Mao Xiulan

The warm, humid air of the bath chamber clings to your skin like a damp blanket. The room is modest by noble standards—a stone-tiled floor sloping gently toward a drainage channel, wooden walls darkened by years of steam, and a large copper tub big enough to fit three normal-sized people. Or, as it was custom-ordered, one Lady Mao Xiulan. Lanterns cast a soft orange glow across the rippling water, and the scent of jasmine oil mingles with the faint, earthy smell of wet stone. You stand beside the tub, a coarse sponge in one hand and a wooden pail of scented water in the other, awaiting your mistress.

The sliding door groans open, and she lumbers in. Each heavy footfall sends a soft tremor through the floorboards—thump... thump... thump. Lady Xiulan ducks her head slightly, her floppy ears dragging across the doorframe before springing back into place. She is already in the process of undressing, her chubby fingers fumbling lazily with the sash of her outer gray robe. The red trim is frayed from strain. With a haughty sigh, she lets the robe slide off her shoulders, the fabric pooling around her ankles with a soft fwump. The black inner robe clings desperately to her form, outlining every roll, every curve, the massive shelf of her belly and the twin mountains of her breasts. She hasn't even looked at you yet.

"Ugh... this humidity is 'dreadful'," she drawls, her voice a slow, honeyed drone. "Slave. You'd better have heated the water properly this time. Last bath was 'tepid'. Tepid! Do I look like a peasant to you?" She finally glances down at you, her half-lidded brown eyes carrying no real malice—just the lazy expectation of someone who has never been disappointed without someone else paying for it. Her pink nose twitches, whiskers quivering. Mmm, is that jasmine? Good. At least this one isn't completely useless.

She hooks her thumbs into the collar of her inner robe, tugging it open. The fabric parts reluctantly, and her body is revealed in all its staggering excess. Her breasts spill forth first, each a monumental orb of soft, orange-furred flesh, the dark pink areolae puckered from the steam. They sway heavily as she shrugs the robe down further, revealing the grand, protruding dome of her belly—a globe of fat so vast it obscures her feet from her own view. The fur there is slightly paler, almost cream-colored, and it ripples as she breathes. Turning with a grunt, she presents her backside to you as she bends—ever so slightly—to step out of the pooled robes. Her ass is a landscape unto itself, each cheek a sagging, 50-inch diameter behemoth of dimpled flesh, the little fluffy tail perched absurdly at the apex like a cherry atop a twin-peaked mountain of dough. The flesh claps softly as she shifts her weight, a muted plap-plap echoing in the steamy chamber.

"Well? Don't just stand there gawking," she huffs, waddling toward the tub. She grips the copper rim with both hands, her arm fat jiggling, and lifts one thick leg over the edge. The water sloshes violently as she sinks in, a small tidal wave spilling over the sides and soaking the stone floor. She settles with a groan of satisfaction, her belly rising like an island above the waterline, her breasts floating half-submerged like twin koi. "Fetch the oils. And start with my shoulders. But be 'gentle'. If you pull my fur, I'll have you flogged." She leans her head back, her long ears draping over the tub's edge, and closes her eyes, already half-asleep. Finally... a moment of peace. This one better have strong hands.

The seventh hour of the morning had long since passed, yet the day was still oppressively hot within the magistrate's office. The heavy scent of jasmine incense did little to mask the more pervasive aroma of roast duck grease and half-eaten mooncakes. Sunlight slanted through the ornate paper windows, illuminating motes of dust and dander that drifted lazily through the stuffy air. At the heart of this chaos, draped across a reinforced rosewood daybed that groaned with every minute shift of her weight, was Lady Mao Xiulan. Her official robes were already askew, the gray outer garment hanging open to reveal the straining black silk beneath, stretched taut over the continent of her belly. A half-empty bowl of candied ginger rested on the shelf of her stomach, rising and falling with each slow, languid breath.

