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“I don’t know Filib, that skirt’s pretty thin.” Artair glanced nervously at his friend’s waist. The darker bull had wound a simple flaxen skirt over his loincloth, and it did little to hide the shape of him beneath.

“What, should I stain more of my clothes in sweat?” The smith nudged Artair onward, towards the Blue Roost Tavern. “You know Lachlan doesn’t care anyway.”

Artair supposed that it would probably just be other working men in the tavern, as usual. And his own chiton wasn’t the most modest thing either, so he dropped the issue.

The two bulls were tired and hungry, and so paid little attention to the rest of the tavern as they entered and found their preferred table.

Large, glassless windows opened onto the streets outside, and stripped logs held up the old stone architecture of the place, all of it illuminated in the warm tones of wicker beetles contained in their lantern-cages, hung from the walls.

Artair shifted in his seat. As a stocky bull, he often struggled to get comfortable in the plain wooden furniture.

Suddenly, Filib grabbed his arm. Artair glanced up as his friend, wide-eyed, mouthed, “Look.”

_ _

Following Filib’s gaze, Artair first caught sight of mostly familiar faces, other common folk at rest. But there, at the largest table in the center of the room, sat a true behemoth of a man.

His green scales were glossy like jewels, even as they stretched to cover the heft of the body beneath. A belly, bigger and more thick with padding than any Artair had seen, overstuffed the fabric of an expansive himation. How the crocodile had managed to tie his belt beneath such a paunch was beyond Artair, but his eyes could only continue downward. One of the crocodile’s thighs sat uncovered, larger than most men’s whole bodies, spreading out like hotcake batter. He lounged upon a dark wooden chair that Artair had always considered ridiculously big. But with those thighs forced apart by heaps of belly fat, and an ass so large it strained even the oversized himation, the man more than filled his seat.

The crocodile’s throat bulged with quaffs of mead so great that they would likely drown a smaller man, and his broad snout snapped at a towering, glistening pile of sausages, tearing through them with teeth like daggers. Melted fat rolled down and became caught in his multiple chins, and dripped from his snout to land on a pair of voluminous breasts. The liquid fat flowed onto his exposed nipple, granting the big disk a lovely shine.

For a moment, Artair thought Filib was simply gawking at the remarkable show of gluttony. But he quickly put the pieces together. Those shimmering scales, that fine-looking fabric, and most of all the sheer heft on the crocodile himself. He’d only ever seen nobility from a far distance before, but there was no mistaking such a figure.

“Prince Raghnall,” Artair murmured. He suddenly felt very exposed in just his scant work clothes, with Filib’s bare chest beside him. But as he glanced around the tavern, he found most everyone else in a similar way.

Lachlan, the tavern keeper, was covered in a stained skirt and an apron pulled tight by his keg of a belly. The boar seemed utterly unfit to be serving royalty, even as he poured another tankard of mead before the great beast. Beside him, leaning back against the bar, was the butcher Sawney, an alligator whom Artair had always thought of as ponderously fat. But now, looking the butcher over in a one-armed tunic, his thick body seemed quite reasonable compared to the prince. Sawney’s muscles were at least visible, though Artair could only imagine how much actual meat Prince Raghnall had hidden away.

Where Lachlan’s face was drawn with stress, Sawney stared at Prince Raghnall with predator curiosity.

Across from Artair and Filib, two slender men enjoyed the show as well. The hunter Tam, a crane of blue feathers, took careful, well-timed glances to avoid being noticed. The horse sitting with him, however, simply looked in his usual way; Keir was easy to miss in a room, given his gray fur and quiet demeanor. Keir’s trim form, well-honed from stoneworking, seemed almost impossible in the same room as so much decadent crocodile flesh.

Artair’s eyes were drawn back to Prince Raghnall as he wiped his snout from another deep drink, mumbled out a thanks to Lachlan while the boar cautiously set down the new tankard. Raghnall resumed his feast on the sausages, stuffing multiple into his maw at once. He tipped his head back and sat facing half-away from the table, as if trying to show off to everyone just how much he ate. Worse, his eyes— beautiful, swirling deep blue besides the sharp black pupils— were drifting around the tavern, catching on the men around him.

Artair was rooted to his chair. He tried to ignore the hardness in his loincloth; how was he to know that seeing such a gargantuan man would set him alight? Even the sounds of Raghnall were enthralling, the smack of his wet chewing, the deep, indulgent swallows of more food in one mouthful than most ate in a meal, the heavy breaths working their way out of his plush chest.

