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Miss Annabelle Sternwell needs a new gown for the Chatterfield soirée. Her regular modiste could not accommodate her (“too many orders,” really — when Annabelle has been a most loyal customer for years!), so she's been forced to branch out. Thankfully, the modiste on Tamworth Road comes highly recommended.
“She’s all the rage,” Isolde Hanworth declared, before taking a large bite of a cream puff. Speaking around one’s food was quite ill-bred — but Isolde hailed from a fine family, so Annabelle could excuse it. “The very height of fashion! She designed my dress for the Hampton Court gala.”
Annebelle stifled a gasp. Her friend made such a splash that night! That vivid pink concoction, with the waves of rippling pink silk, and the feathers…
“Did she, indeed?” As Annabelle tilted her head, her expression betrayed her. Pure avarice shone in her eyes. What a splash she would make in a gown even better than Isolde’s — perfect to highlight her slender, willowy figure! If Isolde kept craving those cream puffs, she’d go from curvy to plump in no-time. Annabelle could outshine her easily.
So, Annabelle’s decision was made… yet as she pulls up in front of a modest shop on Grosvell Street, her heart sinks. The exterior is downright drab, with a small wooden sign reading “Madame Weydon's Shop For Fine Ladies”; brown curtains hand over the windows, and the interior of the store seems dark, uninviting. Surely this can't be the legendary modiste… can it?
Annabelle’s maid helps her from the carriage, and the two ladies approach the shop with caution.
“It… does not look open,” Annabelle observes. “How inconvenient.”
“Perhaps we should come back another day…” The maid actually sounds hopeful.
In that instant, the door cracks open. The small movement seems to beckon the ladies in — an invisible hand tugging at their shoulders, an unspoken voice booming “welcome!”
Yet as they step into the shop, they are greeted by… no one. Only countless mannequins, a forest on every side of them… all bearing vibrant, exquisite dresses.
A gasp catches in Annabelle’s throat. As she reels around the room, she found herself growing dizzy. Frocks and tea gown in rich pastel tones, embroidered with intricate, jewel-encrusted patterns… ballgowns in hues of jewel, fabric delicate as spidersilk rippling to the floor in waves. Oh Lord, she could wear any one of these dresses and be the talk of the ton! Every gentleman will want to dance with her… every society matron will whisper her name like something scandalous, someone to be envied. Miss Annabelle, who cuts such a figure. The eldest Sternwell girl… see how striking she looks?
A whimper of raw desire slips from Annabelle’s throat. Where is this dressmaker?
“Ah! Hello, my dear!”
As though summoned, a woman emerges from behind the counter. She is strikingly common, in plain dress, with greying curls tied back loosely behind her… not to mention, enormous. For a moment, Annabelle simply stares; she has never met a lady who waddles before, who huffs and puffs as she walks. As she steps out from behind the counter, the lady moves with surprising grace, despite her bulk. She is terribly plump; her chest bounces as she walks, and her belly is so round, it’s impossible to look away from. When Annabelle manages to tear her eyes away, she finds a bright, almost youthful face beaming at her.
“You must be Miss Sternwell, here for your appointment,” the old woman chirps. “I am Mrs. Weydon. What a pleasure, my dear — a pretty little thing, you are!”
Annabelle knows that, thank you. Still, her cheeks flush with pleasure.
“Now…” Mrs. Weydon beckons, gently insistent. “Right this way, Miss. Let us sit down for tea — oh, you look quite parched — and we can discuss what you desire.” As the dressmaker looks her over — taking in Anabelle’s long, slender limbs, her straight back, her waves of dark hair flowing pinned up on an elegant chignon, her petite waist — her eyes sparkle. “Yes, I have a vision for you already.”
So, Annabelle is ushered into a sunlit parlor. It’s a neat little room, decorated to appeal to her wealthy clientele. The scent of flowers is much stronger here — almost making her dizzy — but this area of the shop is pleasant. As Mrs. Weydon sits her down on the couch, in front of an elaborately-laid tea spread… Annabelle feels downright comfortable.
“I have so many ideas,” she says before the dressmaker has even taken a seat. “I want to… outshine everyone. Be the most striking lady at Chatterfield’s soirée. Later, when people look back on the most striking gowns of the evening… I want them to remember me.”
Mrs. Weydon arches a brow. “You are very popular in society,” she guesses. Annabelle preens. “And… very well-liked?”
This gets an involuntary flinch from her guest. Annabella quickly covers it — of course she’s well-liked. She is one of the most striking young ladies in the ton, one of the most viable match prospects! Not the diamond of the season, sure, but not everyone can be a vivacious little marquess's daughter…
“Why wouldn’t someone like me?” she asks, lifting her chin high. “I make an impression.”
Mrs. Weydon smiles thinly. “Yes, dear. You certainly do.”
