Lady Imura

Written by artist: Fudgepops.

“Men… Tell me, am I not the most wondrous thing you’ve ever seen?”

There was a loud cheer of approval. She was.

“Am I not perfection made flesh?”

Again they agreed.

“Am I not the heavenly vessel of divine providence? The embodiment of heavenly will?”

She was, at least to them

“Am I not the biggest thing you’ve ever seen?”

Lady Imura, Shogun of the Daigo prefecture, was truly vast. She half lay propped in the rear of her heavily customized war wagon, parading in front of her troops. She wore thick, heavy armour with it’s overlapping plates covering her body like some great blood-red leviathan. A single plate covered her most valuable asset, more ornate and more reinforced than the helmet that encased her beautiful features, the mask separate so that she might address them. A huge curved bowl was strapped to the front of her, carved from ancient hardened camphor wood and coated in hammered bronze affixed over steel plates, protecting both her proudest, most valued and most vulnerable asset.

Her belly.

Lady Imura was more than a Shogun to the people, her samurai and the serfs they commanded in her stead. She was a Goddess; a living, breathing fragment of the immortal and the heavens themselves. It was said she had swallowed a sun and looking at the immense bronze clad bloat of her girth it wasn’t hard to see why. Since installing herself as the defacto leader of this formally quiet corner of Kyushu Island she gobbled up huge areas of land and her army swelled to massive proportions, much as she had.

She stroked her thin, black-nailed fingers over the impregnable plate that surmounted her tummy. Her bodyguards would gladly die for her, believing as they did in her Godhood, but she herself knew her limits. As her body ballooned to an ever more outrageous scale, she became more and more vulnerable, and the task of maintaining her armour for battle became more and more important.

This task she entrusted to the lowly Minato.


There was duty, and then there was obligation.

It was Minato’s obligation to care for the Shogun’s armour; a task she took very seriously indeed. The wood of the scales was always freshly lacquered prior to battle, the bindings oiled, the clasps brushed and polished.

She dipped a rag into a tub of beige wax, and withdrew a great glob, viscous goo adhering to her fingers, staining her hands. The nauseating smell of the wax no longer bothered her. She dolloped it into the centre of the bowl, the wooden curve that clung protectively to the Shogun’s paper-thin tummy skin.

Minato had watched, for many years now, as the Shogun grew. Imura had always been plump. When she first ascended the throne of the of Daigo she had had more than an ample midriff, her belly bulging then in a fashion that belied her status as a warrior. A warrior, however, she was not. Imura was a tactician, a strategist, a manipulator without compare. As her army ballooned, so too had she. The tithe she collected from her people went straight to her waistline, food enough to feed a family for a week was provided for her at every meal, and she was famed for never leaving a scrap on the table.

She grew, bigger and fatter and rounder every day, as she did so her ambition did too. But as her fame grew, her enemies grew bolder. Assassins sought to curtail the rapid expansion of her prefecture, though each attempt to strike at her most rapid and dramatic of expansions was met with failure.

Minato polished the wood, rubbing in tiny circles, working the wax into the wood, nourishing it, binding it together. The plate weighed half as much as she did, no sword or knife or dart could possibly hope to penetrate it. Whilst she wore it, Imura was invincible, and her army would march over the whole of Japan, bending it to her gluttonous will.


Lady Imura purred, feeling a shift within her great belly. Her lunch had been barely an hour ago, the immense mass of food she had consumed squeezed down inside her, compacted by Herculean abdominal muscles that kept the core of her vast gut at constant pressure. She reclined, resting her hands on the armoured plate. She longed to cradle her stomach in her hands, what little of it she could reach. Her belly had outgrown the rest of her body, hanging forward in a vast teardrop shape it was larger than she was, a monument to avarice on a megalomaniac scale. She would not be satisfied until her empire stretched from horizon to horizon, seemingly neither would she rest until her own stomach matched it in scale.

On the ridge before her, the archers of her opponents meagre army arrayed themselves, a scant handful of men. Who were they to stand against her awesome presence?

