Theo's Story, Part 1 (Patreon)

Somewhere, Sometime

As I dictate this to Mr. De Fleureaux, dear reader, please understand that time works differently for a Cheshire cat, if it works at all. I myself politely but firmly ended my personal relationship with Time very early on, and I haven’t caught up with the fellow for quite a while. But, since Mr. De Fleureaux has fervently refused to be any sort of fun, I suppose we will start at the beginning, painfully boring as it may be for me.

Before I was the consummate gentleman and patron of the great that you may have come to know, I was known as Iarlaith Bresson. Specifically, His Most Feline Majesty, King Iarlaith Bresson. And I can see the arched brows of Mr. De Fleureaux now, but yes, I was indeed a King. The best King. Arthur? Elizabeth I? Ramesses the Great? They wouldn’t have the wherewithal to run a tea party in my kingdom. I ruled over a golden age of cultural glory, economic prosperity, martial superiority, and hygienic cleanliness. Mine was a city on the hill, a fair and pleasant land that makes Camelot look like Somalia. Mr. De Fleureaux informs me that is a particularly nasty area, so seeing as he was raised in Florida, I will defer to his superior knowledge on such matters. 

My kingdom, the jewel in my crown, bordered Wonderland. Or, was it in Wonderland? I quite remember it was in very close proximity, but I can’t recall the details. I haven’t checked in a millenia or so, but thanks to my peerless leadership, I have no doubt it is still the same sparkling beacon of civilization, regardless of the fact I cannot find it on any map. Mr. De Fleureaux is giving me one of his looks again, but since I’m paying him by the word, he will remember to keep any snide commentary to himself. 

There is, however, one problem to being such a perfect and beloved ruler; it is utterly, utterly boring. Truly horrible rulers, like Caligula or Ivan the Terrible, have all the fun. What sort of King’s reign is complete without a violent insurrection or two? But, alas, I was cursed with subjects that were prosperous, well-educated, healthy, and content. Peasants singing your praises and asking you to kiss their infants every time you exit your castle can get very dull after a few centuries. Don’t misunderstand me, I would never mistreat my subjects just for my own amusement, especially when they were so generous to me in their own way.

You see, my acute interest in powerful, overbearing muscle and corpulent, overflowing fat, and all things in between that represent excess, indulgence, and rapid ambition are taken from my own experiences. When I was King, my subjects showed their loyalty with gifts, showering me with the most succulent foods imaginable. It was an obvious tribute, as I ensured my kingdom was bountiful and prosperous. I, ever gracious, dutifully ate said gifts, which eventually meant all that food had to go somewhere, and my own body quickly expanded. One can imagine the result; I became unimaginably fat. This would prove to be a short period in my reign, but oh, it was an enjoyable one. If one is to be fat, it is best to be so in the lap of luxury. Indulgence is intoxicating; there I was, sprawled out on a small mountain of plush cushions while a small army of servants fed me. And I? I was more plush than any of the cushions beneath me, and was quickly taking on their dimensions, albeit, on a much larger scale. My servants valiantly tried to keep me properly clothed, but with all the wonderful gifts of my people, my body expanded faster than the tailors could stretch out my outfits.

Oh, but I was sight. The feeling was ambrosial; being surrounded by such sumptuously soft, surplus flesh, swathed in it from toes I hadn’t seen in years to sausage fingers quite literally as meaty as the sausages being fed to me. My monumental middle was a testament to my realm’s bounty, constant jiggling and stuffed with more tribute, swelling up as large as a small house. Oh, yes. I was positively whale-like, with the excess blubber bulging and weighing down every single part of my body until hardly move, my stripes stretched to their limit over a back layered in rolls of fat like the most decadent cake in existence, and a large, juicy rump that, shall we say, was not to be ignored. In such a state of luxury and not a care in the world, it was bliss. Something awakened in me at that point; why should I be the only one to feel this way, I wondered? Surely, as King, it was my duty to share this wonderfully lush and decadent state of being with my loyal subjects. That’s when I began my feasts.

