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Old 09-16-2010, 04:41 PM   #1
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Default "The Frying Dutchman" - Lardibutts (BBW ~ SSBW, Nautical Fantasy, Abduction)

~BBW, SSBBW, Nautical Fantasy, Abduction

Author's note:There is a post here about how this little fantasy came about.


I’d been assigned the punishment beat on the wrong side of town. Behind the train station my patch was a defeated area of crumbling old warehouses along the canal, and an ugly spotty rash of new tin sheds in a wasteland of weeds and scrub on the sites of former factory buildings.

It was a hot afternoon and I was wishing I hadn’t had that extra baguette and Stella beer “on the house” after all the shit over copping the crappy Peugeot “rep’s” car abandoned on the cluster of yellow lines on the busy junction at the side of Anton’s bar.

I’d already turned a blind eye, leaving it till late morning to slap a ticket on, but just as I was starting the guy pitched up. He spun me such a sob story! His wife didn’t understand him; she’d left him to go back to mum; she’d taken his little girl with her blah blah... He’d been in the bar drowning his sorrows until late last night. Then a nice “mature” lady had taken pity on him. She’d picked him up and after a few more drinks took him off back home with her.

But he hadn’t gone off into a rant at me as they all do, and I heard myself starting to go soft on him. Maybe also for the reason that had nice dark eyes. Anyway he bought me lunch in the bar, he was so grateful I’d let him off.

We were just sitting there with me listening to more of the sob stuff when his missus pitched up in a taxi. Now who was telling the truth? I’ve no idea. But she immediately assumed I was his bit on the side and the feathers flew.

These days I’m quite a big lady so when it seemed like she was about to tear my uniform shirt, I had no alternative but knock her over and sit on her. Like she couldn’t do no harm squashed flat under my big fat backside. Blow me if hubby didn’t now start beating me about the head with her bloody handbag. It was Anton that threw them both out.

Anton knows I bend the rules about customers parking around his place – it’s the only way he can get custom out where he is. So he set me right with the Stella Artois and a ham baguette – oh! – and with a few extra frites on the side.

He made me see the funny side. He said I’d got the right build for marriage counseling; with my big backside I’d saved their marriage he reckoned.

Now, patrolling along the canal-side after all that effing beer, my olive green uniform trousers felt so tight. Everything had gone straight onto that big bum of mine. Merde, merde! Bum, belly, everything was blowing up with the gas.

I slipped behind a bank of self-seeded buddleia bushes, side-stepped several dumped tyres and a twisted baby buggy and ducked into a secret little hidden world.

I leant back against the wall and undid my belt. Relief! Out surged my belly rolls and I felt my buttocks flopping free. I tugged out an uncomfortable wedgie then waggled my hips to release the rest.

It was good to feel it all hang loose: including uniform shirt tails, silk chemise and matching panties - in plum today with champagne lace trimming.

Aaaah… that really was a whole load better!

I lay down and stretched out on a chunk of demolished concrete floor slab cradling my poor belly still blown out with all that fizzy beer. I turned my face upwards and enjoyed soaking in the afternoon sun and the sound of the cicadas.

How I missed the sun. As a little girl in the Ivory Coast I used to take the sun for granted, never imagining you might have to endure weeks without it in a cold grey hostile world. In fact in Abidjan it was wet days that were fun, you could stay indoors and flirt. You didn’t have to head load 150 lbs of heavy fruit and a cutlass around the market in an enamel basin vending pineapple slices.

I’ve been a traffic warden here in north eastern France for the past couple of years. I was really lucky to land the job after my boyfriend had fucked off with some lippy Belgian semi-prostitute leaving me with a month’s rent outstanding on a lousy concrete high rise HLM – more a prison cell than an apartment.

The first year and a half in the parking job had been OK, I’d been in the centre of town: put on the best streets, flirting with the tourists, being part of the smart image of the elegant town. Then my supervisor switched me to the outer parts of town.

My bitchy co-workers all said what else could I expect when I’d gone up three uniform pants sizes since starting.

At least today I’ve not been attacked. I’ve been hospitalised twice; usually its women that take a slug at you. I get strings of abuse most days. Maybe that’s why I’ve blown myself up bigger: I look like I’m a force to be reckoned with nowadays; Big is always Better where I come from!

While ruefully reviewing my “growing” career as a meter maid, I’d been watching a boat glide by and line up to enter the canal locks along to my left. Three lush looking bikini clad girls were draped around the top of the boat, sunning themselves, chit-chatting. The one with the best figure was black, flaunting her curves in a bright emerald green bikini. She was one hell of a lucky bitch; how I envied her. I fantasised about being on there with them laughing and joking. Gliding off and away out of all this shit.

I must have dozed off for a bit because next thing I knew, I’d a mouth like a dried cow pat, and the boat was through the first lock.

It was then that I spotted a small car parked on the yellow lines opposite the lock. Aha! Easy pickings I thought. For (what with my extended lunchtime break and afternoon snooze) I still needed to bag quite a few cars to get close to my daily target.

Hauling myself up, I struggled to squash all my extravagant bottom end back into my over-tight uniform pants. Finally I buckled up my belt, gave myself a last wriggle of my hips to consolidate the uniform (only to suffer the return of that painful wedgie) and scrambled out of my hidey hole.

Once I’d worked my mightily bulbous buttocks, heaving heavily behind me, up into a swinging marching rhythm, I was confident I looked my imposing best. I checked my shadow now and then as I proceeded up along the lockside to book the little vehicle.

It was a sexy little retro job done out as a tiny jeep with a candy striped awning rigged over the top. It had a foreign number which didn’t bother me – it still counted for my booking tally for the day - but the problem was to discover what “make” to write on my form. I peered around, no badge or name anywhere.

