A dragonborn warrior finds himself captured by a tribe of kobolds who insist that he's their foretold king--and that his role is to accept their lavish pampering and feeding, regardless of his hesitations.

A little indulgent D&D thing I wrote. Contains force feeding, bondage, and weight gain. Thumbnail is image of a kobold miniature for D&D.

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“G-Graah!”

Graf struggled and thrashed as he tried to free himself, but the grasp of the kobolds was secure. Defeated, the dragonborn warrior was foisted high on their collective shoulders as they carried him gods-only-knew-where.

“Make way, make way!” declared a kobold at the head of the rabble. He seemed to be their leader; his spines were a tad taller, and silvery body paint festooned his otherwise dull scales. “We’ve a new king, we do!”

“King?!” The shock of the declaration made Graf cease his struggles momentarily, which the kobolds took to grasp him all the more securely. “I’m—I’m not—listen, you’re mistaken!”

“How humble he is!” one of the kobolds declared admiringly. Others chimed in: “How noble!” “How strong!” “Must keep him safe!” “Must keep him well!”

Graf tried raising one limb, but the kobolds’ hold was secure. They’d carried him through the clovered dale and under a thicket of branches. A yawning chasm in a low, well-hidden hillside spread before them; its shadow swallowed up Graf. The interior was warm and musty and smelled of kobolds. Their den, most likely.

“I’m dragonborn,” he insisted. “I know you lot venerate dragons, but I’m not actually one of them! We’re a different thing, I swear.”

“Such humility!” they fawned. “Such delight!” They carried him down a slick stone chute, never dropping him, and paraded him through the warren. The tunnels were low, so low that Graf near scratched against the roof as they carried him, and other kobolds emerged with a cheer as they passed. “New king!” “Such honor!”

“Y’know, you lot’re awfully insistent about not listening to your king,” Graf growled. They ignored him as always.

Finally, his captors passed him into the warren’s low, subterranean central chamber. This natural cavern was quite large, unlike the rest of the warren; it was a spacious hollow of water-smoothed stone with an invisible crevasse high above bedecking it in shafts of sunlight. Moss crawled along the walls; a burbling fountain in the back wall fed a slow-moving stream that coiled about the edges of the room before it swept to grace the rest of the chamber with its presence. There was, for lack of a better word, a throne in the center of the chamber, illuminated by the shaft of light. How it got here, Graf had no idea; it was far larger than kobold-kind, far larger even than himself. It was an ancient, handsome thing of carved dark oak with scratches and divots in the center which marked the site of where some other creature had sat in ages past.

The kobolds forced their captive into the chair and others were waiting to immediately clasp fine metal shackles about his wrists and ankles and even his tail. The shackles were connected with the oaken throne and though they permitted for a few inches of movement before going taut, it was clear that Graf couldn’t break them on his own. He tried to rise but the chair was bolted to the floor. He was stuck until they released him.

“You little pests!” he growled. “Let me go!” His voice bellowed and boomed across the chamber, the acoustics reverberating it back to deluge his ears. The kobolds were unaffected and parted reverently as their painted leader approached.

“It was foretold!” he said, raising his arms. “That our king would come before us and know not his own station.”

“Foretold!” they chanted back, their voices echoing across the stone. “Foretold!”

“Our new leader would bear the visage of a dragon yet walk in the shape of a man!” the lead kobold continued. “He would need our guidance to accept his new station.”

“Such a noble visage!” “Happy to guide!”

“Your king demands you free him at once,” Graf growled. The lead kobold merely shook his head.

“Ah, the mantle of the king sits heavy on his shoulders—and he knows not that even royalty is bound by its constraints and rules. He cannot forgo his duty. But worry not! His life is not one of danger and exertion, for what fools we would be to put our monarch in such a state.” He clapped his hands briskly. “He is to know a pampered life of safety and indulgence as the warren gives him all we have to provide! Let the pampering begin!”

