Hilda the Pig

With arms folded across her pudgy, saggy B cups Hilda smiled in a mix of smugness and ignorance. Thoughts of oil fried meat and buttered baked bread and thick and chunky gravy filled her hollow head and made her unwrappered muffin top growl in delight. Clutching that single silver piece close in her wimpy, plush grip, she watched with fervent attention as the last customer in front of her emerged from the tent with his very, very healthy servings.

"Next!" Called the goblin, who muttered a curse and buried his face in a palm at the nude sight of her. "Urgh, come on, Tubby! I already told you. We ain't runnin' a charity, h--!"

Looking right through the crier to his lantern lit menu, Hilda held out her one found silver. Already drooling, mind burning up hotter and hotter at the two dozen menu pictures of potatoes and sugared yams and ice cream, the demoted warrior couldn't be bothered to notice to be offended. In fact, she couldn't be bothered to notice much of anything. Everyone behind her could've been svelte and lithe and everybody at the tables could've been morbidly obese and not a lick of that would've registered. The only thing on her simple mind was the fattening, fattening food.

Looking up to the relatively taller patron, looking back to the menu, the goblin shook his head. "So what?" Lifting his chalk and rock, he tipped his head back. "What'll it be, then, miss, uhh... Tubby?"

Enchanted, head drifting mindlessly from one item to the next, Hilda began to giggle. Low, mad, and happy, it came with a point of her digit to the same item she'd asked for earlier.

"Porkchop meal? Figures." The goblin marked something down and chuckled his tinny, grating laugh. "Shall I make it a large, miss Tubby?"

"Yeah!" Bobbing her head, stomach roaring, Hilda babbled. "Yeah, large! I wanna large one!"

"Suit yourself." With a knowing shrug, the goblin slapped the primitive receipt down on the tent's counter for his partner to read. And, when Hilda didn't move a muscle, he glowered and jabbed his finger to the entrance flap of the tent. "Now get inside! You're freakin' out my clientele!"

When his tiny, clawed hand smacked her plushy ass forward, Hilda yelped and bounded forward to the entrance. And while she looked back with the ghost of a heroic impulse echoing in her mind, Hilda couldn't bring herself to go over and teach that jerk a lesson. To do that, she'd have to walk away from her food. And, with her stomach eating itself, she just couldn't wait to get her food.

Turning in, brushing past the thick and heavy tent, she started in. A step forward and she was coughing on smoke of meat. Another, she was crying through ground particles of pepper. A third, and she felt the flames of the bonfire roaring and yellow blazing before her. Near the middle now, she hazarded another and another and suddenly felt stopped at a thick, leathery wall.

Before her, an orc bigger and taller and darker than her stood shirtless with nothing but an apron and a white ruffled hat on. Barehanded though he was, he handled vegetables and bread through the fire like it was nothing and kept her safely out of the scorch with the other. Oils sweltering, smoke suffocating, flames fanning, they were all nothing to the sturdy man grabbing and strolling the perfectly seared cuts off the rack to position them delicately onto a thick metal tray.

Silent, looming, and walking back to her, Hilda had to fight the urge to run screaming with arms waving crazy as the big brute smushed that hefty spread gently into her bust with one simple warning, "Hot."

"O-Oh--! Kuh..." Coughing, tearing up, but nodding, Hilda sputtered out something of a thank you as she wheeled around and trudge back the way she came. And when she finally found the door, breathing lungs full of fresh and cool air, she looked back around still shaky from the weight of her meal and called out a bubbly, "Thank you!"

Scared, sweating, weak, naked, divested, and dumber than a sack of rocks, the weary and starving Hilda felt her body stumble its way blindly to a table--any table--and plop her rear and her tray unceremoniously onto a pinewood log and finally, finally, finally dig in.

Like a beast before its brunch, without manners or napkins or utensils, Hilda grabs the pretty placed pork by the wood skewer through and snogs it all the way down. Biting, suckling, groaning, she comes up panting with a buff one part muscle and ten parts flab to her jiggling arms, slapping thighs, and bulging calves. About fifty pounds heavier, about a shade or two tanner, Hilda can't even stop to notice her new growth as she drops the half-eaten pork chop slab and starts grubbing up seasoned and buttered vegetables and shovelling them one by one into her greedy maw.

Hunched over, brown belly smooshed over in between her F cup funbags and her now dark, rotund thighs, she slows as her puny muscles spread far too thin start struggling and wheezing and sweating to carry just the rest of the pork slab from the clean plate to her fat face. Like a woman possessed, the beast ends up double-chinned and dripping butter and grease when the untouched bit of bread finally glimpses her dulled brown eyes. Huffing, snorting, chomping the last scrap of pig and potato down, Hilda wraps her thick and meaty hands around the soft loaf as it disappears in a blink into her doughy belly. Finally finishing up, fatter than a prize winning pig, with tusks and a cute boar nose to match, the heavyweight Hilda lets loose a final, long burp.

Falling onto her back, whole body jiggling as she took in gulps and gulps of air, the log under her has crunched collapsed, the little bits left of her fair and human features has faded into piggy obscurity, and the hunger inside her ruined figure goes satiated--at least, for now.