View Full Version : Conference Pears - by Lardibutts (SSBBW (multiple), ~BHM, Explicit ~sex, ~XWG)
08-19-2008, 03:37 AM
SSBBW (multiple), ~BHM, Explicit ~sex, ~XWG - A fantasy hide-out behind the mirrors of an old established classic European 'Gran Caffe'
Sitting at one of the tables of Panciuto’s famous Café Braunzucker under the trees in the centre of the Corso Garibaldi, life could scarcely be more perfect.
I’ve been totally distracted into people-watching while trying to decide whether to tackle the most enormous patisserie (a traditional old fashioned Viennese chocolate pear it says on the menu card on the table) with the help of a bottle of Perrier.
The tables get served from the elegant café across the carriageway. Glorious waitresses in classic black and white uniforms are busily swinging their assets deftly through the traffic, bearing loaded trays stylishly high above their shoulders. They wear skin-tight hip-hugger pants that begin flaring out from somewhere below the knee. Over midriff gaps cracking open in a variety of sensual ways, they wear a sleeveless unbuttoned waistcoat over a sparkling white shirt with bow tie or, alternatively, a cleavage revealing short-sleeved blouse.
They were absolutely right back in the Department when they all joshed me about Pannecotterra, a tiny Italian-speaking island in the southern Med, having the fattest people in the whole EU. The sights are truly amazing.
That is why I’ve stalled at page 7 of Lampedusa’s classic novel about Sicilian life. It is the “themetic text” for a conference hosted here on the island by “Indiana South Central University” at the Mediterranean campus it maintains on Pannecottera. They have shipped across Professor Amelia Grossenbeine, no less, to be presiding chair. By all accounts she is a formidable lady not given to taking fools lightly.
“Gains and Losses: Cultural Transition in the Autonomous Regions of Italy” is the title of the conference, and I’m the opening speaker. Giving the keynote address, I ought at least to have skim read the book. So far I’ve managed to pretend I’ve read it, after once accidentally catching Visconti’s film version on TV,“The Leopard”, starring Burt Lancaster and Claudia Cardinale.
My name is Rawson Colman, (actually Professor Rawson Colman to you, but it seems pretentious to use this handle about myself). My research specialism is the literature of migration.
Migration from Africa into Europe is a big European Union political hot potato in the twenty-first century. Spain and Italy are pushing for more resources to cope with it. France, Britain, Holland, and Germany, the EU countries of the north, say “This is your baby. Its your turn now; back in the twentieth when migration was to northern Europe, you never helped us.” But to sugar the pill, the EU pours money into splashy talk-shop conferences on the issue; which is why I’m here on lavish expenses. It occurs to me that maybe all the other participants are real academic heavyweights like me - at 345 pounds.
Enough of this academic BS exposition.
Here’s what I’m eyeballing now:
I watch “my” waitress circulate between the tables with straining paunch and protuberant gyrating buttocks battering at the seams of her dress pants. Stretched dangerously with the tension, her uniform is gapping; buttery flesh can be seen escaping everywhere. Bulges of softly swelling breast fat pump up and down over the neckline of her blouse. She’s developed a glorious midriff roll that keeps peeping out at me, and her sleeves cut into the soft flesh of her upper arms. She’s well overdue a new uniform, very arousing for an FA like me.
I’d been noticing how the waitresses spend a lot of time clustered around their work station; now I’ve just sussed what they are up to. They are all urging one another to greedily finish off customers’ leavings.
There are a few “Odd Ones Out," slimmer than the big showy penguins, these waitresses wear uniform bronze sheath dresses. The thinnest looks unsure and hesitant. Her dress, still showing the creases of being folded, hangs loose past her slim hips, no curves at all, no trace of even a young boy’s bottom. But she moves so gracefully, gliding silkily to and fro.
I ask my waitress about her and get her bio. “She is Somalian, so sweet - little Mini we call her. It is her first week working in the café. She is so very nervous about getting things right, even though we’ve spent nearly a month training her. When she arrived she was, like all of us, a bag of bones. We learnt, via one of the girls who speaks her own language, that she grew up surviving as a cigarette vendor on the margins. She is eighteen, so she claims, but with no documentation there’s no way of telling. ”
You have a West African accent I say, after listening to the story.
She brightens. “How you know?”
"Because I was seconded to the University of Takoradi."
“Eh! I was in Takoradi.”
“As a student?” I asked.
“No coming from Liberia, we try for take the boat from there to England.”
“So why are you here?”
“Instead we go for cross the desert - with the lorries to Libya.”
“So by boat you . . . . “ But she realised she’d told me too much.
Afraid I might be some kind of immigration sniffer dog she vanished into the cafe, not to re-appear.
While speculating about the gaps in what she had told me, I realized I’d switched now to ogling her co-worker. This woman is a whole lot bigger, with a real belly and a lot more movement in her bottom half. As she has piled on weight, her posture has become an exaggerated ‘S’ shape. And the all that fattening food seems to have manifested itself on the cheeks of her bottom. She’s proud, I note, of her great double bubble bum sticking out impossibly far. As she moves, she’s perfected an extravagant wiggle, being obliged to swing her hips more as her legs rub together. As she barges past me back to the workstation she looks me straight in the eye in a thoroughly wanton way.
“Why you watch me? . . . . . Because you looking to send me back to Sierra Leone?”
“No! Not at all. You move through all the traffic so beautifully.“
“You lie! All men here, they prefer the big blond Russians. Even you big black man!”
Ouch! That really hit home. (I have a blond European wife. And she’s big; she’s grown heavier than me by about 50 pounds. I met her when in West Africa, the plumpish daughter of a rich Italian timber contractor; which is why I am here in Italy at Politechnico di Bergamo).
I grinned and said, “Wrong, young lady. I prefer just Big. Period!”
“Now will you please bring me an expresso with one of these.” I showed her the menu card.
As she turned to head back to her workstation for an overdue snack, the wiggle went berserk. I knew it was for my benefit.
While waiting for my new order I crossed the road into the café to use the loo. To find it I had to walk the length of the Café Braunzucker right down to the back.
The interior was show stopping!
I’ll get to the décor in a moment; it was the people who took my breath away. The great ladies of Panciuto were on show here, done up in their finery, sitting gossiping. Some were fussing over plump beautiful children. Stuffing patisseries, they were mostly enormous. They looked like they’d need trolleying off home afterwards.
And the staff serving them were sized to match. These really big girls wore the bronze dresses too, quivering and gapping along the seams as they waddled. Cafe staff were obviously graded and allotted jobs by size.
Now I realised it was just the slimmer ones who served across the road! Outside, under the trees was for the tourists.
The interior was done out in Austrian rococo, gilt and white, lined with mirrors and hung with the finest Venetian chandeliers. Standing tall on the platform behind the long stainless steel stand-up bar working the coffee machines were four barristas - each one a mindblowingly huge young woman. Majestic in their black and white penguin uniforms, these four evidently qualified for their jobs by being no longer capable of waddling around serving the tables.
But largest of all was an enormous roly poly sphere of a woman who emerged for a split second from the kitchen. Covered from head to toe in white flour, she placed a special order on the end of the bar and withdrew.
Serious looking dark-suited groups of business men stood around the bar deep in conspiratorial business discussion. Clearly this was the epi-centre of life in Panciuto, the place where all the big deals were struck. Every prosperous kind of activity was on display: the business men thrust their drooping, sagging bellies up against one another; the contractors wore macho style paunches pitched high on their torsos; lawyers had tiers of Michelin rings, while the politicians looked like blown-up gas bags with tiny blisters for heads and painted on dark suiting.
Down at the back opposite the kitchen an extraordinary figure - like a heaped up pile of pale lard wearing thick black braces - presided behind a table strewn with delivery notes and invoices. He had the pink Corriere dell sport paper laid out neatly atop his belly which rose high out of his tall black trousers like some great egg, soft boiled and shelled. He was bald headed to match his belly, his skin, pallid and yellowing, covered with the liver spots that mark the really ancient. I couldn’t see to where his belly hung down between his legs, but that old man certainly would not have been capable of rising from that table unaided.
I saw a couple vacating a table just inside the front doors from which I could survey the action – both in and out. Quickly I bagged it and set out my stall: Blackberry, pen, papers and book on the table. I caught the eye of one of my outdoor (slim line) girls as she re-entered and indicated I wished to receive my order inside.
Watching everything, it struck me that so far as the conference theme went, Pannecotterra was all “Gain” with absolutely no sign of any “Loss”. And so, sitting here for the next hour, I sketched out my keynote address developing this optimistic proposition. I left the book unread, dismissed with scarcely a mention.
My motto has always been “Just do the unexpected” - that’s how I’ve managed to become a professor.
As I continued to watch the great cafe, a darker fantasy began taking shape in my mind. I have decided to record it here as if the writer is growing increasingly confused between what is reality and what is fantasy inside him.
For it is a state of mind that I too very often experience.
Story continued in post 3
08-19-2008, 08:46 AM
Delightful start, L! Such rich, accurate and amusing descriptions of the superfluity of fat characters!
I look eagerly forward to more.
09-05-2008, 11:27 AM
[Author's note Though I'm conscious this story has been a very slow starter, here is a second post. It's a dark fantasy but I lightened it up a bit after Observer vetted it. Lets see how this fares.]
Sitting in the corner of the Café Braunzucker, supposedly composing his conference address, the Prof gets lost in daydreaming and imagines himself to be the Café’s grossly overweight proprietor in these dark titillating memoirs. Befuddled by a lifetime of excess, the old man gets off while reflecting on his life in the fat lane, he enjoys sitting in his Cafe deliciously confused by inside and outside, mirrors and fantasy.