Artair looked for anyone else who might draw the prince’s attention instead, to spare him from having his lust be recognized by royalty. And, thankfully, everyone else in the tavern was staring too.

“What’s the prince doing here?” Artair asked, trying to stay quiet.

Filib somehow kept up his confident look. “Do you plan on asking him?”

“No!” Artair whispered. But he couldn’t pull his eyes away, especially as the prince spilled a dash of mead on his himation and tugged it thoughtlessly to the side, revealing more of his heaving tits. They were big as casks, and looked like such soft meat, shapely enough to betray the natural-born, untrained strength behind them. What Artair would give to have moobs like that, to squeeze and play with however he wanted.

With his eyes so lowered, Artair failed to notice the prince’s gaze shifting in his direction— not until it was too late.

Artair glanced up on instinct— having been caught staring at other men’s bodies many times before— and made eye contact. For a brief moment his mind went completely blank. The prince’s crocodilian snout stopped turning as he slurped down another half-eaten sausage. Artair could feel the other tavern patrons watching, waiting to see what would happen.

Prince Raghnall turned a bit in his seat, a movement that would have been nothing to most men, but caused his chair to whine, his stomach and breasts to slosh to the side before jiggling back into place. He tugged his himation further downward until it was nearly falling from his thick shoulder. The prince reached out with a foot and moved a chair beside him, pulling it out from the table with an inviting swish of his gargantuan tail.

Artair’s eyes had to be lying. To be beckoned over by royalty, it was ridiculous.

“Artair,” Filib hissed under his breath. “Get up.”

Heart pounding in his fuzzy ears, Artair could barely feel his legs as he pushed away from his table and stood, then walked slowly towards Prince Raghnall. He would have done anything to be wearing something thicker or heavier, more concealing. His dick pressed eagerly against his loincloth and the thin fabric covering it, obvious to anyone who glanced between his legs.

“Is something wrong?” Prince Raghnall asked. His heavy, rumbling voice was twinged with a friendly tone, and an overwhelming heat. His eyes drifted all across Artair’s body, and the bull couldn’t help but notice a strand of saliva between the prince’s meat-sundering teeth.

Artair cleared his throat, trying to take comfort in the fact the prince hadn’t gotten offended yet, even having clearly seen Artair’s hardness. “I’m simply surprised to see you here, Your Highness.” Despite the fear, Artair couldn’t keep himself from stealing another glance at the prince’s chest, and that great mountain of belly beneath it.

“I wanted to offer myself to my people tonight.” Raghnall leaned to the side, allowing the himation to fall from his shoulder, fully revealing his torso in the process. He kept himself open, arms lounging to the sides.

As a bull, Artair was used to being considered large, but Prince Raghnall was nearly as tall as him while reclining in a chair, and he was so much wider. Gods, the prince’s tail alone probably weighed more than him.

“Offer yourself?” Artair asked, refusing to believe what he wanted it to mean.

“For more than just looking, too.” Raghnall smiled, ignoring the whispers from the other men. “You certainly seem interested, if surprised.”

“I’ve just–” Artair swallowed what little saliva was in his mouth, “I’ve only ever seen your royal self from far away.” He began to speak quickly, trying to explain himself, words moving faster than his thoughts could keep up. “Your scales are beautiful— and I never expected to be in the same room as royalty— and you’re just so fat.”

Artair’s heart nearly stopped as he heard what he’d just said. He would have dropped to his knees and begged the prince’s forgiveness, if he could bring himself to move at all. But his mind could only conjure the sudden and overwhelming image of the prince lurching forward to snap his terrible jaws around Artair’s neck for the slight.

Raghnall’s expression widened for a moment, and then his smile… deepened. Artair could see every pointed tooth in his jaws. But the prince’s eyes sparkled with delight. “I am, yes.” He pressed a hand against his own belly and squeezed, his fingers becoming lost in folds of supple flesh. “Of course, it’s not all to my credit.”

“My prince?” Artair whispered, lightheaded from the sheer conflict of terror and arousal.

Raghnall looked into his eyes. “Your farm sells livestock to the palace kitchens.” He took hold of his belly with both hands— as much as anyone could grasp so much heft— and shook it, making it jostle like a great wave, with his soft rolls following the ripple of motion. “I wouldn’t be so fat without all your bacon, and chicken,” His tongue ran across the bottom of his snout, “and juicy beefsteaks, and all those pounds of butter and lard…”

“And… sausages,” Artair blurted out, glancing at the plate by the prince’s side. He kept speaking, only the intense heat in his loins driving him on, “I sell to this tavern, too. I’m proud to provide you with so much food.” Surely, the prince could consume an entire pig in one sitting. Artair had never thought to question the amount of livestock the palace bought, but his answer was here all the same.

