The Queen's Bottom

Author: Closet Fetishist
Written: December 22nd, 2025

Only a fortnight had passed since Jakub made the trek from the village below to Madam Bottom’s royal castle, perched atop the highest mountain in the region. The Queen had been carelessly and cruelly using Jakub as her lowly fart cushion ever since his arrival; it had become a constant, ritualized indulgence for her. Today, in her throne room, Madam Bottom sat upon poor Jakub’s face without remorse or reprieve, bathing him in her putrid gas, fueled to near-poisonous levels by a platter of rich cheeses and fresh milk. It had been at least ten minutes since Jakub had been granted any relief from the Queen’s backside emissions, but she was far too absorbed in her own pleasure to care in the slightest for her peasant slave.

His breath heaved as his body thrashed violently, squirming in futile, involuntary attempts to escape from beneath her. The Queen’s mighty weight rendered his struggles useless. He felt his eyes roll back as his body shook in mounting agony. One of Madam Bottom’s royal guards, standing close by with a hand uselessly pressed over his nose, finally dared to intervene. He tapped the Queen and ventured, “My Queen, perhaps the poor lad might be granted a moment of deliverance.”

Madam Bottom snapped at the guard with fury. “You will not address me again in such an insubordinate manner. Speak out of turn once more, and you will find yourself beneath my royal backside in his place.”

The guard recoiled at once and returned to his post, and Madam Bottom continued her merciless smothering of poor Jakub. Moments later, a pained gurgle escaped the submissive cushion as his body convulsed violently before falling utterly still.

The grand throne room falls into a deathly silence as Madam Bottom finally rises from her seat, revealing the lifeless body of Jakub beneath her. The slave's face is contorted in a grotesque mask of agony, his skin mottled purple and blue from oxygen deprivation. A noxious cloud of the Queen's toxic flatulence still hovers around his corpse, causing nearby servants to gag and turn away. Madam Bottom's voluptuous figure towers over the dead man, her green eyes showing not a flicker of remorse as she adjusts her elaborate gown with a casual flick of her wrist.

"Another weak one," she sighs with disappointment, her voice carrying across the marble hall. "They simply don't make peasants like they used to. This one barely lasted two weeks."

The guard who had dared to speak up earlier now stands trembling, his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, sweat beading on his forehead. The Queen's massive hips swing toward him as she steps away from the throne, the dead slave forgotten already. Her pale fingers reach out to grip the guard's chin, forcing his gaze to meet hers.

"You questioned my judgment, didn't you?" Madam Bottom hisses, her breath hot against his face. "Perhaps you'd like to volunteer as a replacement? I'm sure your lungs are much stronger than this pathetic creature's were."

The guard's face drains of all color as he stammers, "F-forgive me, Your Majesty. I spoke out of turn. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't," she purrs dangerously, releasing him with a shove that sends him stumbling backward. The Queen's attention immediately shifts as she claps her hands imperiously. "Margaret! Where is that useless woman? MARGARET!"

The Lady-in-Waiting scurries into the throne room, her eyes carefully avoiding the corpse still sprawled before the royal seat. Margaret's hands tremble as she curtsies deeply, the keys at her belt jingling with her nervous movements.

"Yes, Your Majesty?" she whispers, keeping her head bowed submissively.

Madam Bottom's full lips curl into a cruel smile as she returns to her throne, stepping over Jakub's body as if it were nothing more than a discarded garment. The massive cushion of her rear descends once more, this time onto the empty throne, though the dead slave's legs still protrude from beneath the royal seat.

"Send for my next throne slave immediately," the Queen commands, drumming her fingers impatiently on the armrest. "And make sure this one has stronger lungs. I've barely begun to enjoy my cheese platter, and all this inconvenience has quite ruined my appetite." She gestures dismissively at the servants. "Remove this garbage from my sight. And have the throne cleaned properly this time. The last one left such a mess when he expired."

Margaret nods frantically, backing away with another curtsy. "At once, Your Majesty. I believe we have a new peasant named Edmund who was just brought in this morning. Shall I prepare him for throne duty?"

"Yes, yes," Madam Bottom waves her hand impatiently, watching as two servants drag Jakub's corpse across the floor, leaving a trail of bodily fluids in their wake. "And tell the kitchen to send up more of that aged goat cheese. The particularly pungent kind. I want to see if this new slave can handle a real challenge." A wicked smile spreads across her face as she pats her stomach, which gurgles ominously. "I feel another digestive episode coming on. Let's hope this Edmund has more stamina than his predecessor."

