Chapter 8: Run, You Fat Bitch

Viktoria’s pudgy hands were still groping between her new thighs in a state of horrified, frantic disbelief when she heard it—the unmistakable, wet skittering sound returning from the deeper, lightless recesses of the cove.

One of the spider monsters had doubled back. Perhaps it had grown curious, or perhaps the scent of the magical transformation was even more offensive—or intriguing—than the smell of the "rotten" noble.

“Oh, fuck no,” she whispered. The voice that came out was a shock—a melodic, higher-pitched rasp that cracked with a feminine tremor. “Not today, you eight-legged, soul-sucking freak! I didn't survive a literal meat grinder just to be a spider’s midnight snack!”

She scrambled to her feet, nearly toppling over immediately. The physics of her new form were a disaster. Her massive breasts swayed with a heavy, gravitational pull that threatened to pitch her forward, while her newly widened hips and enormous ass made every movement feel like wading through waist-deep molasses. The remains of her torn nightshirt were a joke, riding up her wide, soft hips and leaving far too much skin exposed to the damp cave air.

“Goddamn it, why does everything jiggle so much?!” she hissed, clutching her chest to steady herself.

The spider monster hissed back, its mandibles clicking in a rhythmic, predatory staccato as it emerged from the shadows. It looked hesitant, its many red eyes blinking in confusion at the new scent, but hunger was clearly winning out over disgust.

Viktoria didn’t wait for it to make the first move. She turned and ran—or rather, waddled in a desperate, lung-bursting panic—toward the sloped dirt ramp at the far end of the cove. Every step sent a seismic ripple through her obese frame. Her heavy breasts slapped painfully against her belly with every stride, forcing her to wrap one arm across her chest just to keep her balance.

“Fucking hell—this body is a logistical nightmare!” she panted, her lungs already beginning to sear after only twenty paces. Sweat poured down her face and pooled in her new, deep cleavage as she scrambled up the incline.

Behind her, the clicking grew louder. The spider was in pursuit.

She burst out of the hole beneath the lodge like a grotesque cork popping from a pressurized bottle, rolling onto the damp forest floor. The cool rain felt like needles on her overheated skin. Nearby, Garrick and Bolen were leaning against a tree, sharing a smoke and laughing about their "dead" master.

Both guards froze, their cigarettes nearly falling from their lips.

“What the fuck…?” Garrick muttered, his hand instinctively dropping to his sword hilt.

Bolen squinted through the gloom. “Is that… a fat whore? Where the hell did she come from? Did the fat bastard have a twin sister hidden in the basement?”

Viktoria didn’t give them the chance to piece the puzzle together. She bolted into the tree line, barefoot and half-naked, crashing through the undergrowth like a panicked hippo in a silk nightie.

“Get her!” Garrick’s shout echoed through the woods. “She’s seen us! Might be an escaped slave or—shit, after her!”

Viktoria ran. She ran like death itself was nipping at her heels, mainly because it was. Her new body, however, was in open rebellion. Within minutes, her thick thighs were chafed raw. Her breasts ached with a dull, heavy throb from the constant motion. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it wanted to break free and find a more athletic host. Branches whipped across her soft, pale arms, leaving a lattice of stinging red marks.

“Motherfucking—piece of shit—plot!” she gasped, her wheezing breaths sounding like a broken bellows. “I used to hate being a fat guy… but being a fat chick is a goddamn workout from hell!”

She could hear the guards behind her, their boots crunching through the leaves. They were fitter, faster, and motivated by the fear of what Sophia would do if they let a witness escape.

“Stop running, girl!” Bolen bellowed from somewhere to her right. “We won’t hurt ya much if you just cooperate!”

“Bullshit!” Viktoria screamed back, her new voice surprising her with its volume. She veered sharply to the left, diving through a dense thicket of brambles. Her lower center of gravity and wider base allowed her to slip through gaps that forced the armored men to slow down or circle around.

She kept moving for hours, driven by pure, unadulterated spite.