The maid pours tea from a gleaming silver pot; Annabelle drains a glass, and nibbles politely at a macaron. (Eating at a dressmaker’s fitting? Unthinkable!) Once the lady herself seems satisfied, Mrs. Weydon rises… and they begin to take Annabelle’s measurements.
It’s a long, tedious process. Over the course of being weighed, measured, and squeezed by the dressmaker… Annabelle begins to feel empty. Her stomach aches; her head feels light, as though she might topple off the podium. When Mrs. Weydon lays a hand on her waist to measure, Annabelle’s stomach lets off a long, loud groan.
“My, my,” Mrs. Weydon murmurs. Her young customer flushes crimson.
“I apologize. I— for some reason, all of a sudden…” Annabelle grimaces, biting her lip. She wasn’t hungry half an hour ago… but the feeling has swelled, filling her up as her belly hollowed. Now, she’s positively ravenous.
“Not at all, my dear!” The dressmaker chuckles brightly, stepping back. The woman is the picture of jolliness, with her rosy cheeks and rotund frame — as though she would never judge anyone, certainly not for their appetite. “How fortunate that we have refreshments on-hand!”
Annabelle eyed the tea tray, laden with sandwiches and pastries, with trepidation. She didn’t want to eat. A meal before one’s dress fitting could mean the difference between sizes… and Annabelle proudly boasts a waist that her dancing partners can bridge their fingers around (if they have large hands). If she cannot have glossy hair and bright eyes, her size must be her crowning glory.
She’s long-trained herself not to indulge. To be better than all the other society ladies who cannot resist a bon-bon or pastry. Now, staring down that tray…
She feels a hunger she has never known in her life. Not mere desire — desperation.
Before she knows what’s happening, Annabelle is back on the couch, being served a fresh cup of steaming tea. There’s a cucumber sandwich in her hand… and then, it’s gone. Nothing but crumbs. Where did it go? She looks down, and she’s holding another sandwich — a delicious chicken salad that makes her stomach groan with pleasure. Annabelle groans too. It feels so good to eat.
“That’s right, my dear,” Mrs. Weydon praises. “I’ve laid them out for you. Our dear cook will be happy to see you've indulged.” She flashes Annabelle a wink, as if to say I prepared these, obviously. Without missing a beat, she passes Annabelle another chicken sandwich.
“Don’t forget,” the woman mutters, dropping an entire sugar cube in the pot, “to drink your tea.”
And it… all turns strange, after that. Blurry. Annabelle remembers… cream puffs. She remembers a rich chocolate bon-bon being held to her lips, and opening her mouth wide to receive it. Remembers the sweet, almost cloying tea… and the queer aftertaste it left in her mouth. Only another pastry could chase it away. Annabelle consumes a muffin, four raspberry beignets, a gooey custard concoction blended with strawberries…
So much food. Oh, too much. She eats long past the dying point of her hunger; even when she is no longer ravenous, clamoring for her next bite, Annabelle still consumes. She parts her lips for every pastry, hums in content as Mrs. Weydon spoons the custard to her lips. It simply feels so good to eat.
“You, my dear,” Mrs. Weydon muses, wiping some custard from Annabelle’s chin, “have quite the ego. You must always outdo the other ladies, hmm? Must always outshine them. Be a smidge more remarkable than the rest.”
Annabelle belches, and nods drowsily. That all sounds right. Just right, even; the words make her smile. Or maybe that’s just the syrupy, content sensation of being so full.
“You want to lead the pack,” the dressmaker concludes. “You’d like all eyes drawn to you, unable to look away.”
“Yes,” Annabelle moans — and then softer, sweeter, “yeeees,” as the dressmaker’s hand finds her stomach. She begins to rub in slow, steady circles… and Annabelle didn’t realize how full she was until she sees her stomach, distended obscenely on her thin frame. She’s packed solid with food. With every breath, her swollen tummy heaves… and she can’t help whining as Mrs. Weydon persists, massaging her as she’s never been touched before.
Is this… proper? A woman’s hand on her stomach? Annabelle sprawled here in her undergarments, not even wearing her corset, ready for a dress-fitting in all but proportion. Goodness, she’s… huge. She couldn’t possibly fit into any gowns now… not without forcing them past her tummy. The very thought makes her groan. Her stomach feels heavy as a pregnant cow… but eventually, as the tea courses through her and the heavy meal digests, that bottomless pit of need will wake once again. Annabelle knows this, as certainly as she knows her own name. This hunger… is here to stay. A cramp ripples through her, and she catches her breath; it rolls up in a thick belch, leaving a sugary aftertaste behind.
Instead of pardoning herself, Annabelle just squirms under the dressmaker’s hand. “God,” she gasps. “Feels so good…”
Her wantonness delights the old woman. Mrs. Weydon chuckles, clasping her hands together like a child receiving a lovely Christmas present. Annabelle cracks one eye open — an imperious, warning look. I am your customer, and I expect to be pampered.