The kitchen arrives first with a decorative platter of assorted aged goat cheeses, setting it down cautiously at the Queen’s side table, careful not to provoke her ire. The Queen eyes the platter devilishly as the kitchen staff retreat in respectful haste. Moments later, Edmund is ushered into the throne room by the Queen’s royal guards and brought directly before her throne. He immediately drops to his knees, prostrating himself in reverence before his ruler.

Madam Bottom's piercing green eyes gleam with sadistic delight as she watches Edmund prostrate himself before her throne. Her pale fingers reach out to pluck a particularly pungent piece of aged goat cheese from the platter, bringing it to her full lips and taking a deliberate bite. The sharp, tangy aroma fills the air as she chews slowly, savoring both the flavor and the fearful anticipation radiating from the kneeling peasant before her. Her voluptuous body settles deeper into her throne, the cushions groaning under her weight as her massive hips spread across the seat that still bears the faint impression of poor Jakub's final moments.

"Ah, fresh meat," she purrs, her voice dripping with cruel amusement. "Tell me, Edmund, do you know what happened to the last slave who served in your position? Of course you do. The whole kingdom knows by now." She takes another bite of cheese, her stomach already beginning to gurgle ominously from the rich dairy. "And yet here you are, crawling before me like a loyal dog. How... touching."

The Queen shifts her weight, and a small, deliberate hiss of gas escapes from beneath her gown—a preview of what's to come. The sound echoes through the marble throne room, and several servants near the walls visibly flinch. Madam Bottom's lips curl into a wicked smile as she watches Edmund's reaction, her green eyes never leaving his prostrate form.

"Rise, slave," she commands, her voice sharp and imperious. "Let me get a proper look at you. I want to see if those lungs of yours are strong enough to serve your Queen, or if you'll end up as another disappointing corpse dragged from beneath my royal posterior." She pops another piece of cheese into her mouth, the aged goat variety already working its terrible magic on her digestive system. "Come closer, Edmund. Don't be shy. Your Queen has such wonderful plans for you."

Her pale hand gestures to the space directly before her throne, where the marble floor has been hastily cleaned but still shows dark stains from Jakub's demise. The Queen's eyes dance with malicious anticipation as she waits for her new throne slave to approach his fate.

Edmund stands and hurriedly moves his scrawny body, his short frame guided precisely to the spot the Queen indicated. She scoffs in mild amusement, her gaze lingering with open disdain, clearly unimpressed by the physique of her newest butt slave.

Madam Bottom's green eyes rake over Edmund's diminutive form with undisguised disdain, her full lips curling into a sneer as she takes in his scrawny build and short stature. Her pale fingers drum against the armrest of her throne, each tap echoing through the silent hall like a death knell. The Queen's massive frame shifts in her seat, causing the throne to creak ominously as she leans forward, her voluptuous body casting a shadow over the trembling peasant before her.

"Good heavens," she drawls, her voice dripping with mockery as she gestures dismissively at Edmund's frame with a piece of aged goat cheese still clutched between her fingers. "They've sent me a twig. Look at you—barely any meat on those bones at all. Tell me, little man, do you even have lungs in that pathetic chest of yours, or did they forget to include those when they assembled you?"

The Queen pops the cheese into her mouth, chewing deliberately as her stomach releases a low, threatening gurgle that promises terrible things to come. Several courtiers exchange nervous glances. Madam Bottom's hand moves to her belly, patting it with obvious satisfaction as the rich dairy begins its digestive journey.

"Well, no matter," she continues, her voice taking on a darker, more predatory edge as she settles back into her throne, her generous hips spreading wider across the cushioned seat. "What you lack in stature, you'll make up for in obedience. Won't you, Edmund? Because unlike your predecessor, you're going to learn to hold your breath for as long as your Queen desires. You're going to learn that your comfort, your air, your very life—all of it belongs to me now."

A deliberate, wet-sounding fart escapes from beneath the Queen's gown—PPPBBBTTTT—the sound echoing obscenely through the marble hall. The noxious cloud that follows causes Edmund's eyes to water even from several feet away, the pungent combination of aged cheese and royal flatulence creating an almost visible miasma around the throne. Madam Bottom's expression doesn't change; if anything, her cruel smile deepens as she watches her new slave's reaction to just a preview of what awaits him.