As usual a woman pitched up demanding to know what I was doing with her car. I told her I was booking the vehicle and was looking for the make to put on my form. She said it was a 2CV Citroen and pointed to the boat in the lock. It belonged on the boat she said, once it was clear of the lock they’d load it back on board. She’d been ashore doing errands, now she was helping the lock keeper.

I continued with laboriously entering all the details onto the form in my machine (difficult because my sausage fingers are way too big for the piddling little keys). The young woman, seeing how I was determined to book her, volunteered more information in the hope I would relent. The boat was the “Roosje Jelle” and they were working their way down to the Med. She told me she’d joined as the ship’s cook a few weeks back in Dusseldorf.

I looked the extrovert young German plumper up and down. She was blonde with peeling sunburn, but I was a head taller in my boots. And boy, was she overflowing that itsy bitsy bikini? (he he!) Realising what I was thinking, she joked about the way she’d been making everyone onboard outgrow their bikinis. The boat owner was a Dutchman she told me; apparently the guy had the knack of recruiting young women to crew for him wherever he went on his travels.

I was nearly through inputting the details into my machine; now I had to formally notify her of the choice: pay cash now or twice the amount by post within 30 days.

“You have to talk to Koenraad” she said, “he’s got all the money. Between you and me he’s rolling in it!”

She pointed to a guy in a yachting cap who’d appeared on deck shouting orders to the bikinied boat women. Fiftyish, he looked like a retired tall basket ball player: about 7 foot tall and sporting a big pot.

She led me across the road and as she was about to pass me across to one of the women on the boat she said in an undertone: ”and I’ll tell you something else for nichts… Koen is a total sucker for big juicy girls like you, especially in tight uniforms.”

The ship’s cook proved dead right about Koenraad. He received me very courteously (it is almost unknown for a traffic warden to get two “victims” refraining from abuse in one day). He pointed out the way along to the wheelhouse and gestured for me to go before him. He followed on closely behind, so close that several times he got to brushing the cheeks of my backside.

Indeed he was virtually grabbing at my buttock fat as he eased the door shut past my right side back pocket flap saying:

“Oops careful! We mustn’t damage your uniform ….Miss…um..”

“Yvette” I said, “Traffic officer Yvette Abusanje”. I started fumbling with the button of my left breast pocket to fish out my identity. I couldn’t manage it – my grey green uniform blouse was stretched far too tight across my massive boobs.

“No matter Yvette! Please, it is a privilege to welcome aboard such a beautifully turned out representative of this famous town’s bureaucracy. Let me introduce myself I am Koenraad and this is Grieta, captain of my little ship.

Grieta perhaps you might pour Yvette some iced lemonade to help us resolve our little problem with the car.”

The iced cordial did wonders to revive me and I willingly accepted a second glass.

Grieta was a big mature blonde with an even plushier bottom than mine. An unwieldy blubbery sunburned spare tyre bulged out over her low waisted white duck officer style pants. On top, over a rather dirty white bra, she wore a loosely buttoned see-through white linen shirt with breast pockets like mine plus epaulettes. As she bent over to pour me a further glass, I saw Koenraad trace his fingers around Grieta’s backside appreciatively.

We finalised everything about the parking fine then Koenraad said “Now Yvette, while the girls load aboard that naughty deux chevaux that’s been the cause of all this, Grieta and me would like to invite you to view our little ship.

There was a stairway down from inside the wheelhouse and Grieta went first leading the way down with Koenraad, into frottage as usual, very close behind me bringing up the rear. At the foot of the stair we leant over a balcony rail to look down on a beautiful little paradise under an open sliding glass roof just above our heads.

Grieta explained it was originally a small Dutch freighter that Koenraad had converted into a pleasure boat and we were looking into the old cargo hold. I could see a grand piano on a beautiful wood floor at the bottom of the hold with a big potted palm and some comfortable seating around, plus a big dining table. That’s where we have all our meals Grieta pointed out.

With genuine delight I exclaimed, “Wow what a place for parties!”

“That’s right! We’ve had some good nights down there. Now you should come and see where we sleep…” Grieta squeezed her big butt past me to jiggle around onto one of the low white painted galleries running along the sides of the hold. There were beautifully appointed built in couches along the walls with cushions and curtains you could screen yourself off with.

“You should lie down and try one” Koenraad suggested. “Ooh how wonderfully comfortable you look Yvette, lying there! No! Please don’t mind about your great big boots on the coverlet.”

Its true, I did feel wonderfully luxurious, and a bit sinful (I enjoyed that bit).
Then I looked up. MON DIEU! Trees were passing by overhead. The ship was moving!

Koenraad said “don’t worry, come upstairs and we’ll drop you off when we get to the lower end of the town.”

Back up in the wheelhouse it was time for tea. Laid out were half a dozen great gateaux the ship’s cook Vilhelmina had fetched in from Patisserie Charles, the best (and the most expensive) place in town on the corner of the Place Lafayette.

The black girl I’d seen earlier was now steering and Grieta introduced her as Corrie. The other bikini girls were Nina and Jenna.

Corrie, standing at the wheel appetisingly voluptuous in her emerald green bikini, looked me up and down very carefully, quizzing me about my uniform, what I did and why I was here in France. In return I learnt she was from Suriname in South America and had grown up in Amsterdam.

Koenraad leaned past me to push tangerine cream gateaux into Corrie’s mouth, joking boisterously that Vilhelmina’s gross taste in patisserie was having a disastrous effect on all the ship’s company’s waistlines.
He winked at me as he fondled Corrie’s bottom. She plays the piano divinely he said to me, but in a stage whisper he told her she had a long way to go before she would be able to fill a pair of uniform trousers as positively as Mademoiselle Yvette here.

I thought cheeky bugger! So I said, “it’s a good thing us Africans can’t understand irony!”

