A Line of Soft Princes - Ch. 7 - Luncheon (Patreon)

The next morning (or, rather, early afternoon), Bartem awoke to a stomach that was still sore, if less swollen. He also found himself alone in bed. He could hear the sounds of her bathing in the next room and was a little surprised she’d managed to get out of bed so early.

The previous night’s gluttony-induced haze had dissipated. Much of what he’d eaten still hadn’t fully digested, but he felt hungry anyway. Part of him was ready to be an indolent honeymooning prince and ring the bell for breakfast in bed, even getting so far as reaching for the cord that would ring the servants’ bell. But despite his out-of-character behavior the previous night, he was still Bartem. He hauled himself out of bed and tried to ignore how full he still was. His belly stretched forward, hard and jutting outward where it was usually soft. He slipped his feet into slippers and threw on a robe so that he was decent enough to make it back to his rooms.

The hallways were quiet, though he knew most of the wedding guests were packed into rooms all over the palace. He managed to get to his chambers without running into anyone and breathed a sigh of relief as he leaned against the closed door. It felt like an age since he’d been alone. He needed time to decompress and come to terms with who he was and all that was now expected of him.

It only followed that his way of thinking about all those new expectations would involve defying convention. He dressed himself in his riding clothes—long, high-waisted pants, a fitted shirt tucked into them, and a fine, fitted jacket over that—and moved to walk out to the stables, trying to ignore how his pants cut into his stomach and the strain on the jacket buttons. He was waylaid for a moment when he caught sight of himself in the mirror. He gasped quietly and turned, looking at himself from every direction. HIs stomach was far less swollen than it had been after the feast but he still looked huge. He had not had a chance to get a good look at himself the night before and was glad he hadn’t. Even after a full night’s digestion he was larger than he ever had been. His stomach looked like he’d swallowed a boulder. He was used to seeing a young man in the mirror who was soft around the middle but still looked athletic. Now, he looked like he was days from giving birth. “This is exactly why I’m going riding,” he said as he traced the curve of his stomach with his fingertips. He needed to reassure himself that he wasn’t going to become some portly prince who just sat around and looked pretty.

Even as he thought that, he did have to admit that he didn’t look bad with a belly like this. It certainly wasn’t something he wanted every day. Not long ago, he would’ve said this wasn’t something he wanted ever. But he recalled Evie’s hands smoothing over his stuffed tummy, the pleasure and pain, watching it bob and bounce as she rode him. Surely some occasional overindulgence, even to such an extreme, was worth it for that? He would need to be careful not to let “occasional” overindulgence become everyday, certainly, but it wasn’t as if he lacked self-control.

He pulled himself away from the mirror and left his rooms, working his way through the palace on his way to the stables. It was at this point that he did finally run into people. The first was a young man he’d met before, the son of some minor noble from the eastern edge of the country. Bartem couldn’t even remember the young man’s name, but was greeted like they were old friends. “Ah, Prince Bartem! Good to see Your Highness looking so well so early in the morning. Figured you’d still be enjoying the pleasures of the marriage bed.” The young man wiggled his brows suggestively. Bartem tried not to look annoyed.

“I wanted to get out for a ride this morning before it got too warm. Get some sunshine and fresh air, work off some of this.” He gave his stomach a solid pat.

“How odd!” the young man said. He himself was about Linden’s size, if not larger. His face said he had never considered that a man might work to maintain his weight. “Well, I’m sure I’ll see you at lunch after you’ve worked up an appetite.”

“Perhaps. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Bartem walked off, a little too fast, the globe of his gut jostling uncomfortably.

As he walked through the common areas of the palace, he felt eyes on him. The few courtiers who had managed to get up and dressed before noon after the previous night’s debauchery watched him curiously. He ignored the whispers. If there was one thing he had learned from Evie, it was that acting above reproach meant everyone usually assumed you were. He would let them have their gossip.

When he reached the stables, the groom seemed surprised he wanted his horse saddled, but hopped to immediately. Minutes later, Bartem was in the saddle and headed out, setting the horse at a canter. His back and stomach muscles protested, but he ignored it. Being out in the sunshine, smelling the grass and feeling the wind on his face was worth it. Once he was further out on the grounds, he nudged his mount into a gallop, whooping as the wind blew through his black hair. Any discomfort he felt was pushed to the back of his mind.

He headed toward the forest at the edge of the grounds, riding along a well-worn path. It wove through the trees, dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy. Everything smelled like dark brown earth and pleasantly moldering leaves. His mind felt clear, soothed of all its anxieties and concerns. He slowed and enjoyed the sounds and the view, admiring how well-kept everything was. At one point along the path, he came upon a ruin. It had been in fashion a century or so before to build fake ruins on one’s grounds, and this one had all the hallmarks of a purposefully built ruin. It was lovely, hidden away in a glade in the woods, overgrown with moss. Perfect for a summer picnic. He would have to speak with the staff about arranging one.

He turned back down the path, walking back to the grounds. He could feel the beginnings of a sunburn on his cheeks. He felt less full, and his muscles ached pleasantly. As he approached the palace again, he rode past what looked like a large garden party surrounding a long table. A large blue tent had been pitched above it to shade the party and a dozen or so people sat at tables beneath it, enjoying an early lunch. Bartem saw Evie among them, holding court. Everyone in attendance was around their age. The next generation of the nobility. He rode toward them, stopping once he drew close and dismounting.

