He attempted to eat neatly, though inevitable spatters of oil and sauce sprinkled his cheeks and chest. His belly was a huge mountain his fork needed to surmount with every bite, and as she watched he grew pink cheeked and frustrated with the mess he was making in front of her.

“Why not rest the plate on your stomach?” she found herself suggesting, then blushed, herself, at her lack of tact.

He paused and looked grim for a moment, before his tension subsided. “That’s what I usually do. A book to my right, several napkins to keep my fingers clean, and a warm dish on my… ah, my belly.” He seemed almost shy about naming his largest body part.

“That sounds very cozy,” she said before taking a bite of a pillowy gnocchi in brown butter sauce with sage. She often wondered what the creature that cooked their meals looked like. Was he a collection of forks and knives? Or did the oven cook things on itself? Whatever it was, it was quite good at its job. “Please don’t change your routine for my sake. Do what brings you comfort. You’ve done that for me.”

She watched him curiously as he spread a napkin across his boulder-like gut, a small patch of gleaming white on a field of embroidered smoke, and placed his plate there before merrily setting to his meal again. His nose — his snout — twitched and his lips smacked and plowed through plate after plate in this manner.

Eventually even he slowed, but he eyed a last mince pie with wary greed. Suzanna was only too eager to help. “Henri? Would you like me to fetch that pie for you?” He hesitated, then nodded with a devilish grin. Boldly, she added, “Would you like me to feed it to you?”

His grin widened and he bobbed his head, squishing his chins. She reached across the table —quite unladylike — to seize the coveted pie and rest it on his huge, well stuffed stomach. Was it mere fancy or did it appear larger, more swollen?

He licked his lips as the steam of it hit his snout. “Feed me, little Zanna. I think it will excite you as much as it does me.” He gazed down at her with lidded eyes, his lips curled, one hand gently massaging his voluminous tummy. The other beckoned to her, and as soon as she was within reach he pulled her against his gut, and it was then Suzanna saw the true difference in their sizes.

He was not just immensely fat. The proportions of the house, the dim light, and his vast width had him seem shorter than he was. He was many, many heads taller than her, perhaps her own height and half again. This, when she leaned against him, her shoulders were at the same height as the uppermost mountain of. His belly.

She stretched her arm to its full length trying to bring a forkful of pie to his lips, pushed afar by his wide waist and great height, and he watched her struggle with amusement. “Dear girl, you’ll waste that delicious pie this way.” Commanded a twirling gesture of his fingers, the chair she had just been sitting in slid across the floor as if drawn by invisible thread, right to his side. “Kneel on this, and look me in the eye.”

She climbed onto the cushioned seat, knelt, and rested further on the curiously liquid softness of his fat, fat gut. Heedful of her unwrinkled blue gown, she strained to prevent herself from grinding against it. For the most part, she was successful.

But when she wasn’t, her round hips moved against his vast plush belly, and he grinned as he chewed and swallowed. Plump chins quivered, small dribbles of grease shining as he spoke, “I like you on your knees, dear girl. Do you? Do you like being on your knees to a hog like me?” One hand, pillow palmed and chubby fingered, stole up her back to press her closer, then up to her neck, tickling her just below her hairline.

“Yes, Henri,” she said. As she did, his hand crept into her hair and gently, firmly, gripped her by her hair, then pulled her as close as she could get. He leaned toward her, his breath warm and spiced with every luxury, and grinned. So close, his tusks looked even sharper. His small eyes fixed her with his gaze, freezing her in place. She felt like prey, yet when he pressed his lips to hers, a sense of encompassing safety and peace filled her.

Henri’s nails or claws scraped against her scalp, and he adjusted his grip to hold her firmly without wounding her. He held utter mastery over their embrace, gentle yet forceful. All she could do was surrender to him – though nothing in her wished any differently. Effervescent thrills shivered through her body in new and shocking ways, parts of her she only dimly knew declared their hunger loudly.

When he pulled away, her eyes were still tightly shut, and she reeled with the heady rush of desire flooding her body. “Zanna,” he rumbled, “I need to taste you.”

Her eyes fluttered wide, and she pushed her face up again to kiss him once more. He chuckled indulgently, “Goodness, do you not know my meaning? Innocent girl.”

Suzanna pulled back, shy. “I do not, Henri.”

He tugged at a stray lock of her hair, twirling it round one chubby finger. “You might find it quite shocking,” he said slyly, amusing himself, “But you will certainly find it delicious, perhaps even as delicious as I will.”

“What is it?” she asked, both hands roaming the round, drooping folds of his immensity. “Tell me, show me! I will trust you.”

Henri raised his chin and gazed down his snout at her with an arch look in his amber, piggy eyes. “I shall show you,” he declared, and gestured at her to remove the empty pie plate. Once the stage of his belly was empty, he nodded with satisfaction, and made a series of simple yet intricate gestures. They moved like music, a repeating chorus betwixt changing verses.

Suzanna watched his plump hands and the delicate folds at his wrists with deep interest, so much so that she didn’t notice the buttons of her shoes or at the back of her dress coming undone. In a trice, her stockings, shoes and garments had all flown off her body, leaving the woman nude. She blushed to the roots of her hair, but mustered the bravery to thrust out her chin and keep her head held high. “I may be slightly shocked,” she admitted, hiding her nervousness with boldness.

The enormous hog man merely grinned, and gestured again. Faint blue lines appeared in the air, then thickened to ribbons. Suzanna half expected them to twine through her hair, but her shock grew deeper as her right wrist was seized by one, then her left, and the ribbon drew her arms up over her head, tying her hands together.