Captain Grieta cut across our banter, objecting loudly that Koenraad was the real villain of the piece. Not for nothing was he known the length and breadth of the waterways of Europe as the Frying Dutchman.

“Look what five years on this boat eating his all lardy bloody fried food has done for me!” she said, grabbing hold of her flabby midriff for effect. Then she reached across and grabbed a second enormous piece of chocolate gateaux.

I felt I was being feted as some kind of guest of honour; they seemed to be putting on a show, wisecracking for my benefit. So I made rather a pig of myself by eating almost the whole of the delicious pineapple gateaux.

I went on and cleared the plate entirely after Vilhelmina pressed me into finishing off the last few slices. Actually she ended up feeding them to me with her fingers.

“Why don’t you call me Vilma?” she murmured, undoing the buckle of my heavy belt.

“Ooh! La la! What naughty underwear.” was the last thing I heard her saying.

I must have passed out by the time we got to the lower end of town, because four years later….. well I’m still here on the Frying Dutchman’s ship.

Koenraad never ever seems to stop and get off the ship and so, yes, with all our traveling, I’ve seen a lot more of the world.

I’m also a lot bigger now, though I’m happy to report I’ve made that catty bitch Corrie really massive. She’s so big she can’t reach the piano keys any more.

Koenraad has asked us to look out for a new pianist we might entice on board and abduct.
We are due in Casablanca next week; a good place for pianists so I’m told.
“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”

Last edited by Lou Grant; 09-17-2010 at 02:57 AM.
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Old 09-17-2010, 01:12 PM   #2
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anarcha has said some nice things

Lovely and painterly imagery, tasty and elegant writing as usual! Thank you!
my art is at http://anarcha.deviantart.com/
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Old 09-18-2010, 01:00 AM   #3
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Originally Posted by anarcha View Post
painterly imagery, tasty and elegant writing
Oh Wow! No one has ever coined such a memorable phrase about my stuff before, least of all my English teacher! Thank you.

And thank you too for that link to your comic. Very inventive - with your own very distinctive style. El Greco would do comics that way.
“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”
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Old 09-18-2010, 09:53 AM   #4
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anarcha has said some nice things

Originally Posted by Lardibutts View Post
Oh Wow! No one has ever coined such a memorable phrase about my stuff before, least of all my English teacher! Thank you.

And thank you too for that link to your comic. Very inventive - with your own very distinctive style. El Greco would do comics that way.
Truly, those of us with this story interest are blessed to have your talented contributions. I also love the tag "Nautical Fantasy!"

Thanks for visiting my comic<BLUSH!>. I've never heard the El Greco comparison before, but now that you mention it I kind of see what you mean--something about the lush palette... going to have to explore that more!
my art is at http://anarcha.deviantart.com/
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Old 09-20-2010, 02:01 PM   #5
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Originally Posted by anarcha View Post
I kind of see what you mean--something about the lush palette...
Thats right, but its also to do with how you draw angst ridden figures, anyway look forward to you drawing some more
“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”
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Old 09-28-2010, 04:40 PM   #6
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Default View a picture of the abduction

I've enjoyed collaging together a picture of our lovely big heroine Yvette the meter maid seen here performing her duties mere minutes before being abducted by Vilhelmina the feeder cook off The Frying Dutchman's boat (seen in the background).
“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”
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Old 03-06-2011, 04:21 PM   #7
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Just been back down in the southern Med. In the days leading up to Mardi Gras it is Carnival time. Droves of overweight young girls are roaming around town in masks, lurid make-up and the most unsuitable of skimpy costumes. Time for a bit more fantasy...

Abducting a pianist

Casablanca proved a big disappointment for me. Even though I was back home in Africa, my Africa, romantic sounding Casablanca was hardly the steamy hotbed stuffed full of naughty overweight ladies I’d been led to believe. To make things worse they told me Humphrey Bogart never actually asked the pianist to “Play it again Sam”; so no replacement pianists were to be had in Casablanca, fat or thin.

But tomorrow we are putting back into fat loving Pannecotterra again for several days, always a favorite for me. I’ve really grown to love Pannecotterra. The tiny island seems so easy going – so welcoming to all us fatties – unlike the French Riviera with all those snotty nosed bitches strutting their hollow rib cages along the boulevards. Koenraad would take us into clubs in the south of France full of flat-chested stringbags all laughing at us - just because the lightest of the Frying Dutchman’s Big Gels weighs over 350 lbs.

In Pannecotterra they have branches of that German supermarket chain Lidl. Ever since I got into serious weight gain, I’ve been hooked on Lidl. You can stock up on huge quantities of the best fattening foods: excellent chocolate, baked goods, cooked meats, cheeses all at good honest prices.


And it was at the check-out in Lidl a couple of days later where I had this knock-out vision:

She stood upright proud and handsome in the queue ahead of me, pre-occupied with checking through large amounts of foods, snacks and drinks, all conspicuously fattening. I was attracted to her initially by the way she wore her long glossy blue-black hair stylishly up in a loose coil; now I was keen to catch a glimpse of her face. Her profile proved delicate and pretty, she had a cute turned up nose and long dark lashes fluttering over plump olive colored cheeks. As she was checking her purchases through she kept passing items down to eager outstretched hands below.

I moved out to the side of the person ahead of me and saw two little boys, twins they could be, entwining themselves in and around her legs happily comparing notes about what they’d been given.

But this was not what caused my heart stopping moment. The view astounded me. Below waist level this pretty woman was absolutely enormous!

I ogled a vast black clad balloon of hip and buttock quivering excitingly as she stowed her purchases busily. She was wearing a grey shot coarse silk tunic that ended in a frill pushed outwards over the shelf of her hips. Below that she was encased by a colossal pair of clingy black thick fluffy woolen tights that showcased every last nuance of her bulging extravagance to the full.

So this woman was clearly proud of her size!