My name is Giancarlo Braunzucker and I am inordinately proud of the café that has borne my family’s name for well over 100 years. I am of Austrian descent, though I cannot explain how my forbears ended up here in Pannecottera. But perhaps you may have heard that a very different Europe existed in the nineteenth century. Vienna was the capital of a huge Empire encompassing northern Italy, and proud of an Imperial Navy patrolling the Adriatic and eastern Mediterranean.
Our café in Panciuto, the island’s capital, has always specialised in serving the traditional Viennese fare of coffee and cake - in enormous quantities – to meet the expectations of well-to-do Pannecotterans. Our clientele are the cream of the island’s society, recently augmented by heavyweight upmarket tourists from the cruise ship La vita Ronde for whom we provided more spacious tables outside. All get attracted by the challenge of our enormous Viennese patisseries, in particular our traditional chocolate pears.
Most days I like to sit in my café for about an hour from about four thirty in the afternoon. Just to keep up appearances, you understand. Because I know customers get reassured by my presence. I always sit at the same table: at the back by the cash till. I can just about manage to reach this, even though it might take three or four strong girls to hoist me back up on my feet again afterwards.
Because it's grown so incredibly vast now, my belly. It’s so huge I have to spread my legs wide apart when sitting to allow room for it to settle down, drooping so close to the floor between my knees. Carefully lowering myself, I enjoy watching all my fat blowing up around like I’m in a big inflating truck tyre innertube. At other times I tell people it feels more like rising dough because I love the way it continues to swell up and slowly engulf me.
Mind you, the girls around me are wonderful. When I am about to sit, I like to have a girl slip a stool in under with a cushion on for me to ease my underbelly belly down onto. They are so understanding and good to me, my girls, always ready to sensuously massage my huge gut whenever I over-indulge myself. Every time I move, like rolling over for example, or just pushing at myself, I can hear everything flow about inside this great ballooning belly of mine.
I also notice how, when I’m sitting, the top of my belly is always very hard, I suppose it must get full of gas at the top. It now rises higher and higher in front of where my chest used to be, just below my chins. So it's getting more difficult for me to raise my hands up on top of it to do things - like write the notes for this piece for example.
Now I’ll tell you a very strange thing - something I’ve never ever told anyone else about. These days my belly has to be so big because I’ve got another world inside it. It is a wonderful parallel universe to our own, a paradise of gloriously big women, every one of them needing sustenance.
I am getting to spend more and more time inside with them. It is so beautifully calm in there, all bathed in the soft warm rosy glow that percolates through the rubbery walls of my gigantic gut. My girls are so sweet and gentle, the bigger they grow, the more adoring they become. It is very flattering for an old man like me.
Of course, I’ve had to promise them all that I will do my best to keep it coming for them. So recently - more than ever before - I am constantly overdoing things. I lie back gasping with the sheer strain of what I manage to pack away inside. Then two or three of the café girls will get down and gently work on me and I can be transported into paroxysms of delight. In no time at all I am voraciously ready for more action.
That’s why I prefer to spend most of the week not actually in the café but reclining here among my more enormous girls on cushions in my private room, my hideaway, behind the one-way mirror glass wall. This way the girls on duty, busy in the café, know I am keeping half an eye on things. I’ve always insisted on the highest standards.
At the moment we are enjoying watching our newest acquisition, little Mini. She is so sweet. It is her first week working in the café. She is so very nervous about getting things right, even though we’ve spent nearly a month training her.
Big Mariella, who discovered her, nudges me. She chortles gleefully, anticipating just how much Mini will grow within a few short weeks.
Mariella pushes her extravagant soft mouth all around my ear. “She’ll probably have busted her way up through her dresses to 200 pounds plus,” she murmurs conspiratorially. “How you’ll love watching her growing into an enormous butterball. You’ll have to think of a new name for her!”
It is a private joke of ours how all the new girls start by being called Mini but quickly outgrow it.
I had to remind Mariella of her own progress. Though coming to me as a rangy young eighteen-year-old from Liberia, within nine months Mariella had blown herself up so incredibly fat she could no longer pull a pair of pants over her enormous bottom end and segmented fat legs.
Mariella continued growing with the same heedless abandon. I drew attention to it by slapping her blubbery flood of back-end hip fat into quivering motion. With indignation she responded by hauling herself across and plonking that colossal mass of fat bottom down right over my face. I was engulfed by almost liquid warm chocolate fat. As ever it was glorious under her - probing around in her crevices. She is always so incredibly soft and sensual.
But she stayed squishing herself around on me so long, it got so I couldn’t breath. I began to struggle, then to panic. Finally I had to beat my fists on her. I was pleading for my life, pleading for mercy. She rolled herself off me knowing she had me beat. Four hundred, no, nearer five hundred pounds of pear-shaped mature womanhood is still maneuverable enough to totally dominate an old fart like me, totally out of shape in his late sixties.
Guffawing with laughter she exclaimed, “Are you telling me …you scrawny old man… you are no longer up to handling a big girl?”
All three other great fatties lying alongside joined with her, laughing at my discomfort and capitulation. Actually they had no choice in the matter but laugh along with her. Great slabs of quivering blubber, they were spread out across the cushions all around me. Long ago they had rendered themselves so ridiculously fat as to be completely useless. They were quite incapable of doing anything for themselves anymore. Even more than me, they were obliged to be utterly dependant upon Mariella and the others for their everyday needs.
In our inner sanctum washed by the golden glow of the soft lighting, Mariella’s luxuriously squishy flesh was like delectably creamy milk chocolate. On the other hand, my three immobile big girls were, like little Mini out in the cafe, the colour of the very darkest bitter chocolate. Whatever the hue, I love nothing more than the Café Braunzucker’s reputation for gloriously sensual chocolate pears - of every description.
I’d better tell you more about myself before you label me a megalomaniac old racist. As I hope to explain to you the reality is quite the reverse. At the hands of my big girls, I have ended up being the exploited party. Overwhelmed by their boundless abundance, I have surrendered myself completely to the pleasures of the flesh.
I’ve spent a lifetime nurturing my and other people’s bellies. My mother always promised me I would grow up proud of my great Braunzucker belly just like papa did before me. As a boy I was plump but that didn’t stop me from being active and naughty. I spent hours kicking a ball around behind our café, for like every small Italian boy I dreamt of playing for the Azzurri. But by the time I was twelve, going on thirteen, I was becoming aware of my destiny: how my belly was coming to dominate my life. My aunts, sitting around in our café would all compete in admiring it, stroking and poking me and adding to its bulk.
At fourteen I remember how my belly was now significantly impairing mobility, seriously slowing me down. I had to consciously steer it ahead of me when I wished to move. But I enjoyed pushing all the other kids over with it. I proudly adapted to insisting on being a rather static and ponderous goal-keeper for my fellow football players.
It amused everyone how, as my great belly deepened, I’d taken to carefully holding and guarding both sides of my belly as I moved around the café, a mannerism just like my father’s. I found his example to be the best way to contain excessive unproductive bounce and wobble. Even so, it was big Braunzucker and little Braunzucker, since my enormous father was more than three times the size of me. And just as I do today, he needed help to get around.
But when I was fifteen, Papa passed away unexpectedly (and it has to be admitted, with great violence). It was at the climax of our summer Festa - one of the busiest days of the year for the café. At the height of the evening’s festivities my parents were indulging in one of their favourite pastimes. My mother was noisily encouraging Papa in a grand challenge contest to outdo the appetites of his biggest customers’.
Everyone had been at it for about a couple of hours and all were looking thoroughly stupefied. But Papa still managed to put it away like an automaton as Mama urged our waitress girls to continue stuffing him.
I had been sent back to the kitchens to ensure that supplies kept coming out the doors to feed the parties still in the contest.
We were aware of some kind of dull “wumf” followed by silence then a lot of screaming and shouting. We hurried out to find Papa had exploded. I saw how his stomach had ruptured - a metre long hole gaped down his left side. The café had suffered a violent peppering from the contents of papa’s gut. Mama, ignoring the mixture of undigested sponge cake, chocolate and cream, had her arms around him wailing.
Papa’s eyes flickered open for a moment; he saw me and smiled. He’d just enough energy to murmur “Always get them to use the best oil on you, that’s the secret! Good luck, my son ……."
Then he was gone.
It fell to me to organise a funeral of a dignity befitting my father’s stature. Even my mother had to concede that by the time the embalmers had finished preparing him for his laying out, Papa resplendent in a great square open silver casket looked even bigger and more handsome than in real life.
Eight bearers were needed to transfer him in and out of Pannecotterra’s grandest ornate black and silver hearse. Eight plumed black horses were used for the cortege, six drawing the hearse and two as outriders with postillions. The cream of the island’s well-to-do followed on foot and many still talk today of the grandeur of the occasion.
Left to shoulder the business myself and care for my distraught mother I felt like I’d become an adult in one short week. Fortunately mother sublimated her loss by turning her compulsions as a feeder on to her son. And to please her I did my very best to fill my father’s shoes.
Heeding Papa’s parting words to keep my swelling contours well oiled, together mother and I prospered. Actually it was Mama who first became too encumbered to walk comfortably. So it was she who first had the idea to fix up the private retreat behind the two-way mirrors for her personal use - long before I dreamed of having any need for the hide-away.
Once ensconced behind the screen, in the soft light reclining amongst the cushions as a grand dame, she decided to occupy herself in selecting, from our clientele and those who worked for us, a young girl of promise to prepare as a suitable wife cum business partner for her son.
I am glad to say Mama lived long enough to see me, as a proudly rotund twenty-year-old, married off to an adoring, plump 18-year-old. Maria, my new wife, had started in the café as one of our waitresses but had graduated to more responsible tasks in the kitchen. Henceforth, Maria eagerly took over the real hands-on job of running the establishment, making and devising new patisseries. She did all the real work, because throughout my career, in truth, I have never had much more to do than glad hand my clientele, welcoming them as they arrive. From time to time I perambulate around the tables engaging customers in light conversation, perhaps flattering them or offering snippets of gossip.