Her men bristled, clutching their weapons, ready to charge forth in the name of their Shogun. She waved a hand to stop them.

“No,” she smiled, patting the impregnable barrier over her gurgling, ballooned midriff, glutted to incredible scale. “Let them try. It amuses me when they fail.”

She grinned wider as she arched her back, puffing out her belly, swelling herself to her fullest extent as the arrows took flight.


There was duty, and there was obligation.

   Minato finished polishing. The wood gleamed, alive with an almost ethereal shine, so smooth that it begged to be touched, to be caressed. It would feel wonderful against her master’s stomach, strong and nourished by the wax, it would withstand any blow.

She held the shield upright and admired her work. Flawless. She allowed herself a moment of pride in it before she slipped the knife from her pocket and slit two of the bindings belts that would keep it in place over the Shogun’s tummy. Not all the way through, just enough to weaken them.

Her obligation was to polish and preserve the wood. Her duty was to her family, to the thousands uprooted and enslaved by the tyrant and to the land she loved.


“They wish to strike the holy stomach. Let them try! Their deaths will be all the more honourable for it.”

Lady Imura laughed her challenge to the heavens themselves.

“I have no fear, my tummy will endure. My armour is blessed by the Gods themselves. Nothing can harm my belly while I wear it.”

It was a familiar statement. Her men had seen swords shatter across the bloated circumference with barely a wince from its overstuffed owner. They had watched as shurikans and darts had been shrugged aside like falling leaves or the dapple of soft rain.

She placed her hands on the small of her back, above the wide heft of her meaty hips and fattened backside, presenting the full scale of her belly to the arrows, breathing in to inflate herself to her fullest and most impressive scale.

Her eyes widened as she heard a snap.

The great bronze plate, decorated by hand with holy motifs and calligraphic art, fell forward, the cut bindings snapping at once at the strain of containing her inhumanly massive abdomen. She gasped, her mouth forming a perfect O shape as she felt a sudden draft of cold air against the naked mountain of flesh that erupted forth. Her belly was quite bare, years of keeping it covered and protected had left the skin a pale, almost ghostly white. Here and there shined the ghosts of stretch marks, once red slashes that had littered the mighty girth as it grew and grew, it’s owner filling it beyond capacity for such an inordinate length of time.

The skin shivered and goose pimpled almost instantly, the soft mist of the early morning beading in the gurgling surface, dripping from its heaving flanks. Her navel formed a deep depression on the lower face of her gargantuan paunch, the skin around it bulging from the pressure of such continuous feasting to the point at which it formed a perfect black hole, bottomless as its owners appetite.

To the right of her navel was a tattoo; two stalks of bamboo stretched up from the waistband of her armoured trousers to just beneath her breasts, picked out in black against the pallid, snowy flesh. A memento of her youth, and in truth she had not seen it in a very long time.

“No… No, no, no…” she whimpered as the impregnable shield that had until recently kept her tummy out of harm’s way neatly rolled to a halt at her feet, leaving her belly wide open as the first arrow found its target.

There was a deep and resonant WHUMP as an arrow pierced Lady Imura’s belly, high on the left side of the holy tummy. It sunk several inches through the pampered, taut surface, burying it’s sharp tip deep in her midriff. Lady Imura let out a gasp of pain as she felt a lancing stab at the core of her bloated, proud stomach. Her belly shrank almost imperceptibly as she wailed in pain, the black arrow shaft protruding rudely from the ruined surface of the grandiose orb.

“What… What treachery is this!”

She wailed aloud, clutching her precious belly, crying out in anger and fear even as the other arrows found their mark.



More struck the immense target, stabbing through the paper-thin exterior to penetrate to the heart of her suddenly vulnerable stomach.

“Help me, my belly!”

Her wagon pulled back, another dozen feathered shafts striking the ground moments later with the same solid smacking sound as when they had pierced the Shogun’s colossal abdomen. She was ridden back from the front lines, stopping at a safe distance.