Once she moved out away from the counter I was able to appreciate the whole of her in her full glory.
Most of all I was gobsmacked by her enormous stunning bottom. Two vast jelly-like globular buttocks were door challenging in width. They were by far the widest part of her. Sideways on, below her tunic frills splaying out over a flat shelf, this astonishing bottom seemed to continue forever arcing out into space. Eventually its billowing gelatinous mass curved back in to hang in a pendulous swag over the back of her thighs, low down towards her knees. And every contour and crevice of those pillowy drooping thighs and blubbery leg rolls was accentuated by the clingy soft black wool of her tights.

When eventually I emerged outside the store she was still near by. This wasn’t surprising for I now realized she couldn’t move too fast. She was waddling with some difficulty in front of me, weighed down with a bag in each hand. Everything about her was bouncing and wobbling.

I began to follow, mesmerized by the vision. All of a sudden I found myself bumping right into her backside!

I’d not allowed for the two children. She had been shepherding them ahead of her, but one must have dropped his treats and she’d halted abruptly, attempting to stoop down to him.

I was quite unable to stop in time and will now never forget the feeling of walloping into all her soft deep buttock fat. Instinctively I caught a hold of her to prevent her pitching forward. While attempting to set to rights the small child toppled in the melee, I collected everything together, including items that had escaped her bags and held them out for her. At the same time I began stammering out an apology.

She just laughed at me!

“That’s an original pick up line” she said, “simply barging me over!

“I’m so sorry to frighten your boys” I said.

My boys? These are not my boys! They’re nephews. This is little Will”, she said, compressing the smaller one, still whimpering, into her thigh fat, “and that’s Saul, his brother, who is four.

“Four and three quarters actually; which is nearly five!” Saul corrected her.

With an eye to the main chance he was quick to spot an opportunity: “Can we go for an Orangina Toni, ‘cos Will’s spilt all his Smarties?”

Grateful to Saul, I too seized at this: “Please, can’t I do something to make amends?”

“Yay!” cried Saul. “Lets go to the kiosk.”

“I can at least buy you a coffee there,” I suggested to the gloriously pear shaped aunt.

Though close by, it was a five minute slow waddle to get us all from the store to the kiosk.
It was situated behind the funicular in a small public garden that looked out over the harbour, a paradise for young kids. Here the two rushed off to play hide and seek with other youngsters chasing the pigeons up into whirling clouds around the parterres.

It left me alone with the breathtaking Toni.

Except that she was the one that was making all the moves.

I set the cappuccinos I’d bought on the table and sat down opposite her

She looked me straight in the eye and said: “You’re a lesbian aren’t you?

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you can’t stop ogling my big bottom. You must fancy girls who are even bigger than you.”

I felt myself go puce colored.

“Its OK! Don’t be silly. Can’t you tell? I like to be noticed. If you get to be my size, you’ve got to make the most of it. And while you are buying, can you go and order me a big sundae, I feel in need of one right now.”

I brought back a pile of pastry cakes for her to munch through while she awaited the sundae. At the same time I bought Saul off with a constant supply of small coins for him to buy snacks on tiptoe over the kiosk counter for them both.

Toni needed no prompting to download her life story to me. She’d been a slinky young teen-going-on-twenty working in PR promoting lavish marina apartment complexes. She’d specialized in dating star European footballers then wheedling them into laying out on expensive apartments for her real estate employers.

Now in her mid thirties, all her weight had piled on while she’d been in an abusive relationship with a rich business man/property developer. Careful not to compromise his marriage back in Pannecotterra, this weirdo (closet FA) had shut her away in a five star hotel he’d built in a Romanian Black sea resort and forced her to fatten up.

Meanwhile Toni’s younger sister Marcie had done the sensible thing in passing her exams and going to college. After a brief college romance, like a good Catholic girl, she’d married and brought forth the two nephews.

It was sister Marcie who had hauled Toni out of her disastrous relationship back to Pannecotterra to act as family drudge and nursemaid while she and her husband dutifully continued to run the family’s old established piano importing business.

I’d rather glazed over during the life story. Watching as Toni stuffed herself, I’d been dreaming about where all those hundreds of calories from the giant sundae and the cream cakes were secreting themselves in all that glorious corpulence.

Hearing the word piano brought me back to earth.

“Sorry…whose piano business did you say it was?”

“Our family’s; my great great grandfather started it.”

So you play the piano?

“My grandfather always said I’d be a famous concert pianist. I used to give recitals as a little girl - he would take me off to Sicily playing the piano. But then he died.”

Toni laughed… “and now just look at me!”

I watched as she looked down at herself, spotted a large glob of cream floating on her bosom then made matters worse by trying to scoop it across over her chins. “My dad’s favorite was always my little sister Marcie,” she added ruefully

Is playing the piano like riding a bike?” I ventured, pressing into her blubber trying to mop the shelf of her breasts clean with a paper napkin.

“Mary mother of God! Can’t you see….I am much too fat to ride a bicycle.”

“No, I meant: do you still play the piano?”

“Of course! It is part of me! But nowhere near concert standard anymore.”

Then I took my big leap in the dark. “We have a beautiful grand piano on our ship. I’d love you to try it then give us your advice about it….”

Just then her mobile rang, cutting across me. It was her sister, issuing orders. She was driving around to collect them all and the groceries.

“Come and look! You can see our boat down there in the harbor,” I persisted as Toni stuffed her phone away. “I’ve been wondering what we should do with the piano. We have no one to play it any more”

Toni struggled to her feet, adjusted her clothing – mainly her tights – which had pushed down under her great drooping rolls of belly, then commenced laboriously to waddle towards the panoramic view. I pointed to our little ship far below, tied up alongside the quay by the Custom House opposite the entrance to the funicular.

“Come and have a look after your sister has collected the kids,” I said. “We can ride down on the funicular, You can have tea with me then we will put you in a taxi home.”

