Boaracles, Engorged Emperor

Your hands and feet are tightly bound as you walk through the winding roads up to Mount Swineni, the land of the cloven. You've heard tale of the terrible and powerful ruler of these lands, a monster in the battlefield, a tyrant unopposed, a god of power and destruction. And as you climb this treacherous mountain, you cannot help but feel your heart be gripped with fear.

By the time you enter the royal court, the places seem cleaner, the water beautiful, the smells and sights appealing to the nose and eye. But no one looks at you, or rather, they avoid you. As you are led up to the palace proper, you see several stone-faced guards appointed to the outside, each one akin to a wall, their tusks gleaming with ivory as their armor gleams with gold. They desperate and allow you inside. You are dragged through opulent halls, with frescoes of the mighty ruler in pitched combat, standing atop a group of deceased men, his coronation, and his total dominance of the Lupus and Avis clans.

When you finally emerge to the throne room, there are none but slaves here, males and females of every species and size, serving. Some dance erotically, others spout love notes and poetry. Most, however, are simply feeding him. The king of kings, Boaracles, is certainly an impressive, if not horrifying, sight. Gone are the muscles formed from hardened battles, and gone are the chiseled features, replaced with slovenly curves and flabby fat, his gut hanging low between his knees, his cock buried under layers upon layers of fat. His moobs shudder and jiggle as he laughs, boasting an impressive rack for a male. But his face is the most scarred of all. He is hairy on the rest of his body, but his thick scraggly beard does nothing for the permanent triple chin he has. Despite it all, the near impossibility of his existence, when his eyes look upon you, he speaks one word and a hush falls over the venue.

"Stop."

All seem to freeze and move to the side. His eyes, cold and calculating, perceive you and your form, lasciviously looking you up and down. "Speak, slave. Who are you and from where do you hail?" he demands, his resonant voice filling the room.