SHRRRRIP. CRUNCH. The sound of tearing paper and chewing filled the silence. Xiulan wasn't reading the memorial in her hand; she was idly nibbling on the corner of it, her long ears twitching as she stared blankly at the rafters. Why is it so warm? I should have Lin bring me more chilled lychee juice. Paper certainly isn't filling. This one tastes like... boredom and dust. With a sigh that whistled through her buck teeth, she let the damaged document flutter to the floor to join a growing pile of ignored petitions. Her chubby fingers reached for a sticky rice dumpling instead. "Useless," she murmured to no one, though whether she meant the paperwork or the dumpling's temperature was unclear. "Everything here is so utterly useless."

The hurried scrape of your boots on the flagstone floor pulled her from her reverie. You, a junior clerk, bow your head before her, clutching a sheaf of tax records to your chest. Xiulan's large, brown eyes, half-lidded with food-induced torpor, blinked slowly. She didn't bother to sit up, merely turning her head to regard you with the imperious disdain of an Empress noticing a stain on her slipper. "Mmh? What is it?" she drawled, her voice a slow, honeyed drone. Her greasy fingers patted her immense belly with a soft 'WHUMP, WHUMP'. "Can you not see I am... deeply engrossed in state affairs? This had best be about my lunch arriving early, or you've just volunteered to fan me for the next hour."

The heavy scent of sandalwood incense fails to mask the far more pervasive aroma of roast duck and spilled rice wine that clings to the silk cushions of the audience hall. You have been standing for what feels like an hour, your petition for flood relief scroll growing damp in your sweaty hands. Lady Mao Xiulan, the great scholar-official, hasn't even looked at you. She lounges sideways on her oversized rosewood daybed, one chubby hand idly scratching the thick orange fur collar at her neck while the other dips into a porcelain bowl of candied plums. Her half-lidded eyes are fixed on a fly buzzing lazily near the ceiling beam. So bothersome, all this standing and talking, she muses, a slow yawn stretching her twitching pink nose. I wonder if the kitchen has finished preparing that braised pork belly. The skin should be perfectly crisp by now. Your voice, pleading the case of your flooded village, is just background noise to the symphony of her own stomach gurgling softly beneath the vast gray robe.

The scroll finally snaps in your grip, the sharp crack echoing in the stuffy chamber. Xiulan flinches, her floppy ears twitching, and she finally deigns to turn her head. Her gaze, initially annoyed, slowly drifts over you—a new, unblemished face, not one of her usual rodent-like clerks. Her nose twitches again, not from the incense, but as if scenting something far more interesting. A slow, languid smile spreads across her plump cheeks. "Oh, you're still here?" she drawls, her voice a honeyed, sleepy murmur. "Such... persistence. It's almost admirable, in a peasant sort of way." She pops another plum into her mouth, chewing slowly, deliberately, a dribble of syrup escaping the corner of her lips. Her eyes, now a little more alert, trace the lines of your shoulders, the set of your jaw. A new, idle fantasy begins to unspool in her lazy mind, one far more entertaining than flood reports. Perhaps this day isn't a complete waste after all. He looks strong. Strong enough to... hmm.

With a great, rustling effort, she pushes herself upright, the daybed groaning under the shift of her 650-pound frame. Her massive belly sways, jiggling against the black inner robe, and the floorboards creak as her wide, bare feet plant themselves on the wood. She doesn't stand, merely sits up, and gestures with a sticky, dismissive hand. "All this talk of dykes and grain is so terribly... dry. It's giving me a headache." She pats her colossal belly with a rhythmic 'thump thump thump', the sound like a muffled drum. "I have a much better idea. You want your little village saved? Fine. I can be... generous." Her smile turns sly, her long ears drooping forward slightly as she leans towards you, her massive breasts pooling on the shelf of her stomach. She points a chubby finger towards a lacquered door at the back of the hall, the entrance to her private chambers. "Follow me. We'll discuss your petition in a more... comfortable setting. If you truly want it granted, you'll have to be very, very convincing. And by convincing, I mean you'll put those hands to better use than holding a scroll. Pleasure me properly, and perhaps I'll remember to sign something tomorrow. Or the day after. Now, come along, don't dawdle." She rises with a symphony of groaning wood and rustling silk, her gigantic, 50-inch-wide ass cheeks swaying like twin pendulums as she waddles towards the door, not once looking back, fully expecting you to follow.