The faintest hint of a smile she gave in reply was all I needed.


Toni played that beautiful grand piano like an angel. With its lid open and the sparkling strings and gilt interior complementing her glossy black tresses, it was like Toni and the great polished black instrument were one.

Everyone turned out to listen. Even our old piano player Corrie, now virtually immobile, asked to be wheeled out to check who was playing.

Toni seemed able to play everything: the great showy classics, the sing along standards, the run-of-the-mill background mood music as well as hot foot-stomping stride stuff.

By now I was familiar with our shipboard rituals of abduction. During a brief lull in her playing Koenraad stepped forward and said “Allow me introduce myself: I am Koenraad and this is Grieta. Grieta is captain of my little ship.”

Like all of us, I was aware how Koenraad’s eyes had been feasting on the way Toni filled the five foot long piano stool to capacity. She mounded up off it gloriously, her beautiful black woolly clad buttocks overflowing off the ends.

To make sure Toni felt feted as guest of honor playing our grand piano, all of us clustered around were putting on a show, singing along and wisecracking for her benefit. Her piano playing responded, rippling around us in the beautiful luxuriously furnished atrium space that Koenraad had so ingeniously converted from the hold of the former freighter.

“Wow what a wonderful place for parties!” Toni cried out happily.

In the background Vilhelmina bustled busily around laying out the most wonderful spread on the big dining table for tea. She winked at me as she parked a particularly extravagant pineapple gateau alongside Toni.
I knew my role: I had to make sure that Toni would make a complete pig of herself eating virtually the whole of that great cake alone.

As I progressed in feeding the cake to Tina, I heard her piano playing change. It was more dreamy, gradually it evolved into loose progressions of extemporary chords and runs up and down the keys - until finally it was becoming more and more intermittent.

I ended up using my fingers to stuff the last few gobbets of cream and sponge down into an increasingly soporific Toni.

“Now why don’t you call me Evie,” I murmured as I began to peel Toni’s tights down gently setting free copious dimpled rolls of her wondrously soft thigh fat. As Toni drowsily sucked the last of the cream off my fingers, I finally got to massaging her great stuffed belly. “That’s better” I murmured, “you’re so beautiful - and you’ve done us all proud.”

We stood around the piano quietly, waiting with baited breath until Toni’s eyelids finally fluttered shut - and stayed shut.

All the time I was ministering to her I had been listening out for the throb of our ship’s engines starting. At last I felt us getting under way: just a couple of gentle bumps as Grieta and Koenraad swung our little ship away from the quayside and out to the open sea.


We had our new pianist safely in the bag.
“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”

Last edited by Lou Grant; 03-07-2011 at 04:24 AM.
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Old 03-09-2011, 04:30 AM   #8
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Cool new installment. Glad to see you continue this clever little tale.
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Old 03-17-2011, 02:54 PM   #9
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Originally Posted by elroycohen View Post
Cool new installment. Glad to see you continue this clever little tale.
Nice of you to say so.
But I gotta serious black hole in the plotting: on this little ship it's a problem of space. While new BBWs are being abducted once a week or so, where do they stash all the existing XWGs after they've been stuffed into immobility?

If I even as much as hinted that they were getting cooked up by the Frying Dutchman, I don't reckon those miserable Dims Moderators would wear 'Wreck of the Medusa' cannibalism on their site.

Any suggestions out there?
“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”
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Old 03-18-2011, 07:18 AM   #10
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What about the Captain having a private island for those who grow too big to be useful onboard?Well taken care of of course!
The body is just the package that holds the true gift of the soul....Some of us just have bigger packages!~~~~(_RAT_)8:>

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Old 03-18-2011, 01:19 PM   #11
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Why not just move into full-scale piracy and take over a larger ship? A pleasure cruiser or something?
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Old 04-12-2011, 12:51 PM   #12
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Originally Posted by dragorat View Post
What about the Captain having a private island for those who grow too big to be useful onboard? Well taken care of of course!
Originally Posted by JimBob View Post
Why not just move into full-scale piracy and take over a larger ship? A pleasure cruiser or something?
Thanks for your suggestions guys.

But I've already done "private islands for those who grow too big" - see "Sadie’s Incredible Exploding Maids" here

and also piracy - see "PROJETTO RONDO A Heavyweight Road Movie" here

Instead I've just decided to cheat (it's fantasy after all) and imagine the ship implausibly bigger on the inside than outside.

So I've done a pic here that shows Tina the ship's beautiful new pianist a few weeks after she settled in, having made herself thoroughly at home and comfortable on the Frying Dutchman's six foot wide piano stool.
(I so wish this wasn't fantasy)

“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”
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Old 04-13-2011, 08:59 AM   #13
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Expanding Pianists and Uniformed Security Duties

Wow! Big piano-player Toni’s abduction certainly impacted bigtime on our tiny paradise.
OK so she can really make that big grand piano sing and we’ve all enjoyed some fabulous nights of partying since she first showed us what she could do. But it’s the ructions that her arrival and personality have caused that I need to tell you about.

To start with, when I first lured her on board, our lovely pear shaped Tina was already carrying over 600 lbs of deliciously loose fat - one hell of lot more than little old me.

Poor Corrie the fatso doughball forced to retire from the keyboard was really irked by the fact that, as replacement pianist, Tina already clearly outweighed her right from the start.

What Corrie refuses to accept is that it is all to do with a girl’s shape.

Thanks to all my hard work in stuffing her up, Corrie has blown out into a grotesquely huge barrel. Plus, riding atop of all that gigantic globular belly mass, there’s a colossal pair of unruly water balloon tits rolling around. Since her head, arms and legs are now no more than useless add-ons, our lovely Corrie can no longer see past her mountainous forefront when seated, never mind work her useless fat flipper arms to reach past onto the keys.