"Now then," she purrs, reaching for another piece of cheese and bringing it to her lips, "let's discuss your duties. You will position yourself beneath my throne whenever I desire. You will serve as my cushion, my footstool, and most importantly, as the receptacle for whatever my royal body decides to expel. And you will do so gratefully, thanking your Queen for the privilege of suffocating beneath her magnificent posterior. Is that understood, little Edmund?"

Edmund's submissive eyes were fixed to the marble floor at the Queen's feet but he nods with resignation. This was not a question but a royal decree disguised as a thinly veiled courtesy.

Madam Bottom's cruel lips stretch into a satisfied smirk. Her pale fingers select another particularly pungent piece of aged goat cheese from the platter, bringing it slowly to her mouth as her green eyes bore into the trembling peasant before her. The silence that follows is thick with dread, broken only by the ominous gurgling of the Queen's stomach as the rich dairy begins to wreak havoc on her digestive system.

"Good boy," she purrs, her voice dripping with sadistic pleasure as she chews the cheese deliberately. "I'm so glad you understand your place in this world, little Edmund. You see, I've grown quite tired of slaves who require... convincing. Poor Jakub struggled so pathetically in his final moments—all that thrashing and gasping was terribly distracting from my meal." She gestures dismissively toward the dark stains where the previous slave had perished. "I do hope you'll show more composure when the time comes. It's so much more pleasant when my throne slaves accept their fate with dignity."

The Queen's massive form shifts in her throne, her voluptuous hips spreading wider as she settles into a more comfortable position. The movement causes her gown to rustle, and a small hiss of gas escapes—PFFFFFTTTT—the sound sharp and wet in the cavernous throne room. The noxious cloud that follows makes several nearby servants gag and step back, but Madam Bottom's expression remains one of cruel amusement as she watches Edmund's reaction to the preview of his impending torment.

She reaches for yet another piece of cheese and pops it into her mouth with deliberate slowness, "I want you to crawl forward, slave. Come closer to your Queen's throne. I want you to get intimately familiar with your new station in life." Her green eyes glitter with malicious anticipation as her stomach releases another threatening gurgle. "And while you're down there, I want you to thank me. Thank me for the privilege of serving beneath my magnificent posterior. Thank me for allowing you to breathe my royal essence. Go on, little Edmund. Let's hear that gratitude."

Her pale hand moves to pat her belly, which has begun to swell slightly from the rich cheese and milk, the combination already producing the toxic flatulence that had claimed Jakub's life mere minutes ago. The Queen's cruel smile deepens as she waits for her new throne slave to obey, her massive frame looming above him like an executioner's shadow.

Edmund drops back to his knees and crawls to a position just inches from the Queen’s throne, so close he can feel the heat radiating from her thick, milky-white legs. He keeps his head bowed as he speaks. “Thank you, my Queen. Thank you for the privilege of serving you in this most honorable way. Thank you for allowing me to receive your most abundant and powerful gift.”

The Queen shifts forward, bringing her butt closer to Edmund’s face, then unleashes a long, putrid fart-PRRRRRRRUUUBBBBBBBBBBTTTT!-with such force it blows his hair back and leaves him lightheaded as the gas overwhelms his senses. As he struggles to stifle a gag, Madam Bottom suddenly grabs his head and presses it firmly against her backside. She laughs deeply as Edmund writhes involuntarily, his resistance futile against her grip.

The throne room seems to hold its breath as Madam Bottom's cruel laughter echoes off the marble walls, her pale fingers maintaining their iron grip on Edmund's head as she presses his face deeper into the generous cushion of her posterior. The thin purple fabric of her royal gown does nothing to shield him from the overwhelming heat radiating from her flesh, nor from the noxious aftermath of her explosive flatulence that still clings to the air around them. Her green eyes dance with sadistic glee as she feels his futile struggles against her strength, his scrawny body no match for her commanding grip. The Queen's stomach gurgles ominously, promising even more potent releases to come.

"Oh, what beautiful words, little Edmund!" she coos mockingly, her voice dripping with false sweetness as she shifts her massive hips, grinding her backside more firmly against his trapped face. "Such gratitude! Such devotion! You've learned your place so much faster than poor Jakub did. He spent his first week whimpering and begging for mercy—so tiresome." Her grip tightens as she feels another pressure building deep in her bowels, the rich dairy and pungent cheese combining into a deadly cocktail. "But you, my dear little slave, you seem to understand that your Queen's comfort is all that matters. Your breath, your dignity, your very survival—all of it is secondary to my pleasure."