As the kobolds dutifully scuttled away, Graf tugged fruitlessly at the shackles keeping him in his new ‘throne.’ Pampering? Indulgence? What did they intend, exactly? And besides…

“This chair’s a bit big for me,” he snorted, “don’t you think?”

The kobolds’ leader smiled as some of his followers draped a priestly robe over him. He folded his arms into his sleeves. “You’ll grow into it.” Graf cocked one brow at him. What did that mean?

He soon found out. Kobolds rushed in with treasures. Some were little more than refuse: rusted breastplates or large but unimpressive hunks of monster horn. But there were true treasures mixed in as well: small rubies and diamonds clattering against the stone, or dishes and tableware sized for giants made of brass or even gold. Graf cast an appraising eye at the haul. Now this was promising. When he escaped here he’d have to make sure to take some of this with him…

But the kobolds’ bounty was more than just goodies. They brought great platters of food: roast turkey and glistening grapes, pots of oatmeal and huge flagons of ale. They brought more food than even twenty of their ilk could have shoveled down. The aroma filled the chamber.

“Our king is here!” the priest said, raising his arms. “We must celebrate with a great feast for him!”

“Great feast!” they chanted back. “Great feast!”

“We will bestow all we have on him!”

“All! All!”

Graf blanched. Wait, all? That was… a lot of food. “H-hold on,” he said, trying to rise from the chair. The manacles kept him in place.

“Let us begin the feasting!”

As the kobolds approached their enthroned captive, it was obvious that while the priest described the feasting as for all the group, only Graf would be partaking. “W-wait, hold on!” he declared. “I couldn’t possibly eat all thmmulllfffpp…”

His mouth grew sticky and inarticulate as a kobold tipped a jug and filled his maw with honey. Graf’s mouth brimmed full of the warm, sticky treat and his taste buds played a symphony of sweetness about his mouth. He swallowed some reflexively and tried to spit the rest out, though he was hampered by the honey’s stickiness.

“Our king is unused to a life of plenty,” the priest observed sadly. “We shall have to help him accept it all!”

At his command a kobold scrambled up the side of the outsized chair and pinched the bridge of Graf’s snout, cutting off his air. The dragonborn’s eyes widened and he thrashed in the chair, desperately swallowing the honey in his mouth and gasping for air once his mouth was clear. The kobold withdrew his hand as another approached, bearing a jug brimming with even more honey, and then another kobold climbed up the back of the wooden throne and yanked back the horns on Graf’s ridges like handlebars, forcing his head back. As the kobolds poured the flagon in, he reflected that they could pinch his nose again, so he didn’t bother trying to spit it out this time. Humiliated, his throat worked as they worked dollop after dollop of the oversweet treat into his gullet. When the flagon was almost empty they even scraped the sides with a spatula to ensure none was missed. When they retreated, Graf swallowed and grimaced as a heavy feeling grew in his stomach. Gods, how much had they forced into him? A full gallon at least…?

The kobold holding his head back let go and he slumped forward. The priest nodded sagely, pleased with their new king’s acceptance. “Continue feeding him!” he declared. “Let him embrace his new life of plenty!” The kobolds scurried forward, each bearing an extravagant flask or platter of food, and Graf realized that the honey was only the beginning.

They didn’t hold back. Great heaps of food were stuffed into him. A kobold sat on his shoulder with a bushel of grapes, plucking them off one at a time and throwing them in between mouthfuls of other meals. Another scrambled up with a big pot of steaming mashed potatoes, scooping them out with a generous ladle and dolloping them in. Another kobold tore chunks from the roast turkey and pushed them into Graf’s mouth, where he scarcely had time to chew before swallowing it down.