Sadly I was left a widow six years ago after Maria suffered a massive and fatal heart attack. But I was proud of the fact that, in the family tradition for a decade or more before she’d passed away, she had fattened up to weigh well over 600 pounds. Latterly we had been obliged to trolley her about.
Fortunately we had a smart and energetic young cookie from Ghana working for us at the time, our original “little Mini”. Because she’d mastered all the pastry cooking skills, we were able, despite the loss of my wife, to continue with the café – though I now found myself heavily dependent on my Ghanaian assistant. Like my late wife, she too made no secret of how much she enjoyed the products she created. She grew into a great jovial character of a woman, with a wonderfully warm heart.
Bless her; following the passing of my (first) wife - from beginning to end through our period of mourning - she was a beautifully soft and tender comfort to me. Within a year she’d blasted her hips right up into the hundreds, ditto her weight.
Having got herself so spectacularly pear shaped, she declared we needed “a new Mini” to do the legwork for her. Mini II duly materialised, at which point the original Mini renamed herself Marilyn. Bizarrely, she took to wearing a carefully coiffured full blond Marilyn Monroe wig as she waddled 500 pounds of fat around the café.
This cycle of expansion repeated itself. Within an equally short period of time, Mini III was required to relieve the now pear-shaped Mini II. At 400 plus, Mini II re-christened herself Micheline, and so the tradition continued.
In no time at all I found myself surrounded by half a dozen delicious giggling fat girls, who’d all found contentment through rapid weight gain.
Now I discovered just how cozy my mother’s retreat behind the two-way mirrors was as a private hide-away.
It was our clientele who first started the jokes about the obvious connection between the café’s bottom-heavy staff and the much-loved chocolate pears we’d always prepared.
(Continued in post 11 of this thread)
09-05-2008, 01:07 PM
I hope you do continue, L. I'm enjoying it, for one. :)
09-07-2008, 01:46 PM
Please, go one this is is so enjoyable.
09-08-2008, 09:36 AM
I think this is definitely worthwhile! All of these Pannecotterra-linked stories have been interesting and, even better, well done.
09-08-2008, 01:27 PM
lay it on! . . . Thick!
09-08-2008, 07:40 PM
I hope you do continue, L. I'm enjoying it, for one. :)Please, go one this is is so enjoyable.I think this is definitely worthwhile! All of these Pannecotterra-linked stories have been interesting and, even better, well done.Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
Oh dear! :doh: You make me feel a real sad petulant old queen who is out fishing for compliments. While actually I am a "sad old queen" of course, what I'd really meant by
"to be continued if readership shows it to be worthwhile" was that I did not want to irritate folks by taking up space with a kind of "vanity publishing" if the piece didn't warrant it due to a low "hit" rate. Instalment #2 is doing a lot better so I'd better get instalment #3 out and dusted down.
lay it on! . . . Thick!
It's the only way I know. Thanks again guys for your encouragement.
09-08-2008, 08:05 PM
great story more of the same PLEASE
09-09-2008, 09:05 AM
Please, go one this is is so enjoyable.
I agree...it's a wonderful story...please continue!
09-11-2008, 07:48 PM
[Author's Note: OK! So this installment features a couple of my favourite fantasies as an FA: the first is a kind of operatic style dark, dark day-dream where a plucky young (but not so innocent) heroine wins out in a jackboot hell, the second a very pleasurable foretaste of heaven, maybe like other lucky folks get to enjoy once in a while.]
Part 3 - Keeping everyone “home and happy”
It had never occurred to me to ask how, but of course all our new Minis were immigrants being constantly smuggled across the short strait to the island from north Africa – which is how Marilyn herself had arrived.
So I was quite shocked to learn that Marilyn, never shy about proffering her charms to those she thought she might profit from, had succeeded in seducing the island’s Chief of Police, Scarpia. A notorious and degenerate philanderer, Scarpia had overall responsibility for trying to round up all illegal immigrants and detain them into an overcrowded compound maintained by the authorities. And it was fairly common knowledge that, like all institutions on the island, Scarpia’s Police Department was bribable. Immigrants lucky enough to have marketable assets could buy their way out of his gulag.
Using her hot bod and sexy feistiness as bait, Marilyn got her hooks into Scarpia soon after she'd arrived and she persevered relentlessly in tantalising him with her subsequent erotic expansion. Flaunting her weight gain, she was able to reel him in remorselessly. Once he was in the net, she yanked it tight and whatever string she pulled, Scarpia would dance to her tune. So long as she could keep him on cloud nine, Marilyn knew she had the Chief of Police firmly by the balls.
Within a couple of years Marilyn had grown too big for us (in more than one sense) and had moved in with the Police Chief as the dominant personality in his establishment. Her gifts for indulging policemen’s fantasies grew to be the stuff of legend. Whenever Scarpia seemed to be reaching saturation point, she always managed to devise further depraved activities to ensure he continued to remain “home and happy” - her way of saying distracted from his official duties.
With her infinite ability to further extend their multifarious sexual fantasies, she never failed to deliver the goods. Not only was Scarpia the Chief utterly dependent upon her, so too were most of his Department. Indeed a good many were literally eating out of her hands – which, come to think of it, also accurately described her dealings with me at the Café Braunzucker.
She’d taken up residence in the gloomy decaying former Inquisitor’s Palace that for many years past has served as Police Headquarters. All day long the Chief of Police’s sinister big black Lancia would be seen gliding in and out of the central courtyard, along with other police vehicles, through the heavily guarded portal in the Palazzo’s severe façade. While the naive might think this was the Chief coming and going on Police business, more often than not it would be Marilyn who was being driven swiftly off in great style reclining on the cushions in the back behind drawn curtains.
Like all West African women reared in the hard school of life, Marilyn was nothing if not an astute business-woman. She knew how to bargain and proved she could deliver. Apart from using the limo for her extravagant shopping excursions, she relied on its drawn curtains for ferrying in those consignments intended to “keep her boys home and happy”. It meant she was now ideally placed to rescue those showing potential from the squalid and degrading limbo of the wired off compound.
the waif’s progress
Still maintaining a business interest in the café (but at a distance), Marilyn continued to hand pick girls to join us at the Café Braunzucker.
Currently there are a dozen chocolate pear girls at the café, not counting our latest “Mini”. Like the original Marilyn, quite a number have moved out of the café to make their own lives with customers they started relationships with.
From Marilyn onwards, my chocolate pears have all been extremely generous towards me with their affections. And as I have indicated, some have managed to become so fat they have been obliged to stay with me permanently. Micheline, our second chocolate pear, was the first to grow so huge, she ended up immobilising herself and thus will always have a special place in my affections.
Marcelline and Melissa are the other two who have successfully grown themselves into immobility. Nowadays I enjoy nestling into these three elephantine mountains of fat who want nothing more than just to lie placidly around me, more or less constantly sucking liquid chocolate. I go to sleep on them at night and Mariella (my current manager) and the other more mobile ladies often help me to join them in their prolonged feeding orgies.
That’s why I have got so useless and fat myself. I can no longer reach the further parts of my belly, let alone my genitalia. To help me drop off to sleep nowadays my big girls compete, jostling one another, trying to slither into positions where I can titillate their more intimate parts with my fingers.
So I cannot complain; life has been a lot better in what will be my last decade on earth than I ever dared to imagine. Let me tell you how.
In the months it has taken me to get this written, I have watched the pathetic, newly arrived skinny little Mini, 5’ 4” weighing no more than 80 lbs at the start of my memoir, blossom into a vast jobbly blob.
Right from the start, she couldn’t believe her luck. After a lifetime on the edge of starvation, here she was working with the most fattening foods imaginable and to get familiar with it all, she was encouraged to sample as much as she wished.
We enjoyed watching her develop as she spent more and more time eating. We saw her chin begin to droop soft and full under her jaw line. She began to display a slack loose hanging tummy, the soft fat pooching over the waistband of her dress. As she moved there was a discernable shimmer to the curve of her hips.
In a matter of weeks she was approaching 150 pounds. Her sunken cheeks long gone her face was soft and round, her body much fuller. As was plain for all to see, and very arousing for FAs, she was well overdue a new dress.
Roll on another three months. Now she had a real belly and a lot more movement in her bottom half. As the weight piled on, the more it seemed she grew in confidence.
One afternoon, towards the end of one of our extended lunches in our secret abode behind the mirror-glass screen, she arrived on the cushions alongside me bearing a large bowl on her head. As she moved the whole of her body seemed to shimmer and wobble. Once again her dress was at its limits, her belly seemed larger than ever. I noticed there was a new roll above the first, even when she was standing straight. Globular enlarged breasts, competing with her big belly, were winning hands down.
Indicating the prone forms of my other girls, who’d long ago fallen asleep over their lunch, she murmured huskily, “I thought, Signor ….. maybe you might like a little help with this.”
She lowered the bowl and placed it beside me. It was brimful of Zoppa Inglesi -literally English soup, a contemptuous Italian riposte to feeble 57 varieties such as Brown Windsor. Zoppa here is a potent cocktail of fortified wines, brandy and amaretto liquor all stirred into a slurry with sponge cake, copious amounts of cream, fruits such as apricots peaches and strawberries and crunchy toasted almonds.
Catching my eye in her provocative way, she hefted her chest up and out of the way, then for all she was worth, she blew out her new balloon of a belly.
That struggling dress just gave up the ghost. It burst, blasting apart right along its seams.
“Bravo!” I cried enthusiastically.
Wearing no underwear, she turned dramatically to flaunt her now unconstrained big body.