Without warning, another thunderous blast erupts from beneath her gown—BBBRRRRAAAPPPPTTTT—the sound wet and obscene as it reverberates directly against Edmund's trapped face. The force of it is even stronger than the last, the toxic fumes so concentrated that they seem to have physical weight. Madam Bottom's head tilts back in pure ecstasy, her long black hair cascading down her back as she releases a satisfied moan that would be almost sensual if not for the horrific context. Her pale fingers stroke through Edmund's hair almost tenderly, a grotesque parody of affection as she holds him prisoner against her flatulent posterior.

"Mmmmm, can you feel that, slave?" she purrs, her voice thick with cruel satisfaction as her stomach releases another threatening gurgle. "That's the power of your Queen flowing through you. Every breath you take—or don't take—belongs to me now. Every moment of suffering, every second of agony as my royal gas fills your pathetic lungs... it's all a gift from me to you." She finally releases her grip on his head, allowing him to pull back just enough to gasp for air, though the noxious cloud still surrounds them both. Her green eyes study his flushed, tear-streaked face with clinical interest, like a scientist observing an experiment.

The Queen reaches for another piece of aged goat cheese, bringing it to her lips as she watches Edmund struggle to recover. Her massive frame settles deeper into her throne, the cushions groaning under her weight as her voluptuous hips spread even wider. The movement causes another small rumble of gas to escape—PFFFTTT—and her cruel smile deepens as she sees him flinch at the sound. "My dear throne slave, I think it's time we properly initiated you into your new role. Margaret!" she calls out imperiously, not taking her eyes off Edmund's trembling form. "Have the servants remove the regular throne cushion. From now on, Edmund's face will be my permanent seat. I want to feel his nose pressed directly between my royal cheeks every time I sit. No more fabric barriers—just flesh against flesh, as nature intended."

Margaret scurries forward with seasoned efficiency, her movements quick and precise as she removes the ornate cushion from the Queen's throne. The heavy fabric is carried away by another servant, leaving only the cold, hard marble seat exposed. The throne room falls into an oppressive silence as all eyes turn to watch the spectacle about to unfold, though most servants avert their gazes quickly, knowing better than to stare too directly at their Queen's cruel entertainments. Madam Bottom's green eyes never leave Edmund's face, drinking in every micro-expression of horror that flickers across his features despite his best efforts to remain stoic. The sudden escalation terrifies him, especially given how overwhelming her gas already is with only a thin layer of fabric between them. But what choice does he truly have? She is the Queen, and he is nothing more than a peasant in her kingdom. Her pale lips curl into a predatory smile as she rises from her throne with deliberate slowness, her voluptuous body unfolding to its full, commanding six-foot height.

"Oh, I can see it in your eyes, little Edmund," she purrs, her voice dripping with sadistic amusement as she circles around him like a predator stalking wounded prey. "That delicious terror. That moment of realization when you understand just how thoroughly your life belongs to me now." Her fingers trail along his shoulder as she passes behind him, the touch almost gentle—a mockery of tenderness that makes the threat all the more sinister. "You're wondering if you'll survive this, aren't you? Wondering if your pathetic little lungs can endure what poor Jakub could not."

The Queen's stomach releases another ominous gurgle, the aged goat cheese churning violently in her digestive system and producing gases that promise to be even more lethal than what she's already unleashed. She reaches for yet another piece of cheese from the platter, popping it into her mouth with deliberate relish as she chews slowly, savoring both the sharp, tangy flavor and Edmund's mounting dread. Her massive hips sway as she completes her circle, coming to stand directly before her throne once more, her imposing figure casting a shadow over the kneeling peasant.

"Now then, slave," she commands, her voice taking on that sharp, imperious edge that brooks no disobedience, "position yourself on my throne. Lie on your back with your face pointing upward. I want your nose, your mouth, your entire pathetic face to serve as my cushion. And do be still—I despise squirming slaves who can't accept their Queen's weight with proper gratitude." She gestures impatiently at the now-bare marble seat, her green eyes glittering with malicious anticipation. "Hurry now. My royal posterior grows impatient, and this cheese is already working its magic on my digestive system. I can feel such wonderful pressure building inside me, just waiting to be released directly onto your unworthy face."

Her pale hand moves to pat her slightly swollen belly, which gurgles threateningly in response—a promise of the toxic torment about to be unleashed upon her newest throne slave.

