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Prince Raghnall let his soft fat keep him afloat in the cool spring water. His arms crossed over each other on the edge of the pool, providing a pillow for his snout to rest on, his thick second chin squished between them.

The crocodile’s tail and back barely rose above the clear waters, showing off a shimmer of summer sun from his deep-emerald scales. But for all the prince’s own lavish beauty, his warm, cobalt eyes were much more interested in two men who toiled far below the terraced springs and gardens of the palace grounds.

The city of Uisdain was a peculiar one, built upon ancient stone roadways that criss-crossed beneath the gargantuan trees of a saltwater swamp and branched out amongst rolling moorland to the east. The palace sat in the center of all these roads, on the very edge of that swamp. On a nearby road, one that faded into the first stretch of the moorland, stood a smithy. Smoke from its furnace drifted over a nearby farm, cattle and pigs unconcerned by the ringing strike of hammer on metal.

Uisdain was mostly fed by fishermen and hunters, with farms usually no more than community gardens for herbivore folk. But some of the moorland had been tamed to keep the larders of the widespread city well-stocked— and to keep the interest of the widespread prince piqued. The farmer, a bull named Artair, drove his hoe into the dirt, planting some summer crop or another.

Artair’s light-brown fur stuck out, scruffy and sweat-laden with the heat. He wore a simple chiton, girded around his loins, which did little to hide the thick, stocky torso beneath. His arms strained, the muscle visible even beneath a bit of padding, and he seemed altogether unshakable on his meaty legs. Once the farmer reached the end of a row, he reclined on the hoe and let out a deep breath, round stomach expanding with another taken in.

Raghnall gazed at Artair’s rump, well-built and broad. Neither the farmer’s chiton nor his loincloth quite covered the edges of it, though he reached down and tugged at them to fix that.

Artair turned his head and greeted another bull emerging from the smithy, but then quickly averted his gaze. Raghnall couldn’t imagine doing such a thing, as the smith, Filib, was wearing nothing but a loincloth, clearly visible against his short, black fur. Filib stood above Artair, with wide, pointed horns in contrast to Artair’s middling ones. The smith glanced cautiously down the half-buried road and stepped into sunlight, resting against a support beam with a sword-like chunk of iron in hand.

Filib was all hard muscle, packed onto his broad bovine shoulders by the weight of his trade. He scratched at his ass, making Raghnall’s dick stir in the cool water. The summer heat must have been inescapable for the smith, as evidenced by the sweat-stains on his cloth.

Raghnall’s appreciation of these two bulls was cut short by a set of rhythmic footsteps approaching the edge of the spring. For a moment he wondered if it was one of the cooks, coming to ask if he wanted anything more before they began dinner preparations. But he remembered as the stranger arrived— a new advisor had come from the south to join Queen Seonag’s court. Raghnall smiled at the fact that this advisor had come to find the prince while he was bathing. Perhaps he wanted a good look for himself.

As Raghnall turned his head, he met eyes with a slender jackal. The man stood a few feet from the water, hands behind his back, dressed elegantly in a pair of tight trousers. A chlamys draped from his shoulders, its white fabric and stark blue stripe contrasted against his dark fur.

“I am Irfan.” He lowered his head in a respectful greeting, then regarded Raghnall with sharp, unrelenting eyes. “Good afternoon, my Prince.” He had an accent like curling sweeps of sand and a sharp tone to his voice, hiding any of his intentions.

“Prince Raghnall, though I imagine you knew already.” Raghnall smiled, trying to see if the jackal’s eyes wandered across his vast body visible beneath the water.

“Oh yes,” Irfan did look him over, but betrayed no opinion on what he saw. “I’ve heard much about you.”

Raghnall reached over to a platter of meat perched on the edge of the pool, fat-laden cuts kept rare for his simple crocodilian tastes. He plucked a few between his thick fingers and ate them with just enough chewing to savor the creamy lard across his tongue.

Then, with a grunt, he pushed away and drifted towards Irfan. “Care to enjoy a bit of cool water?” He splashed a few drops onto the ground at the jackal’s feet. “I know how your folk enjoy their oases.”

“No thank you, Your Grandeur.”

Raghnall paused. Quite a specific title. He scratched one of his moobs, showing off the supple heft of it. “Surely you didn’t just come to say hello while I’m undressed.” The crocodile’s voice was like his body— Heavy, thick, and warm.