Her posture was a striking S shape, not only making her belly look heavier but emphasising the most provocative arse, as a pair of protuberant buttocks swung about right over my head. Alongside me her heavy fleshy thighs bulged spectacularly. At eye level I took in her delectable inner thighs all squished together; I goggled at almost liquefied fat drooping down to dimpled sturdy knees. Below were robust wine glass shaped legs, the calves larger than her waist was only a few months before,
She slapped at her buttock blubber and I watched it shiver and quiver for a few seconds. A shockwave traveled outwards across the surface of her fat from her bottom and flowed around to the front of her belly. Running her hands down over her extravagant body contours and over her blown out belly, she picked off and discarded a few remaining shards of dress. She hefted her belly fat and letting it fall back, she giggled as she and I watched it bounce a while until it wobbled to rest. Keeping her eyes on me she now offered her breasts forward to me with both hands before raising them up to her mouth to titivate her nipples up into hatpegs.
Looking artfully down at me she murmured, “So, are we ready for a little Zoppa now, Signor?”
Replete from the heavy lunchtime meal I’d already eaten, I was lying back in a semi comatose position on the cushions, my belly mounding up before me.
She knelt beside me and lifted the large oval dish up over my chins. She virtually slid the English soup off the dish into my mouth while also attacking it herself from the other side. A lot of the spongy cocktail didn’t make it into me so she began sucking this up off my chins and cheeks with her mouth before straying into delivering an unbelievably soft and sensuous amaretto kiss. Eventually she broke off, smiling tenderly at me.
Now squirming around all over me, I could feel the naked Felicia gradually becoming carried away with passion as she continued dolloping the Zoppa all around herself and my member. Her oral prowess was incomparable as we sucked the tiramisu off one another in a crescendo of gasps and breathy excitement.
Now she slid her leg across my face to perch herself on the downward slope of my belly. We were face to face, my ears clapped between her thighs. Sighing with pleasure, she slowly and deliberately eased her belly forward up over my face. She began to writhe, flexing her vulva against me.
Responding with my tongue I heard her moaning. Just as this crazy fat girl was at the very point of suffocating her employer, she swung herself around. Her liquid thigh fat draping around my head we commenced to sixty nine.
We were on the point of departing from the afternoon into a prolonged sequence of soft dark journeys in and out of ecstasy. I was dimly aware of her high-pitched squeals of pleasure from time to time building up into a prolonged unearthly wailing.
And was that really me repeatedly bellowing out until I was choking?
Whatever would the grande dames make of all this out in the café. In saner moments I could only hope the ambient noise of the chatter and the barristas’ hissing expresso machines might be masking all but the most orgasmic peaks.
It wasn’t until late in the afternoon that we surfaced thoroughly sated.
I missed my customary afternoon vigil in the café that day. Long after sunset, once we had recovered, I summoned Marceline to measure Mini for a new dress. Armed with a tape measure Marcelline stood in front of the naked expanded Mini saying, “Allora piccolo – haven’t you grown to be a big girl. We must get your sizes.”
She tried wrapping the measure around Mini but her own huge belly and breastworks made it impossible to reach. Mini had to help and ran it round her waist and Marceline checked the measurement where Mini’s tummy hung out the furthest just above the navel and wrote down the measurements. 52.
“We really ought to have done bust first, because I’ve gone and written your waist on the top line."
The tape tickled Mini as Marceline tried to run the tape around Mini’s sensitive nipples. They puckered up getting more and more enthusiastic at Marceline’s touch and Marceline giggled.
“OK! You hold the tape there and I’ll do the back. Oooh! You’re 58.”
“Now help me down, dear," Marceline said, "so I can do your hips and legs.”
Preparing to tackle Mini’s bottom measurement Marceline began a running commentary about how she admired the girl’s carriage. She felt gently around but her progressively more intimate groping in and around Mini’s big bottom caused Mini to gasp and breath heavily. Growing increasingly excited, Marcelline was saying how beautifully large Mini could grow herself around the rear end. Mini simpered, wriggling her hips with pleasure at the compliment. At this point they were too far gone and completely lost it
Mini went weak at the knees and slumped moaning over Marcelline. Big Marceline’s experience came into play under Mini’s enveloping bulk and expertly she commenced working Mini to a climax.
As Marcelline unerringly found the right spot, Mini let go. “Aaargh!”
She writhed and bucked with passion, her soft thigh fat engulfing the bigger woman.
I have always enjoyed the role of voyeur in these sessions - nearly as much as getting involved myself, so I let them lie for quite some time on the floor panting as I admired the soft sculpture of their entwined bodies.
Because there would be a day before the new dress was ready, I suggested Mini might in the meantime borrow a pair of comfortable loose white pastry maker’s pyjamas and get a taste of kitchen life.
Ever since that day, Mini has made the kitchen her very own. Now she makes the best chocolate pears anyone can remember.
(Continued in post 13 of this thread)
09-12-2008, 09:00 AM
Such delightful writing, L. This tickled my funny bone:
That struggling dress just gave up the ghost. It burst, blasting apart right along its seams.
“Bravo!” I cried enthusiastically.
11-21-2008, 09:05 PM
Author’s note: I’m back now from 2 months away down in the southern Mediterranean. While down there I was lucky enough to be invited to a “Fat Wedding” as they are called locally. It’s like the old North Africa tradition has never died out!
So I’ve worked one into a continuation of the story I left incomplete. Only the size of the protagonists has been exaggerated – even though a lot of bridal couples are very chunky in this island reputed to have the fattest people in Europe. I hope you enjoy it.
Part 4 mixing business with pleasure
As well as turning out quite the best chocolate pears anyone could remember, Mini showed herself to have an imaginative creative side. She was fast making a name for herself as an innovative pastry maker. Couple this to a spectacularly unpredictable short fuse plus a razor-sharp tongue, and she was fast gaining a citywide notoriety.
It was brilliant for business; everyone here on our little island loves a character and they nicknamed her I Fuochi Cioccolati (chocolate fireworks). Customers flocked to the Café Braunzucker to sample Mini’s weekly experiments with new lines, speculate about her swelling measurements and, if really lucky, maybe catch one of her fiery outbursts.
All I asked was she should try her innovations out on me first, just to be on the safe side. Recently she devised a glorious soft sponge cake and sour ricotta roll, soaked in lemoncello and topped with powdered bitter chocolate. Each roll gets to be near a foot long, a challenge even for our largest customers.
I sat back enjoying myself as Mini continued adding to her reputation and to herself. The pitifully skinny rake she had originally been was getting buried away forever, lost under hundreds of pounds of warm, soft, wonderful fat. Words scarcely did her body justice. Due to all our constant testing, her figure had blown out to an exaggerated hourglass rather than the café’s customary full blown pear.
Because Mini was inordinately proud of having grown the most enormous swollen breasts, Mariella persuaded me to christen her Melone. She’d developed a mannerism of constantly hefting and attempting to re-arrange her outrageously unruly rack. Consequently her boobs seemed constantly on high beam; her in-yer-face thumb sized nipples dazzling the customers.
Due to her continuing love affair with the kitchen, Melone now affected nothing but loose white pyjamas worn dangerously low on her vast gelatinous hips. The waistband dipped even further under her aggressively protruding pastry tester’s belly. This thrust out huge and high, hefting those incredibly potent melons skywards. The light cotton material stretching across her rippling contours was plainly see-through enough to draw attention to the quivering of Melone’s soft fat. She’d long given up wearing anything underneath.
At 567lbs (40 st 257kilos) and only 5'4”, Melone had become a spectacle. Knowing her own worth, she stared out the clientele insolently when making an entrance, thundering in from the kitchen bearing her latest offering. She would roll from side to side with a wide gait to swing her blubbery legs past one another even though her fat shuffling feet never seemed to leave the floor.
Though nearly seventy, I confess I was totally infatuated by her. I loved to whisper to her how even her pussy lips tasted sweeter the fatter they swelled.
Accurately recognizing how mesmerised I’d become, continually fantasising about Melone and her gigantic mammaries, the immobiles began plotting to get Melone and me together. They felt strongly there should to be a little Braunzucker to inherit the café. Though I realised of course that they were primarily motivated by wanting to safeguard their own mealtickets, I was nevertheless touched by them trying to roll the family business down another generation. The immobile girls decided Mariella should act as match maker for us.
At this point Melone demonstrated another side of her forceful character: her determination to drive an exceptionally hard bargain. Negotiating on my behalf, Mariella and the immobile trio kept reporting back about Melone’s extraordinarily ambitious demands. Before agreeing to get any further involved with me, Melone was insisting upon a formalised business partnership.
Melone had long ago become accomplished at exploiting her amazing physique. If we were disagreeing about something she might suddenly decide I needed “just a little persuasion” to come round to her point of view. Indeed in retrospect, some of my most sublime moments were when Melone, erupting with a ferocious passion, might crash herself down violently on some sensitive part of me e.g. my head or my genitalia. She would stay there, determined to squash the life out of me. God it could hurt! Especially when she started bouncing. The pain was exquisite - and didn’t I just love thinking about it afterwards?
Nevertheless when negotiations about her excessive partnership demands reached an impasse, I was totally unprepared for Melone’s newest ploy: a complete withdrawal of services – right across the board.
OK, so we could cope without her in the kitchen, but it was her refusal to come anywhere near my hide-away behind the mirrors that proved to be my undoing; she’d administered her coupe de grace. Pitifully I begged her to return; I was prepared to agree to anything just to get back under her.
Only after my complete capitulation did she relent. Once she settled herself down on me happily once more I was oblivious to my utter humiliation. It was well worth having to concede a proper formal marriage, along with granting her joint ownership of the Café Braunzucker with me on a proper business footing.
We go in for big weddings in Pannecotterra; we love them. Really big weddings that the local media jocks term “Fat Weddings”; and the Fatter the Better!