The Shogun’s hands clutched the wounded flanks of her stupendous belly, peering as best she could over the impressive curve of her bosom, her breasts obscuring only a small amount of the massive white orb the trembled before her.

She groaned, gritting her teeth as she shifted her bulk ever so slightly, feeling the pointed arrowheads buried deep within her fat stomach. “My tummy, my poor fat tummy.” She cooed, stroking the gargantuan girth. She gasped in wonder at the grand swell of her own body, awe struck in a moment of supreme vanity by her own immensity. “Look at how fat i’ve become…” She marvelled, eyes wide, staring at her tummy.

“Bring me their heads!” she roared to the crowd of soldiers that surrounded her wagon. “I didn’t spend all those years stuffing myself for a tiny arrow or two to ruin it! They’ll pay for this!”

But the men did not move. They just stared.

“What are you waiting for?” the Shogun bellowed, her voice echoing through the valley. “Kill them! Skin them alive, their families too!” Still, they did not move. Their eyes never left her belly.

The holy stomach shivered in the morning light, a mountain raised to the sky, Fuji-like. It shuddered, and a murmur of fear passed through them.

“What are you staring at! Do as I say… Now!” she dismissed them with a wave of her hand, but it was to no avail. They did not move.

But her tummy did.

The surface quivered, rippling slightly. It rose and fell steadily with each breath the massively fat woman took, but now it began to move on its own. Flutters and ripples were visible beneath the surface, the bamboo stalks seeming almost to sway by themselves as a particularly powerful motion brought forth a wince and gasp of complaint from the Shogun.

“What’s happening? Stop staring at my tummy… Fetch me a do-“


There was silence in the valley. Every man turned to stare at the bloated figure who clutched at her perforated belly with wide eyes and an ashen face.

“No… The Holy stomach, what’s happening to m-“


The sound returned, angrier, more insistent. 

“No… My precious fat belly…” she whimpered, clutching at the white flesh with her back-nailed fingers, “I can’t… I won’t…”

She could not bring herself to say that the part of her which still looked upon the wounded leviathan of her belly with pride and vain triumph at her own glutted enormity refused to even entertain the idea of what was undoubtedly beginning. The feathery trace of the old stretch marks that crisscrossed the surface of her planetary swell attested to the fact that her belly had only managed to attain such a colossal size by stretching her skin thinner and thinner and thinner still. Within her was a constant war between the pressure of containing the countless mountains of food she packed into her already overstuffed stomach and the scant elasticity of her already over-stretched tummy. No amount of lotion and preening could undo the damage she had already done to the wall of her abdomen, no amount of stunned disbelief could undo the process that had begun deep inside her. Puncturing the exterior of her tummy had upset the delicate balance within her. The skin could stretch no more and the pressure within her began to seek an outlet.

The surface of her tummy, just beneath her breasts, rose as if she had breathed in sharply and stayed that way. Imura moaned, she prodded this sudden bulge with a curious finger, quickly retracting her nail as a stabbing groan rang out, the skin of her tummy creaking like wood bent to its absolute limit.

“No, it can’t be… My stomach… I’m so fat, a little arrow can’t do much harm, look at the size of me, of my tummy!” she pleaded aloud, trying to convince the crowd of onlookers as well as herself somehow that she was absolutely fine. 

“I can’t burst!”

She cried out, sorrowful, afraid. She turned her head and, with wide and pleading eyes, reached out to the men crowding around her to help. They stepped back, though not one of them was a doctor it was plain to see the Shogun’s stomach was doomed.

She was going to pop like a great fat balloon.

She gritted her teeth and moaned, a****l-like, clutching her trembling stomach as if she were in labour.


Sounds echoed out from inside her like the death cry of some ocean monster. She panted heavily like a woman in labour as she struggled, holding on to her wounded tummy, the same bloated monstrosity that had even now doomed her.

“I can’t hold it, my tummy, I can’t hold it all inside me… I’m going to explode!”

She screamed in pain and fear, a sudden realization of a fact plain to all.

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