And what feasts they were! I consider myself a very generous host, and I let no guest leave my palace until they were filled to bursting and with a smile as wide as their burgeoning waistlines. For my loyal subjects, it was only the best; the richest and finest vintages, the juiciest and most succulent cuts of meat, and desserts sweet enough to make a man weep. There was music and laughter, and these joyous events lasted for days. I was the main attraction; the mountainous font of my people’s contentment and full bellies. And even as my legs, swaddled in blubber thicker than tree trunks, were buried under the avalanche of my advancing, bulbous middle, no one forgot that I, as King, was in charge.

But, this would not last. A curious thing; when one’s kingdom seems to comprise entirely of people constantly eating, with bellies so large they are permanently divorced from their feet, there are those that would find such a kingdom weak, but clearly rich, and thus very easy pickings.

And let me make this clear; especially as a multi-ton behemoth so vast and corpulent to fill my throne room, I am loathe to be pushed around. No one was taking my kingdom from me. But, even so, when one can not even stand under one’s own power, this makes things difficult for leading an army or waging war against one’s enemies. Luckily for me, I had no need for workout regimens or fad diets; being a cheshire has its benefits, after all. In truth, I only got fat because I let myself get fat. The feeling was just so delectable to me, I didn’t care. And even when I could no longer walk, why should I care? I had loyal servants to sate my every whim. But all of it could be changed with the snap of my fingers, and with the barbarians at the gates, it was high time for just that.

Just as I had found my first love in such overly hedonistic corpulence and gluttony, I found it again in rampant, unchecked power and strength. I was, am, and will be, immensely powerful, but there’s a sheer presence of power and strength that only divinely sized muscle can create. The molding of the body into such unnatural, such exceptional proportions is nothing less than an art form, shaping the clay of flesh into something that exudes a living glory… and when I first felt it, the rush of surging strength and power kept me enthralled for a good century, or so. I had to test the limits of such wonderful muscle; I would take to the field alone to defend my kingdom, hurling back armies and brigands, growing stronger with each and every movement. In besting one foe, I found my Vorpal Blade. Such a clever little thing, it would change dimensions to match me, and has been my most faithful companion. Together, we beat any foe I deemed a threat to my realm, and a few because I needed some fun. It was what they call a splendid little war, by all accounts. And by the end of it? I was nothing short of magnificent.

The thrill of victory and absolute, unchecked power kept me enthralled, even as I had begun to outgrow my throne once more. But now, I was no indolent blob of flesh, but a true King and conqueror, inhaling and exhaling strength with every breath. It was the heady days of my reign, and I at the center, sprawled across my throne, that marble edifice groaning deeply under the sheer amount of glorious mass that settled upon it. Frankly, it was a wonder it hadn't collapsed entirely given how I simply overflowed my seat of power. My engorged lats poured over the arms of the throne, keeping arms thicker than my average subject aloft. I had not laid eyes on my neck in years; by now, it may as well have been a far flung fairytale entirely swallowed up by pecs that could have easily been mistaken for a cliff face that shifted with each breath I took. The rolling mountain range that made up my shoulders and traps rippled whenever I shifted, bare arms clenching as my biceps dug against the unyielding mass of pecs. The only sign of my more decadent lifestyle was the domed mass of my middle; full, blocky abs forced to bow out from the constant stream of tributes I still received. I was forced to hold my legs wide, such magnificent thighs unable and unwilling to try and share space given how much each required. When I did walk, I did so with an exaggerated swagger, thighs forced to roll around each other. The short sheet of fabric that kept me decent barely managed its job whenever I might dare shift on my seat. Truly, I was a mountain of muscle, a gargantuan, grinning beast of a cat, and oh, did I love it. I was adorned with what gold could fit upon my body, but, let us be honest: such ornamentation was gilding the lily, when I was already a peerless work of art.

But, alas, even this heightened position I grew tired of as well. Oh, I will indulge in such extremities, either one, from time to time even these days, but as I sat being lavished in praise, indulging in my god-like strength, after a century or two, I did become awfully bored. It dawned on me that the reason was simple; I was surrounded by plain, ordinary bodies. Some more fit or fat than others, but none had reached the levels of my magnificence. And the feeling, in both forms, was of such delight… shouldn’t others get a chance to feel such rapturous pleasure?

So, it was decided. I had made myself a work of art, but what artist stops at just one piece, no matter how glorious it might be? I slimmed myself down for ease of travel, but still rather hardy to deal with the mundane realm beyond my borders, and prepared for my great journey. I would walk the earth, finding those that were worthy to be molded by my experienced hands.