By comparison, all Tina’s bulk is low down. I reckon she could stash a few hundred more pounds of flesh on around her legs, saddle bag thighs and hips and still reach over the top of all that blubber to tinkle the ivories.

In fact I’ve decided to put my theory to the test on Tina. She’s already proved herself a willing and sweetly innocent feedee.

And in scheming out my line of attack I decided that if I let Corrie in on my intentions, I may be able to make amends with poor old Corrie. She’s been slagging me off bitterly to all and sundry about the way in which I so totally wrecked her figure and scuppered her piano playing.
So I bet she’d go along with me trying to sabotage her successor. When all’s said and done, me and Corrie are the only two blacks on the ship, it’s a pity we had to be so rivalrous.

Getting the ship’s German cook Vilhelmina on side is always the key to any little fattening prank. Fortunately (because she was the one who originally abducted me) Vilhelmina and I have always been close. In fact I’ve been prepared to stash on a hell of a lot of extra weight since I arrived just to please her and keep her sweet.


Even though it is now mid February, it’s already like summer down here in the Mediterranean. We’ve had the glass roof shut and the air-conditioning on hard because it’s been so hot down in the hold.

At 2.30 pm it’s still lunchtime for us. Koenraad has been frying as usual – pan after pan after pan of paella and we’ve all been competing to get it; he’s been at it since 11.00 am this morning. I’m stretched out over the cushions feeling pleasantly full watching Lady Ga Ga (I just love her dress sense but is there any more to her than just frothy show biz I’ve been wondering – more meat on her bones might help). I’ve already consumed three full pans of paella - enough to be going on with; right now I fancy some dessert.

But Vilhelmina the cook snorts derisively - implying I haven’t done enough yet to earn my dessert. She nudges me gesturing across to Tina; she’s indicating I’ve been neglecting our project.
Poor Tina’s nodded off behind her huge heaped-up pan of paella: the rich aromatic mix of seafood and rice barely touched. Because of her nightime duties, she tends to sleep a lot through the day. So I roll my bulk across the cushions until I’m alongside her. Draping my arm around her lovely soft shoulders to rouse her, I raise her fork to her lips.

Tina’s so sweetly innocent; like a big sleepy docile pet she opens her mouth. She and I laugh about the way she is prepared to act like putty in my hands. So I begin steadily feeding the paella into her. . .
Vilhelmina’s just plonked an overflowing stein of German beer down beside us and I offer it to Tina’s lips. I enjoy how the shock of the icy lager makes her gasp but at least it galvanises the sleepy big pear into action and her eating gathers pace.

I manage to ease two more dishes of paella into her, alternating it with sluices of the German beer (though I have to admit I ate quite a bit of the last pan myself – with all the hard work of feeding her I was quite peckish again). Both now feeling extremely tipsy after all that beer, we slumped semi comatose against one another.

Vilhelmina had to holler DESSERT in our ears as she banged a large plate of apfelstrudel down in front of us. Opening an eye I suggested that ice cream might help ease the sugary spicy apple pastry down. She returned with a 5 litre pack she’d put briefly in the microwave and sitting down opposite us she set about shovelling it into both of us along with the apfelstrudel.

After all that daytime stuffing Tina and I didn’t rouse until early evening. My mouth felt like a dried out cowpat and my head was spinning, but Vilhelmina and me had somehow to haul Tina upright then begin chivvying her across into the shower.

On the way we had to pass the virtually immobile Corrie heaped up in her buggy by the bar. Her feeder/carer was helping her to snack on tapas to tide her over until the big evening eating session got under way. Squinting over mounding up shoulder fat at the mess we’d made of Tina, Corrie grunted with approval. With a laugh she commented it was only a matter of time now before Koenraad would have to go get another replacement.

Vilhelmina was needed back in the kitchens, so I was left to deal with Tina. I love being squashed up in the shower with someone, especially with a party as big and as soft as Tina. There are so many nooks and crannies to have to hose down on Tina, down low below her middle, so many deep folds and rolls.

I squirted the hose around her upper works too, trying to sober her up ready for her busy evening duties. She didn’t like this and with loud squeals she wrestled the hose away to turn back at me.
I laughed as I ducked away out of range, saying pointedly that, unlike her, I could at least still use my fat legs to run away. I returned with towels and began the extensive job of trying to pat all her fat dry.

Dressing Tina for her evening at the grand piano has become a ritual. She always insists on looking professional – I love how she prefers long sweeping skirts that she arranges over the piano stool before playing. At first she wore a dark green satin dress that swished as she moved and looked stunning against her olive Mediterranean complexion.

Then, after she’d really started piling the weight on low down, apparently Koenraad had whispered to her how exciting her legs looked under a long translucent sarong she’d wrapped around during bikini days sunning herself on deck.

So for the evenings she began experimenting with thin sheer white silk. Though it looked incredible, it lasted no time at all – brutally blasting to shreds over her colossal saddlebag hips. Later we hit upon various layerings of skirts in gauzes and thin tulle worn under a separate brocade bodice top. That way the skirts could all live their separate lives over her contours and the bodice top could overlay and mask the chaos where her top met her bottom.

But the months I’ve spent fattening Tina up are all too apparent now; she must be approaching 800 lbs these days. Although she looks Regal up top still, all that shimmering maelstrom of blubbery folds low down has no hope of being coaxed into any kind of pants. So we just have to let her go play her piano commando style.

She says she gets turned on by this while she’s playing and can feel the juices flooding out of her. Good thing the five foot six piano stool gets a sponging each morning.