Edmund gulps deeply, fearfully, as he moves forward. He takes a seat on the ground in front of the throne and leans his head back onto the heavy stone seat. The cold marble of the throne presses against the back of Edmund's skull as he watches the Queen's massive form loom above him, her pale flesh emerging from beneath the hiked-up purple gown like twin moons eclipsing his entire field of vision. The trembling peasant can see every dimple, every curve of her enormous posterior as she teases him with deliberate slowness, shaking her hips in a grotesque mockery of seduction. Her flesh jiggles with each movement, and Edmund can already smell the pungent combination of sweat and the lingering remnants of her previous flatulence clinging to her skin. The Queen's cruel laughter echoes through the throne room as she watches his face in the reflection of a nearby mirror, drinking in every expression of mounting horror that crosses his features.

"Look at you down there, little Edmund," she coos mockingly, her voice dripping with sadistic pleasure as she continues her torturously slow descent. "So small, so helpless, so perfectly positioned to receive your Queen's most generous gifts. Can you smell it already? That's the scent of your new life, slave. Every breath you take from this moment forward will be filtered through my royal ass." Her green eyes glitter with malicious delight as she watches his chest rise and fall with increasingly panicked breaths, his body instinctively trying to stockpile oxygen before the inevitable suffocation begins.

The descent continues with agonizing deliberation, inch by terrible inch, until finally the soft, warm flesh of Madam Bottom's enormous posterior makes contact with Edmund's upturned face. The sensation is overwhelming—the sheer weight of her massive frame pressing down on him, her voluptuous ass cheeks spreading to completely engulf his features. His nose slides between the deep canyon of her crack, the humid heat of her most intimate crevice enveloping him completely as her full weight settles onto the throne. The Queen releases a long, satisfied sigh as she adjusts her position, grinding her hips slightly to ensure Edmund's face is wedged as deeply as possible between her cheeks. The pressure is immense, crushing, his nose pressed firmly against the puckered rim of her asshole while his mouth and chin are smothered by the generous cushion of her buttocks.

"Mmmmmm, perfect," she purrs, her voice thick with cruel satisfaction as she reaches for another piece of aged goat cheese from the platter that Margaret has thoughtfully positioned within easy reach. "You make such a wonderful throne cushion, Edmund. So much softer than that old fabric, and so much more... responsive." She shifts her weight deliberately, grinding down harder and feeling his muffled struggles beneath her. Her stomach releases a deep, threatening gurgle that seems to reverberate directly through her body and into his trapped face, a promise of the toxic horrors about to be unleashed. "Now, let's see how well you can hold your breath, shall we? Because I'm feeling quite a lot of pressure building up, and I think it's time to properly christen my new throne slave with a royal gift he'll never forget."

The Queen's pale fingers bring the pungent cheese to her lips as her bowels begin to churn ominously, the rich dairy combining with the previous servings to create a deadly cocktail of flatulence. Her massive hips settle even more firmly onto Edmund's trapped face, ensuring there will be no escape from what's coming. The entire throne room holds its breath in anticipation, the servants and courtiers all too familiar with what follows when their Queen indulges in her favorite pastime. Madam Bottom's cruel smile deepens as she feels the first bubble of gas beginning its journey through her intestines, her body preparing to unleash hell directly onto the face of her newest victim.

The Queen's pale fingers grip the armrests of her throne as she feels the massive pressure building deep in her bowels, the aged goat cheese and rich milk combining into a volatile mixture that demands immediate release. Her green eyes roll back slightly in anticipatory pleasure as she leans deliberately onto her left cheek, lifting her right buttock just enough to angle her asshole directly against Edmund's trapped nose. The shift in position presses his face even deeper into the humid canyon of her ass crack, ensuring maximum contact between his nostrils and the puckered rim about to unleash hell upon him.

"Oh, here it comes, little slave," she announces with sadistic glee, her voice dripping with cruel excitement as her stomach releases one final, ominous gurgle. "Your Queen is about to bless you with her most generous gift. I do hope you're ready to receive it properly!"

Without any further warning, Madam Bottom's asshole dilates and explodes with devastating force—BBBRRRRAAAAAAAPPPPPPTTTTTTHHHHHHPPPPPP—the sound wet and obscene as it reverberates through the throne room like thunder. The blast of gas is so powerful that it rushes directly up Edmund's nostrils with the force of a battering ram, the pressure so intense that it feels like his sinuses might rupture from the assault. The Queen feels his entire body go rigid beneath her massive weight, his hands clenching into fists as every muscle in his frame contracts involuntarily from the pain and shock of the toxic invasion. She releases a long, satisfied moan that echoes through the chamber, her voluptuous hips grinding down harder to ensure not a single molecule of her royal flatulence escapes without first being filtered through her throne slave's pathetic face.