We are always trying to outdo the previous record breaking extravaganza and the costs ratchet up. The Café Braunzucker has always been renowned for providing the most sumptuous and best contract catering for Fat Weddings here on the island. So all eyes were on us in eager anticipation of what kind of show Café Braunzucker might put on for its own.
Melone and Mariella were just as determined this would be The BIG Fat One and started planning four months beforehand.
The easiest things to resolve were the venues. Most Fat Weddings are held at the specialist wedding palaces scattered around the island’s rural areas. But the girls of the Café Braunzucker were determined ours should be a city wedding held right here in the island’s capital city, right where we are located.
Having drafted out a provisional list of six hundred guests (with an allowance for another 400 that we might subsequently add), we went to work on our contacts. For the ceremony we got the Archbishop to grant us the cathedral overlooking the ramparts and the harbour and the Mayor agreed to close the adjacent Botanical Gardens and signalling battery at the top of the funicular high above the harbour for the reception and all night party. Thanks to big Marilyn’s continuing “influence” over the island’s Chief of Police, Scarpia, the city streets would close to traffic and the crack Police band would lead the wedding party in procession from the Cathedral to the reception.
Dramatic lighting schemes were planned for the gardens and a succession of singers and musicians lined up to perform through the night. We got four barges prepared ready to be towed out into the harbour to mount a momentous firework display in the early hours of the morning.
Rather more of a challenge was having to not only surpass but comprehensively outclass previous Fat Wedding contract catering. Huge amounts of luxurious food and beverages had to flow uninterrupted right through the all night party.
Most difficult of all was readying ourselves for the great party. All of us would be on show; we were determined to be remembered as the Fattest of all Fat Weddings.
We had four months in which to gain weight, a stern task for even my big girls. That in turn presented a considerable logistical problem: almost certainly we’d be faced with resulting seriously impaired mobility. Mariella announced she’d come up with the answer, she’d done a deal with the local Festa committee. It would be possible for us to be carried about on the platforms used to carry the statues around the streets in the Festa processions.
She said it would look very dignified to be born along as tastefully arranged tableaux held aloft by strong men shouldering the long carrying shafts.
With that agreed, we all set about building ourselves up to be equal to the ceremony.
There was a bit of arm wrestling between Melone and Mariella about who should be in overall charge of preparations. For once I was able to exert proper authoritative direction. I persuaded Melone that, as bride-to-be, her first duty was to get herself into the best shape for our Fat Wedding.
“Don’t be burdened with all the worries. Leave those to Mariella. Just concentrate on readying yourself” I told her.
Nevertheless Melone was determined to put her all into creating special new concoctions for the wedding catering. She was happy to direct a dedicated team of pastry cooks devoted solely to perfecting her new ideas. Week after week they laboured, doing their best work at night while they had the kitchens to themselves. Melone would spend the entire morning sitting with them consuming the night’s output and adjudicating between offerings. Only after a heavy lunch would she spend her afternoons relaxing with me; we would share a trolleyfull of desserts in the course of a sexy siesta.
After six weeks of this Melone had blown up way too big for kitchen pyjamas and Mariella now just threw a cool gauzy tent mumu over Melone’s fat.
“Your bride is looking like melting scoops of chocolate ice cream” Mariella chuckled.
Indeed my bride-to-be was finding it increasingly difficult to get around. Once hauled up on her feet, her feeble attempts at waddling made her engorged belly ride up and down dangerously causing her giant mamaries to jiggle and wobble uncontrollably. To steady herself she would try stretching her arms around as much of her frontal bodywork as she could and squeeze it, but there was more out of reach than within and this forced her breasts to push out even more and her nipples to scrunch up into knobbly chapel hatpegs.
Around the back her blubbery ballooning buttocks quivered and wobbled so violently they flung her mumu up over the great shelf projecting out behind her back rolls. More and more she looked like the Fat Bride to end all Fat Brides.
My three long time permanently resident immobilised chocolate pears, Micheline, Marcelline and Melissa, observing all this with approval, invited Melone to lie down to join them for her last big fattening effort. I had no idea what these really big goddesses might weigh, but the last time Melone was able to make it down to the back kitchen scales she weighed 762 lbs though when lying down among them looked about three quarters their size.
I too was induced to participate in this blizzard of eating during the last few weeks. Mariella drafted some girls in from the café to hand feed us. Lying on my back with my belly rearing up in front of me like the dome of Panciuto cathedral, I was more aware than usual of the goings on inside my great doming belly.
Remember how I confided in you (see Part 2 “Gut feelings”) about the wonderful parallel universe I’d found inside my belly? Well it’s my own “stately pleasure dome”, a paradise of gloriously fat immobile women luxuriating in the soft warm rosy glow that percolates through my belly walls. My girls are so sweet and gentle, the bigger they grown, the more they worship me.
Even more weird, I’ve discovered these adorable and loving creatures are actually the alter egos of the big women I am lying amongst. Micheline, Marcelline and Melissa are all inside me and every bit as immobile as they are outside in real life. Also Mariella is in here too – she likewise is immobile and I must say she looks very well with it. But far far fatter and more helpless than any of the others, Melone just lies here beached, simpering in helpless enormity. She likes to laugh admiringly at anything I say, just the opposite of her in external reality. Indeed they are all much sweeter to me in here than they are out.
But I’m not sure I’m altogether comfortable with this wall to wall servility. With no unpredictable squashing attacks or tongue lashings to parry, I can see life inside my pleasure dome could get a tad boring. So it was a relief to hear the insiders complaining - for the first time ever!
Usually I have to do my utmost to keep it all coming for them inside my gut just to keep them gaining. Now it is just the opposite, they winge on about being overwhelmed by the deluge of food raining down upon them. I try to tell them it’s no picnic up here either coping with all the around-the-clock hand fed stuffing. But I’ve promised them there is only a week and a bit to go more of this pre nuptial preparation, then things get back to normal.
Unexpectedly Mariella cut us back on our rate of consumption during the final week of fattening; the difference between Melone and the immobile 3Ms having narrowed. Mariella explained how she wanted us to be feeling hungry by the time we arrived at the wedding ceremony feast. Naturally down there in my parallel world, this came as a relief. But I thought it better not to alarm the girls about what would be in store for them during the banquet.
“I want you ready and able to do full justice to our catering”, Mariella had said. “As the café’s proprietors you mustn’t be seen to be holding back. For one thing: a rumour might go round that you’d been masterminding some Mafiosi “last supper”; its not been unknown in these parts – especially with the police chief invited”.
At last the appointed day dawned. Dressing me up before the ceremony, my girls chuckled and teased me about the way my belly was rumbling with hunger. Delightedly they reported that Melone’s appetite seemed even greater.
We were now ready and well prepared for the fattest Fat Wedding ever.
Continued in post 31 on page two of this thread
11-22-2008, 08:59 PM
OK - here is another addition to a story posted without notation to an archival forum, now detected, formatted and placed in Recent Additions with a bump to the top.
11-23-2008, 03:33 AM
OK - here is another addition to a story posted without notation to an archival forum.
"Oh dear sorry about that yer 'onor! I know full well ignorance of the Law is no defence."
11-23-2008, 09:02 AM
Not even law - just traditional practice, although the guidelines do imply it. And no one got cited so it never reached the courtroom for any ajudication
11-23-2008, 09:17 AM
Oh, O, I'm thinking Lardibutts wants to be spanked! Not by you, but by a BBW - in fact, a SSBBW! ;):p
Okay, L, I'm sitting here in my wedding tent, waiting for the Fat Wedding! Any time now! :D
11-23-2008, 09:26 AM
Hmmm, I guess women rule, FA's just drool!
I just gave him absolution from corporeal punishmernt over in Lizzy's thread and then you do this!
Well, if Chuck doesn't mind have fun!
11-23-2008, 12:59 PM
Oooooo, you're being mighty saucy, O! :p
You too, L!
11-23-2008, 05:55 PM
if Chuck doesn't mind have fun!
Tell Chuck someone's got to stay behind to baby sit the dog and just come on over Ris.
11-23-2008, 07:33 PM
You don't know much about dudes who live in Diamond Bar and stare down wildfires while running a car that defies the entire oil and auto industries do you?
This California native isn't going to tell Chuck what to do with his wife - period. He has no desire to turn up in an Irwindale gravel pit!
11-24-2008, 08:40 AM
O, sounds like a great plot for a new story - especially the part about the gravel pit! :eek: You could call it "Biofuel - The Supercharged Fat!"
11-24-2008, 08:55 AM
Hmmm - you and some of our more creative writers will have to make that one work - I know Irwindale, the Santa Fe Dam and more history of the San Gabriel Valley than you likely want to endure. How we tie that into a story with biofuel I've no idea (and most readers outside the area would have no idea what we would be talking about!)
11-24-2008, 09:39 AM
Lets get this straight - are the moderators actually suggesting that sad old Lardibutts should come over and act as a guinea-pig for a story about ending up in a concrete overcoat as part of some new Californian dam?
What's in it for me when I already stand a much better chance of ending up this way at the hands of the mafiosi in Pannecotterra or Sicily?
Plus the food down here will be better on the film set right up until the last scene is shot.
So on balance: you can stuff your offer.
11-24-2008, 11:13 AM
Nice work Lardibutts. Good to see you back in action.
Your stories many times make me wish I was more cultured then I am, but I suppose if I read enough of your stuff, with all the exotic locales and traditions, I will be a little bit.
11-24-2008, 12:20 PM
Lets get this straight - are the moderators actually suggesting that sad old Lardibutts should come over and act as a guinea-pig for a story about ending up in a concrete overcoat as part of some new Californian dam?
What's in it for me when I already stand a much better chance of ending up this way at the hands of the mafiosi in Pannecotterra or Sicily?