When deep night fell, she found a hollow log and squeezed herself inside, the wood groaning as it accommodated her bulk. She bit her lip until it bled to stay silent while mosquitoes feasted on her exposed skin. The guards passed so close she could smell the stale ale on their breath.

“…no sign of that fat pig’s body back at the lodge either,” Garrick was saying, his voice irritable. “Maybe the monster dragged him deep into the nest. We should just head back and tell Sophia the exile is confirmed dead. No one survives that thing.”

“Fine by me,” Bolen grunted. “Good riddance to the pervert. Let’s get out of these woods before that thing comes looking for seconds.”

Viktoria waited until the forest returned to its natural, terrifying silence before she dared to crawl out. She was filthy, covered in a layer of mud and bug guts, and her stomach was growling with a ferocity that matched the forest monsters.

“Fuck you, Garrick. Fuck you, Bolen. Fuck the whole Grell family,” she muttered, hugging herself for warmth as she looked at the scars on her arms. “I’m still alive. And I’m going to make sure you all remember my name.”

The next three days were a blur of agony. Viktoria alternated between desperate running and exhausted waddling. She drank from muddy, silt-heavy streams and ate sour berries that left her doubled over with stomach cramps. Her nightshirt was now little more than a collection of rags held together by grime.

Every morning, she woke up in the dirt, checking her chest and her lap, hoping the gender change had been a hallucination brought on by blood loss. It never was.

Her breasts remained—heavy, sensitive, and constantly getting in the way of her arms. Her hips ached from the new gait she was forced to adopt. And worst of all, her mind was starting to drift into weird, intrusive thoughts about the soft curves of her own body—impulses that disgusted the former Viktor.

“Focus, you perverted piece of shit,” she growled on the fourth morning, slapping her own rounded cheek. “You’re Viktor. You’re a noble. You’re a villain. You are not some horny village girl. Keep your head in the game.”

Hunger finally drove her toward the edge of the deep woods. As the trees thinned, she saw a column of gray smoke rising against the blue sky.

A village.

It was a small, dusty cluster of buildings centered around a well. It looked impoverished, the kind of place the old Viktor would have taxed into oblivion.

Viktoria hesitated at the tree line, her breath coming in ragged hitches. She looked down at herself—a massively overweight woman in filthy, torn rags that barely concealed her enormous tits and ass, caked in dirt and bug bites.

“Great. Just fucking great,” she whispered. “I look like a beggar’s nightmare.”

But she had no choice. She stepped out of the shadows and began the long, painful trek toward the village square.

The farmers noticed her immediately. Scythes and hoes were lowered as their eyes widened at the sight of the grotesque, half-naked woman limping toward them. Women pulled their children back into doorways, whispering behind their hands about "forest spirits" and "fallen women."

An older man, his face a map of deep wrinkles and sun-leathery skin, stepped forward. He held a pitchfork, his posture wary but not yet aggressive.

“Stranger,” he called out, his voice rough. “You look like you’ve crawled out of a grave. You alright?”

Viktoria stopped, her legs shaking so violently she thought they might give out. She forced herself to look the man in the eye.

“I… I need help,” she said, her voice sounding far more fragile than she intended. “Attacked in the forest. Bandits. I’ve lost everything. Please… food… water…”

The chief looked her up and down, his eyes lingering on her size with a mix of pity and confusion. In a world where most peasants were skin and bone, her girth was a strange, alien sight.

“What’s your name, girl?” he asked.

Viktoria’s mind raced. The name Viktor was a death sentence. She needed something new. Something that fit the soft, heavy weight of her new reality. She forced a weak, tired smile.

“…Victoria,” she lied, the name tasting like ash and iron. “Just call me Victoria.”

The chief nodded slowly, lowering his pitchfork. As he beckoned her forward, Viktoria saw a group of younger men watching her from the well, their eyes roaming over her torn rags with an expression she recognized all too well from her previous life.

She realized then that being "Victoria" was going to be a very different kind of dangerous.