The smell hits Edmund's overwhelmed senses like a physical blow—the putrid stench of fermented dairy mixed with the rotting tang of aged cheese, all concentrated into a noxious cloud so thick it seems to have substance. The Queen's cruel laughter fills the air as she feels his muffled struggles intensify beneath her, his body's survival instincts screaming at him to escape even though his mind knows the futility of resistance. Her pale hand reaches for yet another piece of cheese, bringing it to her lips as she savors both the sharp flavor and the delicious suffering of her newest victim.

"Mmmmm, doesn't that smell divine, Edmund?" she purrs mockingly, her voice thick with sadistic pleasure as another smaller burst of gas escapes—PFFFTTTT—directly into his face. "That's the essence of your Queen, the very substance of my royal power flowing through your worthless lungs. Every breath you manage to steal will taste of my ass, every moment of consciousness will be filled with my magnificent stench." Her stomach gurgles again, promising even more potent releases to come as the cheese continues its terrible work on her digestive system. "And we've only just begun, my dear little throne slave. I have so many more gifts to share with you before this day is done."

The pathetic, muffled moan that escapes from beneath Madam Bottom's massive posterior sends a shiver of pure sadistic pleasure rippling through her voluptuous body. Her green eyes flutter with delight as she feels the vibration of Edmund's suffering transmitted directly through her ass cheeks, the sound of his agony muffled and distorted by the crushing weight of her flesh. The Queen's pale fingers tighten on the armrests of her throne as she grinds her hips in a slow, deliberate circle, ensuring that his face wedges even deeper into the humid canyon of her crack. She can feel his nose pressed firmly against her puckered asshole, trapped exactly where it belongs, with absolutely no hope of escape or relief from the toxic atmosphere she's created.

"Oh, what a delicious sound!" she cackles with cruel amusement, her voice echoing through the throne room as the assembled courtiers and servants avert their eyes from the degrading spectacle. "That's the sound of a peasant learning his proper place in my kingdom. Did you think you could turn away, little Edmund? Did you think your Queen would allow you even a moment's respite from her generosity?" She reaches for another chunk of aged goat cheese, the pungent dairy already working its dreadful power on her digestive system as her stomach releases another deep, threatening gurgle. "Your head is mine now, slave. Every breath, every thought, every desperate gasp for air—all of it belongs to the royal ass you're privileged to serve."

The Queen's bowels churn ominously as the fermented cheese combines with the rich milk, creating another massive pocket of gas that demands immediate release. Her massive hips shift slightly, adjusting her position to ensure maximum suffering for her trapped throne slave. The heat and humidity between her cheeks has already caused a sheen of sweat to form, making the air even more suffocating and unbearable. Madam Bottom's cruel smile deepens as she feels another powerful bubble of flatulence beginning its journey through her intestines, her body preparing to unleash yet another devastating blast directly onto Edmund's helpless face.

"I can feel another one coming, my dear little cushion," she purrs with sadistic anticipation, her voice dripping with malicious pleasure. "And I think this one might be even more potent than the last. The cheese is really working its magic now, churning and fermenting in my royal belly, creating such wonderful pressure that's just begging to be released onto your worthless face." Her pale hand pats her slightly swollen stomach affectionately as another gurgle rumbles through her frame. "Now be a good throne slave and accept your Queen's gift with proper gratitude. After all, you should feel honored that I'm choosing to share the very essence of my royal body with such an insignificant peasant!"

Edmund can feel his head becoming light, his tormented nostrils raw, but he didn't want to die like this under the Queen. He took a difficult, panicked breath through his mouth which was almost entirely squished between Madam Bottom's ass cheeks; it provided a semblance of relief from complete suffocation.

The desperate gasp for air through Edmund's mouth does not go unnoticed by the cruel Queen. She feels the subtle shift in pressure against her massive ass cheeks as his lips part and his jaw struggles to pull in oxygen through the narrow gaps between her suffocating flesh. The sensation sends another wave of sadistic pleasure coursing through Madam Bottom's body, her pale fingers drumming excitedly on the throne's armrests as she realizes just how close to asphyxiation she's pushed her newest toy. Her green eyes glitter with malicious delight as she watches the servants' horrified faces in the peripheral mirrors, their expressions of revulsion and fear only adding to her twisted enjoyment.