Plus the food down here will be better on the film set right up until the last scene is shot.
So on balance: you can stuff your offer.
Well, I'd prefer an extra coat of fat rather than of concrete, meself. :p Irwindale and your windswept Mediterranean islands may share a geographical latitude (they're in more or less the same zone; Mediterranean plants are wonderfully acclimated here in inland So Cal) and a few geographical features, but your islands are ever so much more romantic. Definitely stick with them for your stories!
Though I'm intrigued now - why the Cosa Nostra reference? And who's your favorite Godfather character?
11-24-2008, 01:44 PM
why the Cosa Nostra reference?
Quite simply they run the local Tourist Office and are out to get me for all the publicity I’ve been spreading around about the best kept secret in the southern Med.
And who's your favorite Godfather character? Its got to be Al Pacino ‘cos I was lucky enough to catch him being shot over and over again on the steps of the Opera House in Palermo (Godfather III). The shooting went on repeatedly all afternoon until it got dark about 7pm. I had a front row of the circle seat directly opposite sitting on the balcony of my room in the Hotel Bristol (fnah fnah). While I sat relaxing and downing a bottle of Sicilian rosso, those guys really earned their money that day out in the hot sun .
Nice work Lardibutts. Good to see you back in action. ec
Thank you elroy, that is most appreciated seeing as it comes from a writer right at the top of his game.
In truth I have to use "the exotic locales and traditions" in an attempt to gift wrap my simplistic and repetitive story ideas.
11-24-2008, 04:22 PM
I wasn't extending or discouraging any invitation. That's between you Ris and Chuck.
I'm a chicken at heart I guess, but it seems wise to distance myself from any activities which could get me put into the gravel pit by the Chuckster. Arguing politics is as far as I'll go. I want to be on friendly terms with him, and would rather have him convert a vehicle for me than be looking to run me over.
We now return this hijacked thread to its normal fantasy theme. :)
11-29-2008, 08:15 AM
Just got chance to read this and a very good read it is too. Love the Sicilian location...very nice and I love the descriptions of the locals (particularly the early one of the waitresses and the ill fitting uniforms). Great work:)
12-01-2008, 12:40 PM
Love the Sicilian location...very nice and I love the descriptions of the locals (particularly the early one of the waitresses and the ill fitting uniforms).
Many thanks - a real compliment seeing as it comes from one of the masters of closely observed overtaxed clothing.
As you will appreciate stuff like that doesn't come easily, it requires hours and hours of research. Eking a cappuchino out until long after the last tiny froth bubbles have fossilised into the sides of the cup is just one of the many skills I've acquired in people watching.
Just a pity I don't put the same effort into plot development.
01-19-2009, 02:37 PM
Sorry for an overlong intermission. I've been away - back down in the lands of Fat Weddings once more. Here is a carefully observed update about the ritual feasting expected at such an occasion.
part 4 “get me to the church on time”
They started arranging me, all buffed up and shipshape, on my platform under the dome of Panciuto cathedral 30 minutes before the appointed time for the wedding ceremony. Behind me I could hear the first wedding guests arriving and the organist starting to warm-up above the growing bustle of an expectant congregation.
I should have just lain back and appreciated the richly frescoed and marble clad interior while I waited. Instead my stomach was churning and giving me grief. Deep down in my belly all my “inside” chocolate pears had chosen this moment to play up.
Since I had deliberately not told them anything in detail about today, how could they tell what was going on outside? OK, so they’d all known about my infatuation with my latest little Mini. That would be nothing new in my dealings with my ladies inside; they’d enjoyed teasing me about her billowing chocolate breast flesh.
On the other hand I’d never been such a fool as to tell them it was actually me who was marrying Melone.
They’d have all shrieked “Hey! What about the rest of us? Why just Melone?”
And I knew what would have come next: “so why don’t you marry us all?”
Can you imagine having all that extra unnecessary trouble loaded up on top of you?
The pains in my stomach grew worse. I felt ravenously hungry.
I asked one of the “outside” girls attending me (Mariella had kitted them all out in very sweetly becoming formal grey tailed coats) to return to the café and fetch a few bags of assorted brioche to tide me over. I was plied with these until the last of my “inside” girls eventually stopped complaining.
Only then were my outside girls satisfied that my guts had stopped their uncontrollable rumbling. It was last minute nerves they told me …. how do you say it in English? Cold Feet?
Anyway they laughed saying “Its all those butterflies in your tummy”.
That was the first and only time any SSBWs around me were mistaken for butterflies!
We continued waiting. The bride was now ten minutes late; my nerves at breaking point. If I’d still got the mobility I’d have done a runner; remember Dustin Hoffman in “The Graduate”? I belched instead and opened my mouth to be stuffed with another brioche.
At last the organ struck up the tune I’d sung as a schoolboy: “Here comes the bride sixty inches wide”. It was way too late to run.
When Melone entered the cathedral, borne aloft on the shoulders of her bearers, gasps of admiration ran through the congregation; the buzz clearly audible despite the joyful chords of the organ. How I wished I’d had the mobility to turn around.
While she was being lowered carefully to the floor by my side before the priest, Melone smiled so sweetly at me through her veil. At this vision of youthful loveliness I melted completely. It struck me, not for the last time that day, how I was such a very very lucky old man.
As they struggled to push our platforms together, her glorious corpulent form rocked to and fro shimmying like a gigantic moulded chocolate pudding. She seemed utterly edible, my beautiful chocolate pear: a vision of total culinary perfection. But her enormous quivering bosom now overflowed her décollage. In order to restore a half way respectable cleavage, the bridesmaids had to lean over and work at coaxing great dollops of semi liquid breast flesh back inside her dress.
Apart from this indelible vision of Melone’s loveliness as she was about to join with me at the altar steps, only one or two other snapshots of the ceremony remain in my mind.
I recall vividly how everyone laughed when we found it was quite impossible for me to reach across over our respective girths to place a wedding ring on Melone’s finger. The priest had to do this for us.
The other was our joy at being borne down the aisle together during the traditional wedding march - past all the smiling well wishers and the camera flashes. Then we burst out into the dazzling sunlight before the great west front of the elaborate baroque cathedral.
The band played, the cameras continued to flash, and the crowds (mainly of women) shouted greetings as, on our lavishly silver tableau, we were carried carefully at shoulder height by a dozen men down the flight of steps covered in red carpet and out onto the saluting battery.
Here we greeted our guests. As bottles of Boli popped and fizzed, the petards exploded overhead. Our Wedding Feast to outdo all Wedding Feasts got underway.
At first there were just delicate showers of light appetizers while the guests had their champagne glasses refilled (with prosecco after the third glass). Our girls circulated around coyly proffering silver salvers loaded with finger food such as arancine (stuffed rice balls), the island’s own triangular baked fino pastry cakes filled with ricotta or pea, fritelle di carciofi or di melanzine (artichoke or eggplant fritters) pizza rustica (rice pie) and stuffed calzone.
Now we settled into the heavier eating. In the Botanical Gardens overlooking the harbour Mariella had it all planned to perfection. She’d borrowed the way village festas lay out stalls – all the food stations placed around the edges of the garden with sturdy tables for the guests placed along all the interconnecting pathways shaded by the olive trees and palms.
Guests could circulate and make their selections before choosing somewhere convenient to sit. From then on they could either continue serving one another or opt for waitress service.
Every kind of the best loved Pannecotterra food was available – and all of it guaranteed to fatten. Each stall was a kitchen dedicated to one particular function e.g. the pasta makers and boilers and their arrays of sauces, or the pizza bakers busy, amidst the wafting wood smoke from their ovens, pulling and pummelling at dough ready to expertly spread with pizza toppings.
A raucous clustering of local fishermens’ wives were working joyfully together dispensing fish soup, sea food specialities and stews and risottos. All dolled up in their finery, they flirted and traded tasty morsels with the sweating men alongside busy roasting and carving whole wild boar. These guys in turn profited from their neighbours’ production of potatoes, either deep fried, or golden roasted in olive oil and fennel seeds Pannecotterra style. Next were the contorni cooks working their magic with verdura and vegetables, and then there were the insalata tables and finally the formaggio stalls with nothing but the best of southern Italy’s cheeses.
All Pannecotterrans down huge amounts of Coke, Pepsi, Fanta, Sprite, Orangina, Dr Pepper. These and the island’s own lager beer were being dispensed as fast as the drinks counters’ servers could uncap bottles. At the wine bars jugs of the favorite local red and white wines were being drawn from great casks or bottles of more mature vintages were being uncorking. Always at Pannecotterran weddings guests much prefer non-alcoholic drinks to lubricate their feats of eating: hence there was also a wide choice of Italian spa waters both still and sparkling.
Much as the island’s inhabitants take pasta and all savoury dishes very seriously, it is thanks to the sweet tooth of every Pannecotterran that the Café Braunzucker has won pride of place in the island’s catering business.
Thus the dessert stalls were our centrepiece. There were lavish ice creams, iced cordials and horchatas, tempting arrays of cannoli (rich sweet ricotta filled pastries) and every kind of rich ricotta gateau typically with the ricotta stuffed with candied peels and raisins. There were the delicacies of Arab orgin like cubbaita (a sesame-almond nougat) and almond paste and honey tarts coated with flaked almonds. Best of all I love the the irresistible aroma of date and spicy cinnamon fillo pastry cakes being deep-fried on the spot
Even though conversation between the guests was never less than politely refined, the eating intensified throughout the afternoon until eventually the shadows began to lengthen.
At sunset it was time for the speeches. All the speechmaking and the toasts necessitated a break from eating that guests always find it punishing to sit through. Sure enough the interlude kindled an overwhelming desire to plunge back into more serious feeding. From now on the feasting built up until, late in the evening, it had become a deluge of gluttony. Only the very young chose to waste any time dancing.