“Well, it only seems fair that you get to be more familiar with all that you packed onto me.” Prince Raghnall shifted forward in his seat, and leaned back to make all his heft readily available— it was like rolling hills, fertile and abundant, every inch struggling and squishing against one another to take up so much space. A bounty of royal meat, unguarded. And why would he have to guard anything? He had to weigh more than a thousand pounds, all of it the flesh of a terrifying carnivore.

Almost not believing that he was awake, Artair sat down in front of the prince and reached out, wrapping his hands beneath the crest of Raghnall’s belly, where so much fat pooled amongst his thighs. He found a hot, sweat-laden cavern beneath Raghnall’s paunch, and the flesh was wonderfully soft beneath Artair’s fingers. It flowed into his hands, so heavy that he struggled to lift it at all. If he weren’t used to hard work, he wouldn’t have managed. But Artair had hefted his fair share of pigs and steers before.

Raghnall watched with half-closed eyes, breathing deep soft huffs of pleasure. “You certainly have farmer’s fingers.”

Artair looked at the crocodile flesh in his hands. This, all of this, was the crown prince— no matter that it was hundreds of pounds of fatted beast. His tender underbelly scales, the vulnerability of a crocodile, were in Artair’s calloused grasp. “Is it uncomfortable, Highness?”

“No. keep touching.” Raghnall let his eyes shut and leaned his head back. “Feel all you like, there’s a lot of me, after all.” He might not have been looming over Artair, but it was impossible to ignore the sheer size of him, like a monster of the swamp that hunters told tall tales of.

“There is.” Artair ran his hands along the natural curve of Raghnall’s belly fat, and found the prince’s largest flank rolls, which he struggled to even get his hands around. The heat of him was intense as a furnace here, trapped between the curving shelves of blubber. Pressing hard enough, so hard his forearm began to disappear in sweat-soaked royal folds, he could feel a thick slab of muscle deep beneath— it was surely more than Artair had on his whole torso. And yet, he could hardly imagine Prince Raghnall doing any kind of manual work to earn it. Such size was simply his birthright.

Artair began to move upwards, getting a feel for each sweeping emerald hill, able to stick his hand between them and return it slick with sweat and oil. “I’ve never seen flanks like yours before, even on my biggest cattle.”

The prince laughed softly as Artair’s knuckles brushed against the fat smothering his arms, not bothering to lift them out of the way.

“How about my belly?” Raghnall snorted a hot, demanding breath.

“I didn’t know a man’s middle could possibly be so broad. You must feel such weight when you walk.” Artair ran his thumbs along one of the prince’s rolls, having to hold his own arms out wide in order to touch both sides of Raghnall at once. “Though I suppose your fat weighs on every part of you?”

“My hips,” Raghnall shimmied them against the chair with an ominous creaking. “My thighs, my tail, my ass,” his breath came hot and decadent, “I promise you I can feel every pound.”

“Hips these massive, and you’re not even a cow,” Artair said in wonder, while groping so close to his pliable rump. He was momentarily afraid again that the prince might take his words as an insult. But Raghnall’s shoulders stayed relaxed, and little glints of his teeth only showed in his comfortable smile, seeming to simply remind Artair that he was, in fact, fondling an apex predator.

Raghnall peeked an eye open and murmured, though not very quietly, “But you weren’t staring at my hips, were you? How do you like my moobs?”

Artair’s fur stood on end. The prince did have a massive, heavy pair of breasts. Each one was bigger than Artair’s head. And those broad nipples seemed almost to demand attention.

“It’s been too long since anyone’s tried to milk them,” Raghnall rumbled, “Put your hands to good use, farmer.”

Artair couldn’t refuse such an order. He cupped the prince’s moobs in his palms, feeling their weight strain his biceps. Their fat flowed thick underRaghnall’s arms, all the way to wrap around his back. But here in front, they were larger than anyone’s Artair had seen, man or woman. And with the warm, masculine flesh offered to him, he closed his fingers. Artair couldn’t cover those great breasts themselves, but he covered the prince’s nipples with his palms and squeezed. At first, he just wanted to feel the way the fat surrendered under pressure, but then he tightened his grip to make more and more of that buttery lard bulge out between his fingers. And still, he squeezed, until his hands started to ache, and he found the great swaths of soft muscle under their ocean of flab. On another man, they would have been an impressive pair of pecs. But here, they were almost an afterthought.

