Knights of the Round Table
By KB
Part Three
Lancelot spent much of his time lately sleeping. He was still in excellent shape in his dream,s so he would retreat in them where he would do all the athletic feats that had set him above the rest of the knights. Waking to the sight of his belly reaching higher every morning there was always an initial shock. At first, he would think it was just a bad dream, but then he would remember.
Obviously, he had not fully accepted his physique and thought of it as just a temporary body that was not really his. Searching his body for signs of decreasing girth, he often found the opposite. He would squeeze the new handfuls of fat as if he could make them disappear but they were quite solid. Helplessly, he acknowledged every step of his body's transformation, wondering just when it would stop.
Strangely enough, he began to feel much more sensual as he grew. He often caressed his own curves when he was alone, entranced with the seductive properties of body fat. Rolls of giving flesh were everywhere. He never imagined he would have breasts, but he had to admit they were there now, topped with sensitive erect nipples. The plump mounds were supported well on his prominent stomach, but they still bounced shamefully when he walked.
As pleased as he was in private, he felt self-conscious around others. He hadn't left the grounds of the witch Morgan La Fay's castle for a year now and the comments from the servants there had been hard enough to accept. He dreaded the criticism and teasing he would certainly receive when he returned to Camelot. Everyone there thought of him as the best knight in the world, and many were jealous of the status. No doubt, a few of them would be happy to see him withdraw from competition. But Lancelot never did care as much about his warrior skills as he did about his desire for Gwenevere. He worried endlessly about rejection. Once Gwenevere saw him she could not possibly be attracted to him any more.
Lancelot was taken aback by how quickly it was time to depart. He hadn't even begun to lose weight and he found he had to adapt familiar activities to his new bulk. The first thing he noticed was the struggle to draw his sword when worn traditionally at the left hip; he could barely reach around his hefty middle and this he could only do with great effort. He got around this problem by wearing the sword over his back. Every time he felt the pressure against his back he was reminded his weight had exceeded normal limits.
He knew riding would be a whole new experience as well. Faced with his horse for the first time in a year he was not sure he would even be able to mount with his potbelly in the way. Following some embarrassing attempts, he was helped onto the horse by two of Morgan's strongest young assistants. He couldn't help noticing the disgusted expressions they gave each other but at least they knew it was not their place to comment. Morgan had an excited look he attributed to the idea of visiting Camelot, but why did she keep staring at him?
Balance on horseback felt even more awkward than he had imagined. His massive paunch expanded forward, far enough to brush the back of his horse's neck. He felt soft and exposed without his armor but armor was not made in his current width and it would have made him too heavy for the horse anyway. Even last night he tried to insist on making the journey only after he had time to get in shape but Morgan had only laughed at that.
“And when do you suppose that will happen?”
“I need at least a month.”
“A month? What difference will a month make? Do you think anyone will notice if your belly protrudes one less inch?” She had pressed his stomach to emphasize her point. “Besides, everyone is so happy you've recovered your mind they won't care if you've put on a little weight.”
Lancelot had felt some reassurance at the time, but it was again replaced with trepidation. His belly still felt warm and full where Morgan's hand had pressed. Vaguely, he wondered again about magic, but he had believed her when she said she had none to effect weight.
Morgan noticed all of Lancelot's difficulties, but she found him more attractive than ever. He looked exhausted already, and his powerful frame positively quivered with fat. A less coordinated rider would have been thrown by the weight shifts, but Lancelot retained his old grace to some degree. Still, she could see they would have to take a slow pace to accommodate him. He was such a pleasure to watch she really didn't mind.
Lancelot however was not enjoying the ride, clearly becoming fatigued but too proud to complain. He definitely was not accustomed to riding with such a prominent center of gravity and his back ached terribly. Usually, his body was charmed and pain free, but now he strained just to function under his thick padding.
He realized how dependent he felt on Morgan now that he was too rotund to fight properly. He was relieved she accompanied him since she had her magic if they found trouble. Still, he was annoyed that she pushed him so mercilessly. Even in his condition he expected to keep up with any female, and he was dismayed to see Morgan remain so rested throughout the journey.
“Stop lagging behind so much; we should already be at Camelot if you were not so slow.” Morgan patted his heaving belly affectionately as if it weren't jiggling profusely already.
“I can keep up; I just don't see the hurry.”
“You can not keep up, we're already behind schedule because of you. Why don't you ride on the cart with the supplies for a while? I think we can travel quicker that way and you can relax with some ale.”
He resisted as long as he could, but he finally admitted he could use a drink and took Morgan's suggestion. As usual, Lancelot drank and stuffed himself until he fell asleep with his arms clasped over his mountainous gut, heedless of the impression he would make. Nearing Camelot, peasants stopped and gasped at the fat man, his stomach among the biggest and bounciest that most of them had ever seen. Some people laughed, especially the children asking their parents how a person could be so round. Some looked disgusted, but Lancelot himself was blissfully ignorant of it all as he slept.
Queen Gwenevere knew when her sister returned with her personal champion and hurried to see his progress, picturing something much like the modest gut he had once grown under her own encouragement. Instead, she was astonished to see he'd nearly doubled in size, including sporting a puffy and yielding potbelly she could not have imagined on him. He was obviously too fat for his horse and armor, as he presented himself without either one. Her first thought was that Morgan went too far.
He looked intoxicated as he was unsteady on his feet and sleepy eyed. He always did have a tendency to drink too much and Morgan probably took advantage of it to get such incredible results. Looking closely, his angular features had filled out a bit, but he was as handsome as ever, if not more so. Gwenevere decided his physique was totally changed but still well balanced with pleasing lines. He would still be powerful but with little speed or agility at this size.