The firework show exploding over the harbour at midnight startled the party. Lesser diners or those that had paced themselves badly lifted their heads up from their tables and tried to stand, others sat back and roared their approval at the display. Every Pannecotterran loves fireworks.
For twenty minutes the showers of multi-coloured light detonated and cascaded, then it was time for the cake cutting.
And with that the serious business of the night was about to begin.
to be continued
01-20-2009, 02:45 AM
I tried to accurately describe the goings on at a real "Fat Wedding" in part 4 - now here is the silly fantasy bit:
part 5 Human Balloons
All of us in The Café Braunzucker knew how utterly dedicated Mariella had been in preparing for this day. Not least she’d methodically honed as fine a pair of proudly capacious duelling stomachs on the café’s joint proprietors as ever graced a Pannecotterra “Fat Wedding”
We also knew that Mariella had gone out of her way to invite old Rita and her son along to the wedding. One of the town’s most notorious characters, Rita was the no-nonsense proprietor of the popular workers’ café down at the industrial end of the harbour. She so idolized her son (her only child) that over the years she’d lovingly mothered him up into a vast gelatinous blob.
Now in his mid thirties and totally hairless like a giant baby, her “little” boy had grown so big he’d become no more than a vast belly on short stubby legs; he had (like us) to be helped to move around. “L’Organetto” (The Barrel Organ) they called him, bred for just one purpose in life: to win bets in eating competitions for his mother’s customers. No one could ever recall him utter a word other than a grunt.
A well nigh perfect eating machine, pure and simple, everyone was aware of why “L’Organetto” had been brought here to our wedding.
No more than a handful of guests present today had been in our café that fateful day over fifty years ago to witness the incident in the café when my beloved Papa had so tragically exploded.
Nonetheless I knew I was not alone in wondering whether amends might not finally be made tonight after all those intervening years.
Dealing with the wedding cake was to be the first round of the contest.
The wedding cake was literally a “tour de force”, an enormous pyramid of profiteroles, ten feet high. All our girls busied themselves quarrying out the profiteroles and distributing them around the guests. Every guest was invited to have as many as they could stuff away.
“L’Organetto” fairly vacuumed up pile after pile of them, as did my bride and I. Soon very little of the pyramid cake was left, just a few layers of profiteroles remained to be distributed. At this point the flooring was drawn back and, amidst cheering, silently and dramatically more of the base of the pyramid rose up to about head height out of the floor .
A further pile of profiteroles was placed in front of “L’Organetto” who merely grunted and got back to work. Others willingly joined in again and as the two of us also continued downing them. Melone declared she was pleased her pastrymaking was being so appreciated.
Two further hydraulic lifts of the pyramid rose out of the floor until a foundation plate over ten feet wide and two feet thick finally emerged. This was built of cannoli stuffed with ricotta. The change to the tangy ricotta stuffed into the crunchy cannoli shells now came as a welcome contrast to all the dark chocolate coated pastry and cream we had all been gorging upon.
After the best part of an hour most guests had dropped out of the wedding cake eating contest. Less than a dozen of us remained - with “L’Organetto” just continuing impassively to hoover up anything and everything offered.
Mariella called out brightly “So who fancies a little pasta now to fill the cracks?”
This was the signal for round two to commence. Personally I’ve always preferred being stuffed with pasta on a binge as I find the olive oil a great help in keeping the stomach’s internal lining flexible and elastic.
Before the start of the pasta eating round, “L’Organetto’s” entourage had transferred him across to a special canvass sling-cum-hammock we knew to be his serious competition rig. It held him reclining back at an angle of 45° to facilitate his being stuffed. Moreover, it was also plainly meant to intimidate challengers, as his apparently limitless spherical belly billowed out, flowing around and down before him.
Fortunately Melone and I were positioned up above “L’Organetto” so psychologically the advantage still remained with the home team. We were lying together across our tableau, as we had been all through the feast, though now my bride's head was resting on my left side’s pillowy love handles. Melone’s wedding dress was still smoothly arranged over her and out onto the cushions; now however it bore plenty of evidence of our chocolate eating.
Those left in the contest each managed to put away six heaped platters of the steaming pastas being ferried across from the pasta making stalls. By the end only three others beside “L’Organetto” and ourselves were still active (two of whom, I’m proud to say, were our own big girls).
Working away consuming my pastas, I recalled my father’s eating exploits. He would be proud of his son tonight. Abiding by the advice he’d passed on with his dying words, I’d always taken care to insist that only the best oils be used for massaging my belly.
But suddenly I had a mental flashback to the day he’d exploded; I saw again the walls covered in sponge cake. At this I very nearly puked. I balked at taking any more mouthfuls of spaghetti alla Puttanesca (literally whore’s style spaghetti) a Neapolitan dish I usually love. I could not continue until I resolved: whatever ever else you eat tonight STAY WELL CLEAR OF SPONGE CAKE !
Meanwhile they had been spit roasting another wild boar and Mariella now asked us if we thought some roast pork would be acceptable after the pasta.
“Some ribs of pork would be delicious” I exclaimed, still picturing the spattered sponge cake.
Those tending “L’Organetto” had by now divested him of any potentially confining garments. In the interlude before the pork arrived they worked away at oiling and massaging his great stretch marked doming gut.
Weirdly his enormous naked exposed belly now seemed to be glowing green in the darkness – indeed he resembled a great luminous green human balloon.
We learnt later that they always used a special green oil made from grinding pistachios to oil him.
Apart from his trade mark grunting and raucous belching, he obviously relished an ability to break wind masterfully – only now did I fully understand why they called him “The Barrel Organ”. The cacophony of the lengthy extemporary performances he discharged never failed to promote great hilarity and wisecracking in his feeding team; clearly it served as a great morale booster.
You had to admire the theatrical showmanship “L’Organetto” brought to his competitive eating.
Thankfully soft cheeses and yoghurts followed the roast wild boar. By this time my “inside girls” were protesting about being totally overwhelmed by the mountainous cascades I’d been stuffing down into my belly. The yoghurt gave us all some respite. At least they could try and float down there in the creamy flood now being poured in to neutralise the roast meat.
Like “L’Organetto”, I’d gotten my belly exposed now, hoping the freedom from constraint might allow my poor “inside girls” more room inside.
Around 3 am Mariella called for the chocolate pears to be brought on. There was a cheer from those guests who had recovered sufficiently to realise this was The Café Braunzucker’s famous speciality – the line that Melone herself had perfected.
And it was Melone’s chocolate pears that finally did the trick.
After he’d been downing over a dozen chocolate pears like they were oysters, the girls feeding me whispered that “L’Organetto” seemed to be in trouble. He had to be coaxed to take another two. Then we heard he had spat out a further one. Next they reported it had been a quarter of an hour since he’d last accepted anything – even water. Finally they’d learnt “L’Organetto” had stopped eating.
At this news Melone called theatrically for more to be brought and ate another chocolate pear; I followed suit. Melone managed two further chocolate pears, though now I was too comatose to accept more than one. Enough! Enough! all my inside girls were screaming at me frantically.
Meanwhile the opposing team worked away hysterically trying to revive “L’Organetto” but all they managed to induce was more spectacularly drawn-out breaking of wind. No doubt about it: the Human Balloon was dead in the water!
Melone declared we should celebrate by finishing off with tiramisu – since this had been what had originally brought us together.
I accepted a few mouthfuls of tiramisu. Too late! Nausea overwhelmed me as I tasted the sponge cake.
Madonna! Was I on the point of exploding just like my poor old dad?
Alongside me Melone seemed to enjoy getting it poured down into her. The last thing I remember was Melone’s great shout of triumph at bursting her wedding dress violently apart. But before her enormously fat chocolate pear of a body bounded out to freedom I’d already passed out.
to be continued
01-20-2009, 08:34 AM
bump after edit
01-25-2009, 04:03 PM
part 6 the succession
When I woke up I had no idea where I was. Beautiful big busty angels in crisp white uniforms were smiling caringly down at me, like I was in Heaven.
I’d woken up in Heaven?
….. But I’d spent all those long years qualifying for the other place.
“Your husband’s awake now“ I heard them say.
“At long last,” I heard Melone’s unmistakable voice. “Why, hello stranger” she said, her deep husky tones heavy with irony.
Standing over me her bosom filled my entire vision. She was on the point of cascading out of a light gauzy nightie. I was about to be carpet-bombed – smothered by breast flesh.
Hang on a moment… she’d just walked across to me! Last time I’d seen her she couldn’t have moved without a whole gang of helpers.
“What’s happening?” The question came out of me as a croak.
“We’re getting you into better shape, that’s what.”
“Where are we?”
“We’re on our honeymoon Lover Boy. Not that I’ve noticed!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you’ve been out for the count for the last three weeks.”
“Three weeks kiddo! Three weeks of sitting minding a great lifeless blob of lard. You’ve missed all the action – Barcelona, Nice, Sardinia. We’re due into Syracuse tomorrow morning – if you feel up to it, that is.”
I was more awake now. I watched her sashay mountainously across to the windows, extravagantly wide chocolate buttocks flinging the skimpy nightie hither and thither.
“You like the way I walk now? Enjoy all the hip action?” She pirouetted: with the light behind her everything was on show. Her nightie was pushed out too far sideways to reach as far down as her thighs.
I could feel myself aroused; I knew I was back in business.
I learnt that we were on a luxurious cruise ship La vita Ronde (Life in the Round) designed exclusively for people of size. Emblazoned across the top of all the on-board menus and literature was their mission statement “catering for all the heavy weight pleasures in life”. Thoughtfully Mariella had booked us into the ship’s health spa and gymnasium for a month to have our mobility restored.
We’d both been installed in sophisticated rigs that not only incorporated a monitored system for regulated intravenous feeding but also provided a 24 hour computerised traction programme.
