Chapter 3 - a heiress' desires

In the bath, Catherine thought of Delia. Her skin was hot and slippery as she scrubbed herself, her slender body arching and buckling as she ran her fingers over it, around it, into it. An image of Delia was locked firmly in her mind's eye - her face pinched in discomfort, bloated stomach desperately clenched with both hands. She had looked so full, so utterly replete! Ohh, how full and heavy her stomach must have been, how firm and taught it had felt against her fingers! She had stuffed her so much, oh God, stuffed her so full that she had nearly burst . . . !

With a final gasp, Catherine shuddered and went limp. She floated in the sudsy water, panting gently, trying to ease her mind away from such filthy thoughts.

The sponge was warm and moist as she dabbed the perspiration from her forehead. Catherine knew she ought not to do these things, or to think of Delia the way she did while in her throes. It was not the slightest bit proper, and were certainly not healthy for a young lady such as herself. She told herself this each day, after she was done.

Even as she thought this, her mind began to drift off towards Delia. She had never felt so inclined to a person in her entire life - not Lorianne, or Maria, or Suzette. She had given each of them the same treatment as Delia, but none had ever made such an impression on her as this young girl had.

Catherine's father had brought Delia in to replace Martha, an old crone who'd done Catherine's dressing with rough, calloused hands, always pulling the corset too tightly and the neckline too high. She was half blind now, though, and couldn't be trusted to make Catherine beautiful for her suitors.

What a difference Delia made! Catherine had always found her dressing tedious, but now she awaited it eagerly each morning. Delia's hands were gentle and soft and left Catherine's skin tingling whenever they happened to brush across it. Her voice was high and beautiful and spoke gently of anything Catherine desired, and her eyes were green like the summer leaves. Catherine had noticed Delia's admiration of her figure while she was undressed, and would pretend it was more than mere admiration when she was alone.

There was something different about Delia. Catherine felt drawn to her. She liked her, and felt sorry for her plight. It created within her the most convoluted mix of emotions. With the others, she had had no objection to stuffing them silly every chance she got. They'd been catty and rude and nasty creatures, and deserved what she gave to them. Yet after doing it to Delia, she felt a hollow shame, as if she'd kicked a puppy.

Catherine tried to shake the feeling off, but it wouldn't leave her at peace. Even now Delia would be lying in her bed, stomach filled to bursting with the most fattening treats in the New World. They were churning and sloshing about as her stomach struggled to digest all that sugar and dough, desperately forming it into soft, luscious adipose to store in her belly, her rump, her thighs...

Catherine's eyes glazed over as she imagined it. Delia, her middle as round and doughy as a cinnamon bun, her hips gently padded with gallons of jelly filling, her breasts two cream puffs struggling against her constraining dress. In her mind, Catherine watched as the young girl grew bigger, face rounding, stomach bulging. All because of her - yes, all by Catherine's command . . .

Groaning, Catherine pulled her dainty hand down beneath the water. It slid across her hot, slick skin as she imagined Delia grow ever larger, ignoring the twinge of shame inside of her.