By gods, there was so much! He’d enjoy a hearty meat pie and a flagon or two of ale at a village tavern, but this amount of food was beyond compare. His jaw worked overtime, as did his throat; the sound of his own gulps echoed around the chamber and came back to his ears. And there was just so much food. When the potatoes were gone, they were replaced by thick buttered slices of dark brown bread. When the turkey was picked clean, along came hefty servings of thick, creamy porridge. He barely had a moment’s rest. In between mouthfuls more grapes were thrown in, and the moment one bunch was clear, another found its way into the kobold’s hands. Others poured in generous servings of alcohol: rich dark stout, aromatic wine, even fizzy cider. All the food mingled together in his stomach, which quickly began to ache and strain from the number of servings they’d poured into him.

After what seemed an eternity—and what had to be enough food to fill the bellies of a full party of adventurers—the kobolds finally abated. Graf slumped forward in the chair, caught by the metal bindings, and whimpered as he felt his bulging gut straining against his clothes. He was so tightly constrained—and then there was a tearing sound…

The kobolds cheered as Graf’s overburdened stomach managed to snap away his trouser buttons and his belt clasp. The relief from the pressure was immense, but the strain of his stomach was still present; he breathed carefully in and out, taking long, deep breaths with his mouth, as kobolds eagerly rubbed his swollen, taut marble of a stomach.

“An excellent beginning!” the priest declared. “We should be proud. Our tribe has clearly demonstrated just how much plenty our new king can look forward to!”

“G-gods…” Graf wheezed. “I’m so… full…” He hiccupped suddenly and was aware that the room seemed to be lazily spinning around him. All that alcohol was coming on fast, it seemed. “I… I don’t…”

“He’s at a loss for words,” observed the priest. He walked forward and embraced Graf’s stomach with both claws, nuzzling it reverently. “As he should be! Long have we worshipped the spirits of harvest and plenty, and for ages, we’ve known that our spirits send us kings and queens to serve as vessels for these gifts. Such an honor has left him dumbstruck!”

“Shall we feed him more?” one of the kobolds said, holding aloft a platter of cheeses. “We have so much more to give.

More? Graf whimpered involuntarily. If he had any more, he thought he’d burst…

“Not yet,” the priest said, shaking his head, and Graf almost wept with relief. “We must work his way up there lest we shatter his very form. For now, the feast is done—but there are other ways to pamper, are there not?”

Spurred into action, the tribe of kobolds followed his instructions to the letter. They swarmed over their captive king and their soft, dexterous paws nimbly touched his body. They began massaging him; kneading against his hips and pushing against his knotted shoulders. Graf hissed from soreness as his muscles released tension he hadn’t known he had.

“Such a hard life he’s lived!” one kobold declared. “His body is corded and rough with muscle and bone. This is to be fixed.”

Graf had never really been one for massages, but he had to admit, the sensation of their gentle touch was pleasant. His body felt weak from the feeding session, as if he’d run a marathon, and the massages were helping him to relax. He grunted as two kobolds busied themselves around his footpaws, expertly kneading the soreness out of him. He hiccupped again. The alcohol was coming on strong… the room spun lazily, and his body felt tired from his ordeal.

“That’s right, my king,” the priest said, smiling. “Just relax. We’re here for you. Sleep…”

And despite himself, Graf did just that.

---

Graf woke still in the chair, still manacled, and yanking at the metal told him that it would be just as fruitless to try to escape today as it had been yesterday. Glancing down at his body, he noticed that the kobolds had undressed him from his ruined adventure gear as he’d slept. Now he was done up in a fashion like their own: a ‘skirt’ of long fronds that preserved his dignity, an upper mantle of leather that fell to his mid chest, plus jewelry that had been draped over his neck and wrists. Intricate, foreign marks were painted on his body.

His stomach no longer ached, but he still looked notably plump. His manacles allowing just enough slack to poke himself, he grimaced as his finger found a fair bit of chub. It would take some exercising and careful dieting to bring back his figure once he escaped from here…

“And how is our new king?”

The kobold priest strove to meet him. Graf immediately found himself in a sour mood. “You’ll release me,” he said, “or regret it.”

“I should think not,” the priest said, uncowed. “You are our new king and we shan’t let you run from your duties.”