I love helping her off to bed at night. She sleeps in the next berth to mine and she likes me to help her onto her mattress then undress her, pulling all those lower skirts off.
With her clothes off Tina’s lower body is profouundly shocking, there is no discernable corporal form to her down here any more. After I’ve pulled a shortie nightie over her head she just loves to let me riffle around in amongst that swirling mass of almost liquid fat. Her mounds of fat are pale, almost translucent. I joke with her that her hips and legs look like some passing fishermen have thrown aboard a pile of freshly caught young octopuses and I’m going to marinade them in olive oil before devouring them.

“OK then” She whispers naughtily: “make sure its extra virgin.”

After I’ve brought her to a climax, often as not she and I just drift off to sleep


Now everything ought to be just perfect but there’s an ugly cloud looming on the horizon.

Captain Gail has reported to me that Koenraad thinks I am getting too fat for my Security duties.

I’ve been outraged by this and I told Vilhelmina the cook as much. I actually told her while she was massaging my great big beautiful black velvety belly. I also told her I put all the blame on her - it’s absolutely true: Vilhelmina’s the reason I’ve grown so bloody big.
And do you know what? She just laughed at me, blew a raspberry with her lips down into my blubbery navel then pushed a big rumbaba into my mouth. But she also whispered to me how she wanted to bake me a beautiful cake once I reach 500 lbs.

I admit I’ve really piled the weight on being the ship’s Security Officer. Whenever we’re in port Koenraad expects Captain Grieta to post me on duty. This is where I have to lounge about in uniform snacking conspicuously close to the gangplank to deter undesirables. And it’s true I have outgrown and burst out of umpteen uniforms - but only because I thought they all wanted me to.

I know one of Koenraad’s big fetishes to be “Fat Women in Uniforms”; there’s pin ups of grossly bottom heavy soft cows compressed into police combat uniforms and all sorts lining his office - so I’ve been told. It’s so unfair! I’ve only been trying to live out a fantasy for him.

The captain’s comments really got to me, they kept building up in my head. Acting on impulse I stormed in to confront Captain Gail. Koenraad was in there as well when I called into the wheelhouse; he looked to be caressing Captain Gail’s backside while both peered over a chart. I just let rip at them.

There was a long silence after my tirade. Eventually Koenraad spoke. He said I’d got it all wrong, but it was true he and Gail did think I was getting too fat for Security duties.

He went on to compliment me about my gaining, saying he thought I carried it well. In fact he asked what I thought I might weigh now. I told him what Vilhelmina had said about a 500lb birthday cake and Koenraad, glancing knowingly at Captain Gail, gestured that she should continue.

The Captain said that because I’d got so heavy they’d noticed I’d been slowing down. It had reached the point where they’d decided it was unfair to overburden me with sole responsibility for guarding the ship. They thought I’d grown the Ship Security job to the point where I could do with an assistant.

Koenraad then asked me where on our travels I thought the most promising big girls in uniform might be found.
I said I’d need to reflect and let him know. As I began waddling out, my uniform trousers straining over my giant buttocks, I heard him promise he’d give it further thought too. Captain Gail just snorted behind me.
“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”

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Old 06-09-2012, 01:47 PM   #14
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That's funny, Brian. I didn't think of going to APOD, but anyway, I needed something inb the public domain. Are you a SciFi fan?
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Old 09-12-2013, 02:14 PM   #15
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I haven't posted anything for a while; here is another dose of the fantasy Dutchman frying for his big crew.

Bursting out the Envelope

Everyone knows our German cook Vilhelmina loves to see fat bursting out of tight uniforms and gets off losing herself in great big beautiful bodies. …. Which is why she’s always attending to me: the ship’s heavyweight lady security officer. Right now she’s upside down in my bunk sixty-nining me and I’m moaning about how she should spend more time in her kitchen feeding us.

She makes like she’s taking a great bite out of my belly rolls.
“Deine grosse Schweinebauch… alles ist mein!” she guffaws (your big pork belly is all mine). And its true… our roly poly porky German cook is the reason I’ve grown so big.

In the last few days Vilhelmina has been bragging to everyone about how she’s got “Our Big Fat Yvette” to the brink of tipping the scales past 500 lb. Now all on board are expecting something really SPECIAL!

We’ve been in the Med cruising south from Sicily towards Malta, so she phoned ahead to get a cake delivered when we arrived to celebrate. It turned out to be big enough to completely fill a small van and took two strong guys to carry it onboard at the marina. A massive ricotta and sponge cake affair it was with almonds, cherries and cherubs and everyone agreed I had to eat the lot.

As we slid back out to sea, the twenty four hour stuffing party of the ship’s official Security Officer got underway. Our departure coincided with an International Firework Festival and we were silhouetted against brilliant displays cascading across Malta’s Grand Harbour. Koenraad had rigged up a sort of big cargo net hung like a hammock from one of the cranes on deck and told me it was to be my feeding throne.

Up until the early hours, I was able to pace myself, joining in all the fun drinking and dancing at the same time as feasting. I enjoyed wiggling my big butt around while dancing with Koenraad and with Captain Grieta, and even coaxed the really big immobile gels like Toni our lovely pianist briefly up onto their feet so we could all laugh at their blubber wobbling about.
Then as the night wore on I felt my head beginning to spin and I distinctly recall hearing big black Corrie booming out that it was time I got laid out in my feeding sling. Maybe the last thing I remember was her chortling in my face about the way all my ebony butt blubber was oozing out through the holes in the netting.

After that they all took turns in stuffing me and laughing themselves silly at my discomfort.

Vilhelmina told me afterwards that the really enormous girls (like my rival Corrie and Toni – girls that I had personally devoted a lot of time to fattening up) were the ringleaders. They were the ones who insisted on smearing ricotta cream and sponge cake all over me then competing, increasingly drunkenly, to lick it all off.
They were laughing and chanting how it was “Pay Back Time”, according to Vilhelmina. Vilhelmina also told me how she was worried we weren’t drinking enough water with all our gorging and alcohol consumption so she had taken to spraying us down with mineral water.

