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Old 11-24-2008, 01:20 PM   #26
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Originally Posted by Lardibutts View Post
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. 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?

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Old 11-24-2008, 02:44 PM   #27
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Originally Posted by Risible View Post
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 .

Originally Posted by elroycohen View Post
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.
“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”
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Old 11-24-2008, 05:22 PM   #28
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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.
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Old 11-29-2008, 09:15 AM   #29
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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
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Old 12-01-2008, 01:40 PM   #30
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Originally Posted by samster View Post
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.
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Old 01-19-2009, 03:37 PM   #31
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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
“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”

Last edited by Observer; 01-19-2009 at 10:14 PM.
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Old 01-20-2009, 03:45 AM   #32
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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
“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”

Last edited by Observer; 01-20-2009 at 09:33 AM.
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Old 01-20-2009, 09:34 AM   #33
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Observer has a ton of rep. Literally. As in over 2000!Observer has a ton of rep. Literally. As in over 2000!Observer has a ton of rep. Literally. As in over 2000!Observer has a ton of rep. Literally. As in over 2000!Observer has a ton of rep. Literally. As in over 2000!Observer has a ton of rep. Literally. As in over 2000!Observer has a ton of rep. Literally. As in over 2000!Observer has a ton of rep. Literally. As in over 2000!Observer has a ton of rep. Literally. As in over 2000!Observer has a ton of rep. Literally. As in over 2000!Observer has a ton of rep. Literally. As in over 2000!

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Old 01-25-2009, 05:03 PM   #34
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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!”

“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.

begetting Emilio

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.

And finally:

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.

The End
“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”
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Old 12-16-2009, 06:03 PM   #35
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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.

Seeing beauty in big women since 1968
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