“The petitioners are arriving shortly, I imagined you would be in attendance,” Irfan said.

Raghnall snorted. “Can’t you see I’m bathing? My mother’s the only one they’re here to see, who would want to sit around in this heat if they don’t have to?” He leered up at the jackal and shifted himself in the water, using his powerful tail to swing his gargantuan legs and ass beneath him. His belly surfaced like a shiny island, showing the blubber rolls that smothered his flanks, and his hefty breasts pooling around his armpits.

He made sure to lean back and let his legs drift to the side, revealing a half-hard dick rising proudly from the cresting hills of his thighs and the possessive bed of fat beneath it. Of course, Raghnall couldn’t see it himself anymore, not with all that belly eclipsing his view, but he could feel the tantalizing brush of water against his shaft, and the balls floating beneath it. “I might be big, but there’s enough room for another man.” Raghnall swished his pudgy hand back and forth, making the water ripple.

Irfan looked away, and his eyes only drifted back to the prince’s overfed belly. Despite that little shake to his placid look, his voice stayed neutral. “If you wanted to pleasure yourself, perhaps you should have done so before the petitioners arrived.”

Nothing seemed to stir in Irfan’s trousers. Sure, Raghnall’s sword was half-buried, but he was still larger than most of the other men he’d been with— especially in girth— and he could feel a strand of precum slip out from the plentiful folds of his foreskin to land on the fat, impressive balls beneath. It wasn’t easy to pleasure himself, with how hefty he was— besides, why should a prince have to resort to that? “Oh come on, they’re only concerned with what the Queen can do for them. What good would you or I do sitting in the throne room, watching?”

Irfan’s foot shifted, ready to turn even as he was still talking. His mindless adherence to decorum made Raghnall’s scales flush with frustration. “Don’t you think a prince should offer himself to his people?”

Raghnall floated quietly for a second. The cool water and fatty pork were hard to give up, but he would likely be dealing with Irfan for a while, and his usual ‘good impression’ hadn’t gone very far. Besides, the jackal wasn’t entirely wrong. Raghnall’s people provided him all the luxuries he could want, all the food he could pack onto his domineering frame, all the soft fabric to cover it with.

Raghnall sighed, though already his playful grin was returning. “Fine. I’ll come, since you’re so desperate to be around me. But I’ll have you know I offer myself plenty, in my own ways.” He snapped his jaws at the air and swam over to the edge of the pool. Planting both hands on the ground, he readied to heft himself out of the water.

Irfan watched him.

Raghnall grunted, swishing his tail as his arms struggled to lift his bulk. It was one thing when he had a few minutes to slowly pull one part of himself onto dry ground after another, but he didn’t want to give Irfan the opportunity to look down at him with a snide face.

He managed to pull his chest above the side, plopping down in an effort to leverage his broad shoulders. His back and belly started to emerge from the pool, but all that weight was quite a bit more to deal with outside of water.

By the time his cavernous belly-button pressed against the side of the spring, his arms were shaking from the exertion and his breath was already coming heavy. He’d have to try flipping himself over the side, using his own mass to help him. It wouldn’t be the most dignified move, but better than dropping back into the pool in front of Irfan.

Raghnall swayed his hips, pulled his tail back, and put all of his strength into the motion. He grinned as he felt one leg make it onto ground, with the other swiftly following. But as his tail finally left the water, he realized his mistake. He’d underestimated his own weight, and rather than ending up on his side, he rolled further under the momentum and fell onto his back with a deep, wet thud.

He tried to stifle his panting as his flesh pooled wide on the ground. Raghnall glanced up at Irfan’s gaze, the jackal’s snout scrunched in what looked like disgust. Raghnall leaned forward, trying to rise to his feet.

Only to be stopped by the fat mountain of his own belly.

He tried again, quickly, but even as his breath strained, he couldn’t quite get up. Raghnall leaned to the side, and again the heft on top of him kept him pinned down. When was the last time he’d tried to get up off his back alone? He usually slept on his belly, as crocodiles preferred.

Irfan began looking away, as if trying to pretend he wasn’t even there. Raghnall let a soft bellow pass his throat. “Irfan,” he huffed, “aren’t you going to offer me a hand?”

The jackal hesitantly looked back at him, and concern flashed over his eyes. “Are you alright, Prince Raghnall?” He bent down.