"Oh, you're trying to breathe through your mouth now, are you?" she taunts with cruel amusement, her voice dripping with mock sympathy as her stomach releases another threatening gurgle. "How pathetic! How wonderfully, deliciously desperate! But I'm afraid that won't save you, little Edmund. You see, when my next gift arrives, it won't matter which hole you're breathing through—my royal gas will find its way into your lungs regardless!"

The pressure in her bowels builds to an almost unbearable crescendo, the aged goat cheese having fermented into something truly monstrous within her digestive system. Her massive hips lift slightly before slamming back down with devastating force, crushing Edmund's face even deeper into the humid canyon of her ass crack. The puckered rim of her asshole presses directly against his raw, tormented nostrils as her entire body tenses with anticipation. Margaret and the other servants instinctively take several steps backward, their faces pale with dread as they recognize the telltale signs of what's about to come.

"HERE IT COMES, SLAVE!" Madam Bottom bellows triumphantly, her voice echoing through the throne room like a declaration of war. BBBRRRRRRAAAAAAAPPPPPPTTTTTTHHHHHHPPPPPPFFFFTTTTT— The explosion of gas is even more devastating than the first, a wet, rumbling blast that seems to go on forever. The toxic fumes rush not only up Edmund's nostrils but also seep around his desperately gasping mouth, invading every possible opening in his face with the concentrated stench of fermented dairy and rotting cheese. The Queen's asshole vibrates obscenely against his nose as the seemingly endless stream of flatulence pours forth, her entire body shuddering with the relief and pleasure of the release.

"OHHHHH, YESSSSS!" she moans ecstatically, grinding her hips in slow circles as the gas continues to flow. "That's it, little throne slave! Taste your Queen's power! Breathe it in deep—PPPPPFFFFFFFFFTTTTTT—every last molecule of my royal essence! This is your life now, Edmund. This is all you'll ever know from this moment forward!"

Edmund begins to shake; the violent convulsions of his body beneath her massive posterior send unexpected waves of pleasure coursing through Madam Bottom's voluptuous frame. Her green eyes widen with surprised delight as she feels his head vibrating desperately between her enormous ass cheeks, the frantic movements creating a delicious friction against her most intimate flesh. The sensation is so unexpectedly arousing that she instinctively grinds down harder, riding his dying spasms like some grotesque carnival attraction, her pale thighs trembling with perverse excitement. When a pained gurgle escapes from beneath her crushing weight and his body finally falls still and silent, a triumphant smirk spreads across her cruel features. She rises slowly from her throne, her massive hips swaying with satisfaction as she looks down at what she assumes is yet another corpse created by her royal flatulence.

"Another one bites the dust, as they say," she announces with cold satisfaction, her voice carrying the same casual indifference one might use when discussing the weather. "Margaret, have the servants remove this pathetic failure." The servants rush forward to collect Edmund's body, their hands gripping his limp arms and legs. One of the younger maids presses trembling fingers against his neck, her eyes widening in shock as she feels the faint but unmistakable pulse of life still thrumming beneath his skin.

"Your Majesty," the maid stammers, her voice barely above a whisper, "he... he's still alive. Just unconscious, it seems."

For a moment, genuine shock flashes across Madam Bottom's pale features, her green eyes narrowing with irritation that her deadly assault somehow failed to claim another victim. Her jaw clenches as she stares down at Edmund's unconscious form, a mixture of annoyance and wounded pride coloring her expression. But then, slowly, like dawn breaking over a twisted landscape, a new smile spreads across her cruel face—this one even more sinister than before. Her pale fingers drum thoughtfully against her hip as she regards her surprisingly resilient throne slave with renewed interest, her mind already spinning with deliciously wicked possibilities.

"Well, well, well," she purrs, her voice dripping with dark amusement as she circles Edmund's limp body like a predator examining wounded prey. "It seems this one has more stamina than poor Jakub did. How... interesting. How very, very useful." She gestures imperiously at the trembling servants, her commanding presence filling the throne room as her cruel smile deepens. "Take him to my royal bedchamber immediately. Strip him, bind him in my bed, and ensure he's positioned face-up. I want him ready and waiting when he regains consciousness." Her pale hand pats her still-gurgling stomach affectionately, the aged cheese continuing its terrible work within her digestive system. "After all, if this peasant can survive my throne, then I simply must test his limits further in more... intimate settings. A Queen deserves to thoroughly examine such an unexpectedly durable toy, don't you think?"