“Duties?” The dragonborn barked joylessly. “I’m to be your ruler? Fine! Then I decree that you release me at once!”

The priest just shook his head. He pulled out a flask of wine. “Ah, I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that, Your Majesty. Our rulers don’t actually rule. That burdensome task is not for them. They exist only to accept our pampering and to serve as living icons of harvest and plenty.”

The kobold pushed the wine at him, but Graf moved his head aside. He tugged his wrist at his manacles. “Doesn’t sound like there’s a difference between being your king and your slave,” he snarled.

The kobold’s smile thinned. “Isn’t a king to serve his people? Though yes, I suppose that to us, our king and our slave is one the same thing.” He held the flagon again. “I had hoped you learned your lesson yesterday, Your Majesty. We can do worse than pinch your nose if needs be. One of your predecessors necessitated a funnel almost for her first month.”

The dragonborn’s mouth felt dry. Grudgingly, he opened his mouth and let the priest pour wine into him. The drink trickled down his throat and splashed into his stomach. It wasn’t even that much, but his stomach groaned nonetheless; in anticipation, perhaps, of what it had come to expect.

“Just… let me go,” Graf said. “I can pay good silver.”

“We don’t need silver,” the kobold said, shaking the last few droplets of wine into his mouth. “We need a king.”

“I—I can help you find someone to be your new king. Someone eager.”

“You still don’t understand. You use your mouth to try and make demands and bargains, but all it exists for now is to accept what we provide. It’s time.” The kobold clapped his hand and more of his ilk entered into the chamber, bearing food on their shoulders: soft baked carrots, dollops of cream, great tubs of butter. There was more than there’d been yesterday.

His stomach twinged. Graf felt clammy. “P-please,” he said, but they ignored him. And it began anew.

“Ullp—ullp—ullp—”

Graf’s throat worked overtime as he desperately gulped down everything the kobolds had to offer him. They were serving him faster than yesterday; he didn’t have enough time to savor the meals, and he barely had enough time to chew. Every mouthful was followed by another and his throat began feeling sore from all the gulping.

He didn’t try to resist or spit anything out. They’d made it clear yesterday that they could force him to eat, and he didn’t think the priest’s implicit threat about a funnel was an empty one. But gods, his body immediately began protesting against the heavy meal he’d been given. Before long his stomach was aching as it filled back to full; it plumped out like he was a stuffed turkey, straining his skin and scales around him. They filled him as full as he’d been yesterday and didn’t even stop.

Graf whined through his nose as they kept on stuffing him. His throat worked as they poured a small cask of mead down into his mouth; he could feel it settling and sloshing in his stomach. They’d already given him a long loaf of bread; the bread was absorbing the liquid, swelling up in size and straining his already-tight stomach even further. No longer did he look like a warrior; he looked plump and overindulgent. As his great apron of a belly continued to grow, spilling into his lap, the world began reeling from the onslaught of alcohol—and, frankly, from how dizzy he felt from taking so much in.

Finally the priest called “enough” and they withdrew. They must’ve fed him twice as much as the day before. Graf’s whole body felt weak, as if he’d undergone a forced march; he’d been stuffed so full that he almost felt like passing out.

“Let’s make our new king comfortable,” the priest continued. As the kobolds approached the dragonborn and began pampering him and massaging him, one of them fanned him with an enormous leaf, and despite it all he fell asleep…

---

He woke feeling less pained, yet also strangely soft. Immediately, moving his arms and legs, Graf realized that the softness was not merely a sensation. He had become softer, putting on fluffy layers of fat on his limbs and around his waist and hips. Even his stomach, after he had digested yesterday’s impossibly large meal, had not fully retreated in size. Its new default state was a soft fluffy paunch that was quite unbecoming a warrior like him.