“Yes,” Raghnall blustered, as his pudgy mitts met Irfan’s slender fingers, utterly eclipsing the jackal’s hand. “There’s simply a lot of me to carry around in the heat.” He flexed; while it was impossible to see the shape of Raghnall’s muscles beneath so much fat, his arms and chest seemed to grow, proving the size of them.

Irfan tensed his own slim arms, struggling to help lift the untold hundreds of pounds of crocodile. But with both of their strength, Raghnall finally sat up, winded, and lurched back to his feet from there.

“Yes, the heat has taken a lot out of me as well.” Irfan offered Raghnall a small, interested smile.

Raghnall huffed hot, lard-tinted breath over him. The jackal was younger than most advisors, probably only in his twenties, like Raghnall himself. And while Raghnall usually preferred heftier men, the slender form of this jackal, kept so reserved and stiff, lit a fire in his gut.

Taking the opportunity, Raghnall stretched, showing off the true extent of his size, how his blubber rested on the mass of muscle beneath it. He utterly towered over the jackal, his whole form wider than Irfan multiple times over. The prince’s belly poured down in a pillowy, voluminous cascade, fully covering his equipment and making him nearly as thick in profile as straight-on. He rubbed his breast, drawing Irfan’s eye to a big, puffy nipple. “Let me just get my loincloth,” Raghnall said, stepping towards the warm rock on which he’d left it, conveniently right behind Irfan. The fat of his thigh jiggled with the impact of his footfall, and Raghnall’s generous hips swayed with his stride.

Irfan’s eyes darted for just a moment downward, towards Raghnall’s ass, and for the first time the Jackal moved quickly. He stepped around and in front of Raghnall, escaping his looming shadow and moving towards the palace itself. “I’ll see you in the throne room, Your Grandeur.”

Raghnall watched Irfan leave, his shapely rump visible in the fabric of his trousers. Not that the prince minded seeing the jackal’s ass, but what had gotten into the man? Was he afraid Raghnall might accidentally sit on him?

The prince chuckled.

He grunted as he wound the loincloth between the warmth of his thighs and around his massive, cushioned ass, having to heft his belly out of the way, struggling to maneuver the cloth around himself until he was again out of breath. Raghnall patted his own rump, unable to get the image of Irfan beneath it out of his head.

Maybe the jackal would actually be more agreeable squished under the prince’s weight.

Queen Seonag welcomed her people to an audience a few times every month. Usually, communities sent a representative if they needed funds for a major project: a new well, restoring the ruins of a bridge to start building in a new stretch of swamp, hiring sorcerers to clear out an old curse. Occasionally, someone would come with a problem big enough to justify royal authority, but for the most part Raghnall imagined that some lesser official could handle these issues.

At least, until he turned his imagination to more interesting things. He’d managed to put his frustrations with Irfan to the side, filling his mind instead with the shapes of those two peasant bulls. Thankfully, he didn’t need to worry about anyone noticing his excitement as he sat, belly overflowing from his lap. One of the many perks of his grandeur.

_ _

***

_ _

That evening, Raghnall walked the upper garden terraces of the palace, amidst fruit trees and the honeyed smell of flowers. He often spent time up here, feeling akin to the plants and the little birds that flitted amongst them. As the gardeners brought the trees fertile soil and clean water, the cooks brought him roasted pork, fried beef, and stewed chicken.

And as the trees had their shiny, pretty fruits, he had shiny, beautiful scales. And so very much to cover with them. He took a bite from the leg of a juicy turkey he’d otherwise scarfed down during dinner, and felt the melted fat roll across his snout. He licked his chops and glanced down at his body, acres of soft, pillowy flesh barely contained by his loose himation. He was the largest crocodile in the city— the largest person in the city. What man wouldn’t want this royal beast on top of him?

Raghnall reached down beneath his robe, parting soft white fabric. His hand struggled to fit under the tremendous heft of his belly, arm restrained by the squeezing of its fat against his breast, but he finally managed to loosen his belt and lay his hand between his legs. He rubbed at the front of his loincloth and bellowed, his dick hard and eager against his fingers.

He’d bet that farmer Artair would love to get beneath him. Raghnall kept rubbing himself, smearing precum inside the cloth as his clawed toes curled in.

Raghnall tore off another strip of turkey and chewed, but he was still feeling hungry for something more, and his arm was getting tired. Stuffing his belly and rubbing his own dick wasn’t enough. Not tonight.

Perhaps… he ought to prove to Irfan just how much he could offer his people.