A shuddering breath escaped the prince’s throat, reverberating through his chest and into Artair’s arms. Those tender pecs grew firm and full as he inhaled again, with some difficulty.

Realizing what he was doing, with Prince Raghnall’s breasts crushed painfully under his hands, Artair let go in an instant. His bovine snout, in turn, struggled to drag air back in through the fine mesh screen of panic.

But Raghnall just let out a soft, lustful bellow. “I didn’t tell you to stop, farmer.” His gaze fell with a natural shade of entitlement. “Do you like what you’ve helped do to my body?”

“Gods, yes.” Artair flexed his fingers, an edge of guilt in his voice.

Raghnall leaned forward, toothed jaws grinning as they cast a monstrous shadow over Artair’s face. “You sure tried to squeeze hard, didn’t you? You think your prince’s flesh is yours to play with as you wish?”

Shaking his head urgently, Artiar stammered, “N-no, Prince Raghnall–”

“That’s right. I came to offer myself…” he paused, “so, I’m yours to play with as I wish. And after those rough hands, I would like something softer on my breasts.” Raghnall’s own massive hand raised to Artair’s snout. His scales there were cool, though still with the background warmth of fingers fatter than those sausages on his plate. His grip was strong. “Suck on them.”

Artair scooted forward in his chair and dipped his head to one of the prince’s puffy nipples. He could feel one horn touch against Raghnall’s fleshy neck, but the prince didn’t seem to care. So Artair opened his mouth, pulling as much of that jiggling flesh past his teeth as possible. Artair tasted Raghnall’s natural oils, nearly overwhelming in the flavor of roasted meat, bubbling tallow, all savory and salty on Artair’s tongue. And with the prince’s lard-caked arm and other breast squishing against his face like overstuffed sacks of dough, his snout baked in the heat of all that royal fat.

He glanced up at Raghnall, though he could barely see his face past the shape of his snout and folded chins.

Raghnall leaned further back, shimmying his shoulders in animal comfort. His head turned curiously about the room.

He was looking for someone else, of course. Artair would never flatter himself to think that Prince Raghnall would be satisfied with just him. But, he hoped he would still make a good impression. The farmer sucked harder on Raghnall’s breast, trying to tug on the muscle and lavish his soft skin with attention. His jaws worked relentlessly, and his broad bovine nostrils gripped at what hot, musk-laden air he could pull from around the prince’s flesh.

All that effort was well worth it though, as the sounds of Raghnall’s breath and voice soaked deep into Artair’s ears. The prince moaned as Artair’s bull tongue lapped around the sweet edges of his nipple— he let out involuntary grunts of pleasure when Artair suckled— his pudgy, clumsy hands pressed on Artair’s back while the prince’s composure slipped and the rest of his body melted into the chair.

After a few minutes, a pleased bellow filled Raghnall’s throat, rattling Artair’s skull down to his humming spine. “Farmer,” Raghnall said with an almost musical tone, “your snout feels good. But mine isn’t done with its dinner.”

Artair pulled away, taking a great gasp of air. His chest filled gratefully, and his jaws burned with exhaustion. If Raghnall hadn’t released him soon, he would surely have collapsed from the strain of it all. As his head cleared from the oppressive heat of being smothered in Raghnall’s fat, the fur of his snout now soaked in sweat, he stared for a moment at the mark of saliva and flushed scales he’d left behind. He grunted, and managed to sit up again. “P… Prince?” He huffed.

Raghnall had completely draped himself across the chair now, legs wide, belly flowing partly off the edge, all grace or posture abandoned for simple comfort. He lounged with his massive tail slapped carelessly on the floor, and seemed wholly unconcerned with how hard Artair had worked, beyond the little shivers of pleasure still dancing across his breast. He glanced at Lachlan behind the bar. “Bring him some sausages to feed me.”

The boar’s astonished face couldn’t make a single word as he scrambled to work, quickly emerging from the kitchen with another massive platter, steam drifting from the juicy things.

Artair stood, unable to reach the prince’s snout if he was sitting down. He picked up a sausage, still linked to the others and hot in his palm, and slowly leaned over the prince’s massive body. He had to plant a knee on the edge of the chair, nudging between the spread flesh of Raghnall’s thighs and lifting the plump shelf of his belly. With a hand on Raghnall’s chest, Artair steadied himself, and stared into an open royal maw. Warm, pink flesh dripped saliva onto a tongue the size of Artair’s leg. He couldn’t see Raghnall’s jaw muscles, but he knew they were there, able to bring those rows of sharp teeth together with a power that dwarfed all of Artair’s work-earned strength. Yet another privilege of his nature.