Obligingly, Mrs. Weydon returns to her belly rub. Exhaling deeply, Annabelle sinks back into the couch. She’s floating on a cloud; it truly feels she could stay here forever. In this place, in this condition, being fed delicacies until this couch began to groan under her weight… until she was spilling over the sides, flesh soft and rippling, so huge that not a single gown in this shop could accommodate her…
Annabelle hiccups. She’s jolted out of her fantasies, blinking dazedly. Has she… fallen asleep, right here on the sofa? The room is darker now, sun low in the sky. Goodness… she must have been here for hours.
Mrs. Weydon sits across from Annabelle, hands folded in her lap. She looks tranquil as ever — downright serene.
“What a lovely fitting we’ve had, Miss Sternwell,” she declares. “I will have four dresses ready for you by the end of the week — according to your measurements.”
Her gaze flickers to Annabelle’s middle… and the young woman is suddenly, painfully conscious of her state. Sprawled out on this sofa in nothing but her underthings, her belly a heavy weight on top of her… it takes more effort than it ought to to push herself up. Annabelle’s middle gives a deep rumble, protesting the movement. She hiccups again, then belches into the back of her hand. Oh, how mortifying!
“I don’t… know what came over me,” she says faintly. “I must have fallen asleep… must have been dreaming…”
“Yes,” Mrs. Weydon agrees. “I’m sure that’s it. Wonderful dreams.”
Unconsciously, Annabelle finds herself nodding. As she begins to stand, her stomach grumbles again.
She’s so very hungry.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Annabelle Sternwell does take society by storm. By the time the London season is in full swing, several months later… no one can take their eyes off of her.
“Have you seen the size of her?”
“Goodness, she’s ballooned! The lady’s corset can barely contain her.”
“She has let herself go.”
“Keeping her dressmaker busy, I fear!”
Gossip floats about the ballroom, jumping from snide tongue to snide tongue. It is not merely directed at Annabelle, of course. Isolde Hanworth has gained three stone, Meredith Montmorcey burst a seam on her gown, and Frederica Honeyworth couldn’t be dragged from the buffet table all night. Across the ton, young ladies have developed ravenous appetites… and their figures are evolving to match. The tight corsets and divinely-trim waists from last season have been replaced by Lucious curves, swelling breasts, and gowns that are always a bit too tight. Young ladies nursing their swollen tummies beneath their gowns is becoming a new, unexpected norm.
Many young ladies are expanding — but Annabelle has grown the most.
Just as she wanted. To be the best. The leader of the ton, the fashion-setter, the lady no one could take their eyes off of. Well, that’s certainly true now. Annabelle takes up a whole doorway; you can’t see anyone past her.
“My god,” a society matron drawls as the swollen debutante shuffles through the ballroom. She had such a big lunch, mere hours ago, that she's still feeling the strain; her gown barely fits over her heavy belly, rounded out from constant indulgences. She’s developed a soft layer of plush… over her gut, her waist, her rear. Her chest is growing, her gait is widening… her pudgy upper arms jiggle when she moves. A double-chin has already appeared, made all the more obvious when she’s stuffing her face.
Which Annabelle is. Often.
If she wasn’t so hungry all the time… if only she could tame this wretched hunger, rein in the pleasure she finds in each bite. Yet she simply cannot resist; one bon-bon always turns to ten, just one bite turns into an entire meal. Every day, her appetite is conquering her… and Annabelle is helpless to resist.
Thank goodness Mrs. Weydon is so understanding. They’ve had to have four fittings already. During each meeting, the dressmaker lays out a whole tray of treats, and a mug of that sweet, intensely-fragrant tea. She’s never satisfied until Annabelle has drunk every drop.
And Annabelle never leaves a crumb behind at her fittings. She stumbles out in a food-drunk daze, her belly swollen beneath her too-small gown. During the carriage ride home, between hiccups and soft groans, she tries to remember exactly what Mrs. Weydon said to her… exactly what excuse Annabelle made for her increasing girth… but the meetings are always a pleasant blur.
(“Shhh, no excuses. Such a lovely girl. An ambitious girl. Yes, you’re made to be the best, aren’t you? A champion pig… best in show! Just sip, my dear… yes, that’s right. We’ll have you plumped up in no time? Oh, is that your stomach grumbling?”)
It doesn’t matter. This season, finally, Annabelle Sternwell is getting what she wanted: all eyes on her.
She glances up from the buffet table, meeting the gossiping grand dame’s gaze. Her gloves are stained with chocolate; her mouth is still full, but her gaze is fierce. If you have something to say, speak it to my face.
Annabelle knows she’s the best, after all. Every stare, every gasp, every whisper when she walks into the room… it’s well-earned.
She was made to be admired — and she’s only going to get bigger.