“That isn't Lancelot is it?” Her husband was not sympathetic to his new look. King Arthur had gotten himself back in fighting shape and now was especially critical of fat people. “How could he do that to himself?”
“Don't say anything about it. I'm sure he already knows.”
“Yes, but he clearly is not doing anything about it.”
Word traveled quickly and a significant audience was gathering. Everyone was so stunned at the size of Lancelot some would not believe it was him. Many people looked at him in a dismayed manner while others stifled giggles and made snide remarks to each other. A couple ladies even ran away crying. The King followed his wife's advice and stayed professional in public but he intended to address the weight issue in private.
Even in his drunken haze, reality was starting to intrude, all the shocked looks when people saw him and insults they didn't think he could hear. He tried to focus on the approval and desire in Gwenevere's expression and in Morgan's hand resting on the small (if you could call it that) of his back. The last thing he wanted to do was attend a feast that evening, but Gwenevere and Sir Kay had planned it for months and she would not accept his absence.
Lancelot was down to one set of clothing that still fit, and he was especially ashamed to find it was stretched to capacity. He knew it would be important not to overeat tonight or they might burst. Well, he wouldn't feel much like eating anyway with everyone watching him. In fact, he was more motivated than ever to slim down, despite Gwenevere's support. He was getting so out of shape he couldn't even take a flight of stairs without getting winded and he was barely into his thirties.
The feast had long ago started by the time Lancelot had consumed enough ale to face the event. He was welcomed in a friendly enough manner but he could see the question on all their faces as their glances shifted repeatedly away from his eyes to his corpulent body. Was it only his imagination that all eyes were fixed on him, always looking away at just the right moment not to get caught staring?
Each knight had his own chair at the Round Table and Lancelot's was near the King's. He hesitated as he approached the table, not sure if he would fit anymore into his own chair. He lowered himself cautiously and indeed, he filled it so thoroughly he hoped he was not stuck in it. His ponderous belly spilled before him, emphasized by the moderate width of the chair. He'd never noticed how narrow they were when he was fit. Now that the armrests were occupied by his love handles, he rested his arms with his hands cupped over his navel.
He was starved and everything looked so good. Intent on stuffing himself, he did not know how long he remained oblivious to the world but his plate had already been filled and cleared numerous times. The pretty serving girls spent most of their time tending to him and made sure he always got the best selections.
“Now I see how you got this.” Gawain patted Lancelot's belly as it swelled against the table, disconcerted by the fat rippling throughout his body, “You're even getting a nice bosom.” He cupped a breast and pinched the nipple while the men nearby laughed.
“That is enough, Gawain. I can lose this weight whenever I want. Next year you will see me in better shape than ever.”
“Sure, as you say. And you will start this tomorrow, I presume?”
Meanwhile, Lancelot ate and drank so much his stomach stretched painfully but there was still so much good food. Many people had passed out or gone to their beds, some were still drinking but Lancelot was the only one still eating as well. He felt obliged to finish everything on the table, although he had not really believed he could do it. The distended feeling of his stuffed belly finally passed the stage of discomfort into arousal. His stomach too taut to eat another bite, he decided to withdraw to his room.
A couple of the serving girls helped Lancelot to his feet, wobbly from the alcohol and his blatantly full tummy. He remembered how he'd promised himself not to overeat tonight and wondered if he really could not lose weight. He realized how many times he told himself to shape up, but the opposite would happen. Arthur even warned him that if he stayed so obese he would only be good for helping Sir Kay manage the kitchens. That was a hard message to accept, and he determined to stop overeating and start exercising tomorrow. He gave himself a year to reach his target.
He wished the stairs to his room were not so numerous and narrow. His belly swayed vigorously with every step and he became so out of breath he had to stop and rest several times. When he finally staggered to his room he had to hold in his stomach to clear the doorway, reinforcing his vow. He immediately loosened his robe that had been so confining and was able to take a deep breath for the first time in hours. His belly seemed to expand even further unrestrained, and he ran his hands over it in amazement. It really was very soft everywhere but at the same time it was firmly distended.
“Yes, it is very sexy.”
“I told you he likes it, too.” Gwenevere and Morgan sat in the shadows, obviously not displeased with what they saw. Lancelot realized he was not surprised as they led him to sit on the bed. When they brought out the food he groaned in protest and moved as if he would try to get up, but he was too tired and bloated to resist.
“Surely you must have some room left in there.” Morgan began rubbing his belly, and soon he amazingly felt hunger pangs. Still, he would have resisted eating more, but Gwenevere fed him by hand until he'd consumed yet another full meal. He could almost feel his body producing fat as he drifted to sleep.
In the morning the sisters explored the results of their efforts as they licked and pinched all those fat rolls Lancelot usually wished he did not have. They sucked his inviting nipples and ran their delicate hands over his expanded belly and love handles. Hidden under the soft burden, his orgasm exploded in a way he never felt when his body was hard. In this blissful state he willingly ate everything that was brought to him.
Eventually sex and food were so intertwined he decided to tolerate being fat despite the teasing and physical limitations. Now that he was adjusting to his heavier self, he found he could actually perform fairly well at a few of the tournament events, so he was allowed to return as the Queen's champion, this time protecting her sister as well. There were rumors that the three of them spent too much time together, but no one suspected anything romantic anymore because of Lancelot's weight.