Unlike me, Melone had never lost consciousness. She’d been able to enjoy watching TV while exercising during the day. As soon as she could, she’d been up and about, at first in a wheel chair then increasingly under her own steam. I learnt she had been down in the kitchens advising on the finer points of making pastries.
“Are you getting up off your ass to look at Syracuse? There’s apparently an ancient Greek theatre but, more to your tastes, there’s an unmissable trattoria next the cathedral for lunch.”
It was not an invitation; it was a challenge.
And she was right. After my initial apprehension about leaving the rig, I found I had regained a degree of mobility. We were bussed around the city and each time I felt increasingly more confident about venturing out of my wheelchair.
In my eagerness to enter the trattoria I sent chairs flying. “Just remember you’re still over 600lbs sunshine”, she warned me.
Tucking into pasta marinare as if I hadn’t eaten for a month, I chuckled about out-eating “L’Organetto” (The Barrel Organ).
“You out-ate “L’Organetto”! Ha! Melone crowed. “What do you mean?” …(pause)… “I out-ate both of you REMEMBER?”
“And anyway”, she added, “Mariella had to fork out 2000 Euros “appearance money” to Rita before she agreed to bring “L’Organetto” - it should have been more but Rita said she’d had a special thing about your dad.
“Wait a minute! Are you saying it was a fix?”
“Oh forget it! Go finish yer pasta Big Man. We all enjoyed our big Fat Wedding didn’t we?”
That protracted Trattoria lunch marked the beginning of our new life together. And as might be expected, once we were back in harness at the café, Melone happily returned to gaining in her usual way.
My new life as a married man has been a whole lot better than I ever dared to imagine. I’ve not had to give anything up, I got to keeping all my big women and the lifestyle; I’ve simply become closer to the breathtaking Melone.
Every morning I witness her thrill at finding that something as simple as standing is getting more and more difficult. She loves the feeling of her fat pulling down on her, so real and so heavy. Once standing, she’ll wobble just a few steps to the mirror. To get under way she has to swing her arms out wide above all those delicious great bulging rolls of side fat to gain momentum.
As she looks in the mirror, we laugh. “We need to go on another weight loss cruise soon Blubber Boy” she says, “we’re yo-yoing you and me. Up and down, then up again.”
She claims that with so much Café Braunzucker food and so much sex, her blubber has transformed her into a lust ridden glutton just like the rest of us.
“Trouble is we both love the up bits too much” I chuckle.
I watch her admire her blubbery body in the mirror.
Long ago Melone's chin and graceful neck disappeared under three (or is it four) big rolls of fat. Whenever she looks down her lowest chin roll gets all squashed out and floods over her breasts. As her cheeks have filled out and dimpled, they’ve caused a wicked pucker to her thick lips and her eyes to sparkle mischievously. All this softly fluid face and neck fat is in constant animation as she communicates her irrepressible strong personality.
Her hands move across feeling the softness of her fat. She loves to slap and knead her belly, watching it jiggle, or slide her hands under a fold to feel its astounding weight.
Her fat feet spread out on the floor like an elephant’s - though Melone says this is necessary to balance her bulk. Her ankles have rolled all over the tops of her feet and only faint bumps of fat show where toes once were. Her calves, stacks of loose flab rings, are far wider then most of my plump café girls’ torsos. Pillows of fat mark where knees might be, but fascinating gobbets of almost liquid fat flow past them to droop down nearly to her ankles. These were once her inner thighs!
Her upper arms spread out to either side of her, flowing over her hips. Her forearms, short tubes of fat, get pushed out sideways by all that hip fat. They sag like her upper arms, but are nowhere near as big. She can’t grip with her hands anymore, they’re just sweetly soft pads of creamy colored fat. There are just dimples and bumps where once she had knuckles and fingers.
While all this is amazing, her gigantic breasts still remain my absolute favourites. For Melone Pride of Place must be that massive thrusting gut.
Oops! No. Wait, she’s disagreeing with me….
She’s turning sideways and I watch great bulbous rolls and folds of fat in motion. They flow out from the middle of her back and are large enough to hide things away under.
Of course! How could I ignore her colossal great beautiful bum! Every African woman knows how to display her glorious bottom; I adore losing myself totally in Melone’s stupendously fat arse.
Each of Melone's vast cheeks has grown to become a great globe of lovely shimmering fat, quivering with dimples. There’s a butt shelf on her plenty wide enough to swallow up that tray of tiramisu she originally brought me. Her huge hips make her even wider. They slosh around uncontrollably when she walks. How wide she is now - over five, maybe six feet across her hips. She is wider than she is high!
Her belly is colossal. It hangs past her knees, the full width of her body. It sticks out more than two feet ahead of her, arriving around the corner long before her face. Her belly button now rides so low - level with her vagina - and so far away, she has no hope of reaching it. Pleasuring herself became impossible for Melone long ago, sometimes she will beg for us to oblige. The fold across her belly is deep enough for her to lose things in when she’s working in the kitchen. The upper roll of fat over the fold is bigger than most fat people’s bellies. Below her navel her belly hangs in two distinct belly droops down her legs.
As I told you, I was originally attracted to her bountiful breasts and I still love them best. Her breasts have swollen as Melone has continued amassing fat. They are now enormous bulbous sacks of soft milk fat plunging down way past her belly button. Great purple aureoles about the size of her face with thumb sized thick nipples face down at the floor. As she breaths, her mammaries rise and fall slowly with little ripples coursing gently over the smooth breast flesh right down to her sensitive nipples. Sometimes when she’s bored, she’ll haul in a breast and start sucking on her own nipple like a baby. We both enjoy getting comfort from the sweet secretions.
So fat was Melone, she was equal in size to a whole group of people. But to make just one new little Braunzucker wasn’t that easy.
It was proving difficult to consummate the union physically.
Two enormous bodies with so little apparent congruency could not accomplish the crucial transfer of body fluids. Plus I have to confess that at my time of life I require so much more prolonged stimulation to bring me to ejaculation. Mariella had to direct the more active girls to assist in manipulating us into achieving the prolonged couplings necessary.
Nevertheless three days after my seventieth birthday, Melone presented me with little Emilio Giancarlo Braunzucker.
During her pregnancy Melone gained close to a further 200 lbs. At nearly 800 lbs, and with ballooning mammaries, Melone’s milk production far exceeded her baby’s needs. Small boys around town enjoyed spreading rumours about the Café Braunzucker’s richly improved ricotta. It is certainly true to say her alluring nipples, huge, firm and forever flowing, have considerable boosted my waistline. I can’t get enough of her.
Melone rules the roost these days nowadays. She has made a strategic place to sit and does the meeting and greeting with her baby parked beside her in his pram.
And for my seventieth birthday, all my lovely chocolate pears (well actually the still sentient ones), clubbed together and presented me with an electric buggy. They said it would make it easier for an old man to get around. Trouble is it means I’m no longer getting any exercise. So nowadays when I’m parked up in my customary corner of the café, Melone says she overhears customers remarking how exactly like “L’Organetto” I am. No more than a giant belly on wheels.
The odd thing is that as my gut gets bigger, I’m growing more aware of what’s going on inside me. And I know you’ve all doubted me but I was right all along.
Call me mad if you want, but I actually enjoy spending more and more of my time in that other wonderful world inside my belly! There is such a luxurious velvety twilight down there, permeated by a rosy glow from the light filtering through the walls of my great gut. It’s like the Café Braunzucker’s backroom only better; a paradise of gloriously big women, lounging around, glorious chocolate pears of every description all requiring sustenance. I feel young again in there, which is as well since they are all constantly craving food and sex.
I can tell you, keeping them agreeable down there takes most of my time nowadays. But somehow I manage to stop them from bellyaching too much. They’ve made me promise that I will do my best to keep it coming for them.
But I also have to admit that, out in the café, our latest little Mini looks promising too…..she is coming on a treat.
Sad to relate, just after the fifth birthday of his (now rather plump) son, old Giancarlo suffered a stroke. It left him impaired; he’d lost the ability to speak.
But for some time before this, he’d been completely immobile, stranded by the stupendous enlargement of his belly.
Because he’d started going on about a whole harem of women inside his belly clamouring to be fed, Melone had him hooked up to a tube delivering a constant 24/7 food supply. Permanently confined to the backroom now, he was propped upright on cushions; the domed top of his great belly rising higher than old Giancarlo’s head.
Mashed up against his bulk in the velvety twilight, Marcelline and the other immobile chocolate pears (who have been joined now also by Mariella) insist that, despite his stroke, life does not seem to have changed much for old Giancarlo; inwardly he continues enjoying relaxing among them just as much as ever.
A return to reality at Professor Rawson Colman’s corner table in the Café Braunzucker.
“Signor! … Heh! Professor!”
“Eh?” I shook myself out of my daydream. There was the hefty Sierra Leonian waitress looming by my table, with an alluring deep cleavage hanging out of her short sleeved uniform blouse and waistcoat. At eye level - just inches from my nose - a quivering midriff roll muffined out over tight black hip hugger pants.
Good Grief! I had been sitting in the Café Braunzucker lost in my thoughts for over two hours. She was clearly about to eject me
Looking me straight in the eye in her provocative way, she said, “I think Signor ….. you may need a little help with this tiramisu”.
She lowered the tiramisu bowl and placed it beside me.
“But …. I didn’t order tiramisu….”
She hefted her chest up and out of the way, then for all she was worth she blew out that balloon of a belly right in my face . . . .
That old café proprietor Giancarlo was not alone in confusing reality with his internal fantasy world.
12-16-2009, 05:03 PM
Oh, this is GOOD!
Characters, FAT characters, fully fleshed out and made real for us.
A beautiful place, beautiful people and let the story roll.
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