Or perhaps ex-warrior was more appropriate. Even if he escaped, he didn’t think he could so much as fight a fox in this state…

A kobold approached, placing a gem in the pile of treasures at his feet, and then hopped into his lap. Before Graf could try to appeal to the little creature, she pushed her paws up against his generous new flab. She sculpted and kneaded it with wonder, and Graf grunted. He had to admit, it didn’t feel unpleasant… in fact, it was highly enjoyable. He wished it wasn’t, but he couldn’t control it. He leaned back and reposed in his throne as another kobold approached and began giving him a foot massage. Though it had been a while since he’d taken to the road, his footpaws nevertheless appreciated the gesture, and he found his claws curling contentedly against the oaken throne’s armrests.

A small kobold scuttled forward, holding a plate of pomegranate seeds. “For you, Your Majesty?” he said, holding the platter. Graf gave a start, but there were no other kobolds around; it seemed this wasn’t to be a feeding session like the last two, then. Feeling that they’d just force him to eat regardless—and, if he was being honest with himself, he was rather impossibly feeling a little peckish—he nodded. The eager kobold scrambled up onto the throne and began feeding him the seeds one by one. Graf gulped them down without issue. This… this wasn’t so bad, was it? Another kobold had emerged and was fanning him indulgently. He rested and for a moment he forgot that he was even bound. This was quite luxurious.

“I see that His Majesty is enjoying himself!” the priest said, moving forward with his arms folded in his sleeves. “And oh my, he seems to have plumpened out already.” He chuckled. “I said you’d grow into that chair, didn’t I?”

Graf had to admit that he had. His generous, newly-plush rear was occupying it without issue.

“Today will be a slower, more indulgent day,” the priest said, motioning another kobold forward. He had a plate with several cubes of freshly-sliced watermelon, each one delicately de-seeded, and he began to feed the dragonborn. “Most will, in fact. We just needed to get you to how you should be.” He poked Graf’s paunch and while the dragonborn still resented the loss of his old, muscular figure, he had to admit, things could be worse. He chewed a delightfully aromatic, luscious cube of watermelon and swallowed it as another was readied. It could be far worse…

---

The king of the kobolds woke suddenly. He yawned and blinked. How long had he been down here in the warrens, again? He wasn’t certain. Months, at least…

The once-proud, sturdily built warrior was now unrecognizable as the plump entity that occupied the chamber. Graf had kept his original build, more or less, albeit with noticeable plushness at his face and limbs—but his stomach was another thing entirely. It jutted in front of him like a dragon’s hoard, enormous and packed with treats and festooned with a hearty layer of plush softness. It was so massive and so filled his vision that Graf could only see beyond it at the peripheries of his eyesight.

Graf was no longer manacled. There was no need; he’d long since accepted his new role as the kobolds’ monarch and the willing recipient of their gastronomic gifts. He had no interest in returning to his old life. Even if he had, he had been too heavy to move under his own power for at least a month now, and his form was too enormous to squeeze through the warren’s tight caves. His growing stomach had forced his legs back, and his arms rested lazily on it. He hadn’t moved them in quite a while.

He'd been self-conscious about his growing girth, but now he adored it. The kobolds lavished him with praise and adulation, and many had taken to using their king’s soft paunchy belly as a living bed that was softer than any mattress. Even now, there were at least a half-dozen curled atop his great globe of a tummy, which rose and fell gently with his breaths. Graf’s footpaws were carefully kneaded by one of his attendants, and another was cutting up a moist, fresh-backed chocolate cake to serve to him. The enormous dragonborn opened his mouth automatically to receive it, and he thwapped his tail once against the stone floor, a signal that he wished to be fanned. Another kobold eagerly ran up and began lazily fanning him with a great, broad leaf.

Perhaps the priest was off running the day-to-day affairs of the warren; and perhaps worries were concerning those adventurers in the world above. Graf had long since gotten over caring about such concerns. As his paws were massaged and his mouth filled with cake and the gentle breeze of a fan touched his scales, he breathed heavily, his enormous stomach cradling his caretakers that were dozing atop it.

As far as he was concerned, this was the life.