“Bartem! What a pleasant surprise. I wondered where you’d gone.” Evie popped a round green grape into her mouth and chewed. “I just sent a servant to go looking for you and bring you out here.”

They all made small talk for a few moments. Evie introduced him to everyone in the party. They all had last names and titles he recognized immediately, and he had met a fair few of them before. He realized it was all couples, no single men or eligible bachelorettes to be found. And as he chatted, he realized the whole group was rather… openly intimate, and each a bit odd in their own way.

One couple, seated furthest from Evie at the opposite end of the table, had hardly noticed Bartem’s arrival and appeared to be in a world entirely their own. Evie introduced them as Lady and Lord Evanston. Lord Evanston, who was large enough that his belly covered most of his lap and hung low between his knees, was being fed by his pretty wife. She was balanced on one of his knees, tucked up under his belly apron. The thin top he had on was pushed up under his large breasts so she could fondle his belly as she hand-fed him, and she wasn’t at all shy about it. Here and there she whispered in his ear and his face would turn bright red as he struggled to keep his composure. and if Bartem wasn’t mistaken, his hips would rock slightly, discreetly taking full advantage of his hanging gut. How gloriously perverse.

Another couple, one Countess Abigail and her husband George, looked a bit more like Bartem and Evie size-wise. The man was more muscular than fat, with broad shoulders and the kind of build that made it clear he could lift many heavy things. He had a slightly rounded middle, but it was solid rather than soft. His wife stared at him with rapt attention, chin on her hands. Occasionally, her husband made some simple demand or other—passing a plate of something, or refilling his water glass. Nothing that would ordinarily be significant. But the way his wife responded made it clear there was something more going on. She was waiting to be commanded.

A third couple—both men, both going by the name Lord Ashton, and both fat enough that Linden and Emmett would die of jealousy, but not quite as large as Lord Evanston—were similarly focused on each other. They looked over at Bartem with mild curiosity after everyone introduced themselves, then went back to their own conversation.

The couple most actively talking with him, each one stunningly blond, had hungry looks in their eyes. The wife, Lady Driesen, was edging toward plumpness, and Lord Driesen was the largest person at the table, though Lord Evanston wasn’t far behind. Both Driesens looked like they wanted to swallow Bartem whole. He’d met couples like them before. They were the types who threw parties you needed passwords for, always had the best wine, and would either expect their third to do all the work or work together to fuck them within an inch of their life.

He glanced at Evie. She’d been watching him with a little smirk on her face. The sly little minx clearly knew exactly what he was thinking, and when her smile broadened a bit, he realized it was her way of telling him that she was like them—not just the blond couple, but everyone at the table. She had wanted him to be here, to see all this.

He couldn’t tell how to feel about it. On the one hand, it was exciting to know his wife was drawn to deviancy. He was no choirboy, and it brought him some comfort to know he wouldn’t have to hide things from his wife. On the other, it made him wonder what exactly she was interested in. Thus far their sex life had been hot but hadn’t strayed much from the basics.

After a short while, he bid his goodbyes, mind reeling. “I need to get the horse back to the stables and go clean up before I sit down and join you.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. We’re just about finished here anyway,” Evie said with a wave of her hand. “Go have a nice bath. I’ll be back in an hour or so. We have some other hosting duties today and I’ll need to get ready.”

He nodded and gave everyone one last wave before mounting his horse once more and heading back to the palace.

***

The next several days were a blur of introductions and luncheons and banquets and card games and garden parties and dinners on top of all that. Slowly, the palace emptied out once more. The last people to go were the Burrocks. Bartem had hardly spent any time with them since they’d arrived, but none of them seemed to mind. All his brothers were enjoying their glimpse of court life. At one point, during breakfast the morning his family was set to leave, Evie told Linden and Emmett, “You both must come to court! You haven’t gotten to visit the summer palaces yet, and they make my little palace seem like a backwater.” Both of them had seemed quite excited at the idea and immediately began discussing what they would wear.

Once his family was packed into their carriages, they were alone once more.

They would have a few months to themselves before the summer season began. Evie started it off with a bang, requesting that lunch be brought up to her rooms and demanding that they otherwise not be disturbed.

The newlyweds spent a happy few days lying in bed, resting and laughing and rutting like rabbits. On the fourth day of that (or maybe the fifth or sixth—Bartem had lost count), they received an invitation in the form of a black envelope with white script on the front addressed to “The Happy Couple.” Inside the envelope was a piece of thick black paper. “You are cordially invited to a meeting of A Most Discreet Society on the evening of Sunday the 19th. There will be a performance at 10 sharp. Wear your best and don’t be late.” It was signed simply, “A Friend.”

Evie’s eyes were alight as she read the invitation. “I adore these parties. I can’t even imagine what the Driesens will have in store for the performance.” She declined to give examples of past performances, or her predictions for what this one might be, no matter how much Bartem wheedled and begged. Instead, she ordered them lunch (or maybe it was dinner? Who knew anymore) and told him they would both have to be surprised.