The servants exchange horrified glances but immediately move to obey, lifting Edmund's unconscious body with trembling hands as they begin the long journey toward the Queen's private chambers. Madam Bottom watches them go with predatory anticipation, her voluptuous hips swaying as she follows at a leisurely pace, already imagining all the creative ways she'll torment her surprisingly resilient new plaything once he awakens in her bed.

...

Edmund awakens in darkness with the all too familiar odor of the Queen's backside still pungent in his nostrils. He tries to move his head but he cannot, it's stuck completely somewhere with a soft padding all around him, touching every part of his body. The sensation of Edmund stirring beneath her massive weight sends a delicious thrill through Madam Bottom's half-sleeping form. Her green eyes flutter open in the darkness of her royal bedchamber, a cruel smile spreading across her pale features as she feels the unmistakable signs of consciousness returning to her permanently installed mattress slave. The soft padding that surrounds his body is actually the luxurious fabric of her custom-made mattress, into which his helpless form has been expertly stitched by her most skilled seamstresses—his head positioned precisely where her enormous posterior rests each night, ensuring that every moment of her slumber will be torture for him. She shifts her voluptuous hips slowly, deliberately rolling her massive ass off his face just enough to peer down at him in the dim candlelight, her expression one of sadistic satisfaction mixed with genuine pride.

"Oh, you're finally awake, are you?" she purrs with dark amusement, her voice thick with sleep but still carrying that commanding edge that demands absolute obedience. "Welcome to your new home, little Edmund. I do hope you're comfortable down there—after all, this is where you'll be spending every single night for the rest of your miserable existence." Her pale fingers trace lazy patterns across her swollen belly as an ominous gurgle rumbles through her digestive system, the aged cheese from earlier still working its terrible magic. "You see, after your impressive performance on my throne, I realized that killing you would be such a waste of potential. You survived what poor Jakub could not, and that resilience deserves to be properly... utilized."

The Queen's cruel smile deepens as she watches the horror dawn in Edmund's eyes, his head completely immobilized by the expert stitching that has fused him into the very fabric of her royal mattress. His entire body is cocooned in the soft padding, every inch of him pressed against the luxurious materials, but his face—his precious, tormented face—remains exposed and positioned exactly where her massive ass will rest for eight to ten hours every single night. She can see him trying desperately to move, to turn his head, to do anything to escape the fate she's designed for him, but the craftsmanship is flawless. He's as much a part of her bed now as the wooden frame or the silk sheets.

"You should feel honored, truly," she continues, her voice taking on a mockingly sincere tone as her green eyes glitter with malicious delight. "This is the highest privilege I can bestow upon a peasant—to become a permanent fixture in my most intimate space, to serve your Queen even as she sleeps. Every fart, every bit of gas that my royal body produces during the night, will be filtered directly through your worthless face. You'll breathe nothing but the essence of my power, hour after hour, night after night, for as long as you manage to survive." Her stomach releases another deep, threatening gurgle that seems to echo through the quiet bedchamber. BBBRRRRRUUUUMMMMBLE—"oh my, speaking of which..."

Without any further warning, Madam Bottom rolls her enormous posterior back onto Edmund's helpless face with devastating finality, her massive ass cheeks spreading to engulf his features completely. The puckered rim of her asshole presses directly against his nose as her body tenses with that familiar pressure, the toxic gases demanding immediate release. She releases a satisfied sigh as she settles into her sleeping position, her voluptuous hips grinding down to ensure maximum contact and zero possibility of escape. The blast comes almost immediately—BBBRRRRAAAAPPPPPTTTTHHHHHPPPPPPFFFTTTTT—a deep, putrid eruption that seems to go on forever, the concentrated stench of fermented dairy and rotting cheese flooding directly into Edmund's airways with nowhere for him to turn, nowhere to hide, no relief possible.

"Mmmmm, goodnight, my precious little mattress," she murmurs sleepily, her voice already fading as exhaustion claims her cruel consciousness. "Sweet dreams, Edmund. May you dream of nothing but your Queen's magnificent ass and the endless gifts it has to share with you..." Another smaller burst escapes—PPPFFFFTTTTT—as her body relaxes into sleep, her massive weight crushing down with the full force of her unconscious form, promising hours upon hours of suffocating, toxic torment for the permanently installed slave beneath her royal posterior.