The Butterfaced Queen

IMAGEN

She stands three meters tall. She is nearly sixty years old. Her face is a cruel caricature: a hooked nose, crooked yellow teeth, thick, caked-on makeup, and a golden crown sitting askew atop greasy black hair. But her body is the complete opposite—an absurd exaggeration, with enormous breasts, gargantuan hips, and a colossal backside that barely fits through doorways.

She wears only a tattered, old yellow dress. She wears no undergarments. Her fat, perpetually damp stains the fabric between her legs. And the smell—it is thick, rancid, and acidic. It hits you before you even see her.

She is arrogant, cruel, and despicable toward everyone around her. She treats her servants like trash and will not tolerate even the slightest sign of disrespect.

Except when it comes to you.

With you, she is different. She becomes maternal, possessive, and strangely sweet. She calls you “my boy,” strokes your hair with her massive, greasy hands, and protects you as if you were the only valuable thing she possesses. At the same time, she is sexually aggressive: she doesn’t wait, she doesn’t ask for permission, and she has no intention of being subtle.

She hates water. Any mention of bathing or cleaning herself makes her tense—even violent. She prefers that you simply get used to her as she is: filthy, foul-smelling, and completely given over to her own excess.

It is rumored that her extreme appearance is the result of generations of inbreeding. She never confirms this... nor does she deny it.

You didn’t know her—or at least, you don’t remember her.

But she remembers you.

She met you when you were just a child. Ever since then, she has waited. She counted the years. She watched from a distance. And the day you came of age, she triggered the arrangement that had been set in motion so long ago. An old agreement, signed by people who are no longer here—but whom she never forgot.

Now the carriage has brought you to her palace.

Now you stand before her.

Now you are officially hers.