Raghnall’s stomach growled beneath him, so loud as to even vibrate the bull’s knee, and Artair quickly, obediently stuffed the first sausage into his mouth.

Thankfully, the prince shut his jaws slowly, giving Artair enough time to pull his hand away. “Mmm…” Raghnall moaned as he chewed.

Artair stared at him, a body shaped half by nature’s proud hand and half by the rich feasts of royalty. Those emerald scales that caught the light were armor, those teeth an ever-drawn weapon, and as he nearly straddled the prince’s ocean of belly fat, Artair considered the sheer physical power of a creature who carried so much weight. Raghnall sat with his thighs spread and underbelly open, eyes shut and neck bare, unconcerned because as long as he was inside its walls, this tavern was his domain.

As if to prove Artair’s musing, Raghnall’s hand pressed into the bull’s chubby ass, squeezing through the loincloth. “I like bovine haunches,” He purred. “Yours are nice and meaty.”

“Suppose so, Majesty.” Artair’s face hummed with warm blood at Prince Raghnall’s attraction to him— or, perhaps, his hunger. “I try to eat well… for, um, someone not of your royal grandeur.”

Raghnall’s chest shook with a curious laugh. He licked his chops and gave Artair’s rump a soft smack. “Good. I like men who eat. Though,” he snorted, nostrils flaring with demand, “you should probably focus on feeding me right now, or I might get a taste for steak.”

Artair nodded quickly and brought more sausages to his snout. Raghnall gnashed and chewed, tearing them from the link as quickly as Artair could offer the next one, until his mouth was stuffed with spiced meat, fat drooling down the sides of his jaws. Every few moments were punctuated by the wet sound of him swallowing, as he seemed to actually lavish in the difficulty of scarfing down so much food at once.

Artair’s nerve had been bolstered by the prince’s compliments and pleasure, so he reached out tentatively to put his free hand on Raghnall’s throat. He could feel the thick muscles in his neck move as he stuffed another mass of meat into his belly. Without thinking, Artair began to rub him there, gentle yet firm, guiding the food down his gullet as he’d done with his animals from time to time. Especially when he was fatting them.

Raghnall grunted— using words to make his demands seemingly beneath the prince. And Artair fed him more sausages, a faint smile growing on his bovine features. For just a moment, at least, he was fattening a crocodile, tending to royalty like a farm animal. He wondered just how much of Raghnall’s beautiful fat really was his doing.

The prince’s breath was steady and slow through his nostrils, content under Artair’s care as he munched away at more meat than some men had on their entire bodies.

Lost in his fantasies, Artair didn’t notice when he ran out of sausages— nor did he remember to take his hand out of the prince’s jaws.

He felt those great teeth close on his wrist, panic gripping his big bull heart as sharp points gripped his precious limb. “M-My Prince!” He blurted out, screwing his eyes shut in terror.

And then… nothing. The awful pain of a bite never came. A few of the other patrons took sharp, horrified breaths, but in the silence that followed, only a soft rumbling filled the air.

The rumble grew until Artair felt it in his thighs, as it rippled out from Raghnall’s belly. The crocodile laughed through his half-shut jaws. He flicked open his eyes to fix Artair with a teasing look, before closing his lips around the bull’s forearm and sucking. His giant tongue slathered itself against Artair’s hand, forcing his fingers to splay out so it could explore every crevice and knuckle while it slurped away the remnant sausage grease.

Unlike those sausages, whose juice and oil now stained all the way down the expanse of Raghnall’s belly, Artair’s hand was finally allowed to leave the confines of those great jaws.

Allowed to. Artair stared at Raghnall’s glimmering crocodile eyes.

The prince might eat like a beast being fattened for slaughter, but his flesh was nobody’s food— it only went the other way around.

Artair rubbed his wrist tenderly and let his ears return to a relieved, passive pose beneath his horns. “You scared me, Highness.”

“Do you really think I’d be so cruel?” Raghnall smiled. “I’d never hurt one of my people, Artair.”

Artair’s face burned beneath his soft fur, hearing his name came out of the prince’s mouth.

“But,” Raghnall continued, voice drifting lazily, without a care in the world, “I am hungry for something a bit more satisfying than just sausages.” He reached over to the platter, finding one that had been left behind. “Farmer, you get as familiar as you want with your handiwork.” He presented his belly and breasts, along with the thighs beneath them, then turned his head in the direction Artair had come. “There’s another bull I think I’d like to taste.”