At one point around dawn I had fallen sound asleep and had got so sticky and messy as to be unrecognisable. That is when they persuaded Captain Gieta to swing me over the side in the netting bag and tow me along in the sea so as to wake me up and clean me off.
Then as the sun was rising Vilhelmina had coffee and whole piles of sticky brioche waiting for us, as Koenraad - The Frying Dutchman - started slathering out piles of a heavy fried breakfast for everyone.

Around mid morning the ship was ready to start the partying off again. Vilhelmina had pushed me into a clean uniform blouse – all the time whispering in my ear how I was all nice and clean and decent again – ready to face the music!

But it was plain to see how I still had half the wreckage of the cake left alongside me to finish off. I began pleading with the others to help.
They feigned horror and outrage at this - so predictably my stuffing continued.

I was told how, within a couple of hours, I had burst my way clean out of that shirt, reducing it to shreds. And so the rest of the day passed in a haze of drink, music and stuffing; I was dimly aware of being repeatedly swung over the side to be revived and washed off.

In the early hours of the following day I was done. With Vilhelmina ministering to me, sponging me down and gently humming German lullabies in my ear from her childhood, I slowly sobered up.
Around lunch time Koenraad hoisted the stuffing net up sufficiently for many hands to help me out, although I really wasn’t equal to standing unaided for another couple of days.

I must have rocketed up into the lower mid 500s as a result of that big junket. In fact during this crossing to Pannecotterra from Malta I lost a lot of mobility that I never really properly recovered.

It was all so unfair! Clearly they’d had huge fun stuffing me up while at the same time laughing at how I’d got too fat and wobbly to perform my uniformed security duties.

In short I’d BLOWN IT !
“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”

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Old 09-12-2013, 02:33 PM   #16
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Security Officer in Chief !

But that big party stuffing did at least trigger one positive outcome – albeit long overdue. Because everyone could see I was in urgent need of support, Koenraad and Captain Grieta declared it was ‘Time For Action!’

Bless me! Once we got to Pannecotterra, didn’t they just go and snatch another meter maid off the streets up in Panciuto town, the island’s capital. As ever the ringleader in the escapade was Vilhelmina (who afterwards confessed she’d long ago targetted exactly who she planned to join me).

It turned out that Simone was a very willing hostage. We’d become friends while at work during previous island visits. With me at post constantly snacking by the gangway, I'd chatted up Simone issuing parking tickets along the quayside - we'd kept Vilhelmina on Feeder duties extra busy supplying us with snacks (Simone had introduced me to slabs of cold baked macaroni). Although Simone had been shy at first, I’d won her round by admiring her uniform; in return she admitted how she envied our freedom to travel.

Naturally Simone is big like me – bigger actually - ‘cos she’s close to 600 lbs though thankfully (because everyone knows I’m supposed to be in charge) she’s not as tall.

When I pointed out how she was perhaps even more immobile than me, they said ‘Why complain? There’s two of you now; so you can share duties’.
So I made myself up to Sergeant. Simone decided it would be fun being called Corporal Simone. She says it’s a kind of pun on being fat - though I’ve never understood why.

To be honest with you, she isn’t as good looking as me. I’m pleased to say she’s completely barrel shaped and totally butch with it.

But in uniform Simone is simply show stopping; she has a uniform to die for: all dark olive green and dayglo lemon yellow with black and white checkers (she told me it was so that whenever she booked one of those crap Pannecotterra drivers, they’d be able to spot her easily, then come and run her over).

She is none too quick on the uptake or on her pins either. For a big girl in uniform this is absolutely essential. I know Koenraad agrees with me how this is a big turn on, so we always make a point of playing on it.

Probably the first thing everyone notices about “my” Simone when she’s squeezed into those amazingly tight olive green trousers, is the size of her stupendously fat arse!
Two great quivering balloons of loose jelly seem on the point of bursting out from the overstrained green uniform cloth. The width of each individual buttock globe is hugely greater than the entire breadth of any ordinary healthy young woman’s childbearing hips. And the way they swell up and out to engulf her elbows is so alluringly beautiful and soft to the touch (note, gentle reader: the way I’m always yearning to caress them).

But inspecting Simone from the front on parade, she’s all bosom and no head!
Her self-important inflated pigeon chest bust thrusts aggressively further and further out of her lemon yellow blouse. Eventually, down at around waist level, the two big bullet-point bazookas round out to ride ponderously low and slow, to and fro, under that checkered diagonal sash.

When she’s wearing her big peaked cap, her head looks tiny. Her visage is ringed around and almost engulfed by a big roll collar of rich olive fat with three chins flooding down across her upper chest. Acknowledging she is no looker, she has her hair short & spiky and she dyes it red and purple.

We both like to parade and drill, and she loves me putting her through her paces. When she marches its like she’s a collection of liquid wobbling swollen balloons, all leaping around, dancing dangerously. She reckons it takes considerable skill to keep everything under control. At any moment it could all break apart into soft separate bouncy marsh mallow balls.

Even if I command the slightest movement, everything about her sets to jouncing and shimmering. It really is so funny.
You can see her belly rolls bob up and down, her tits sway and bounce and her legs quiver and shake like tubs of jello – we often just collapse in helpless laughter at the physical impossibility of it all.

Since we left Pannecotterra, we have been cruising Eastwards across the Med up towards the Aegian, which has meant a good few days at sea, so after maybe a ‘short’ half hour of parade and drilling, we can spend the rest of a lazy day out of uniform just lying around close by the galley waiting to be fed by Vilhelmina.

God! We really pile the weight on doing this

Once we are and out of all those Greek islands, we’re often in port. When we’re tied up to the quayside, Captain Grieta says Koenraad loves the two of us being on security duties together; it makes our ship look really prestigious.

Though of course with two people on Security instead of one doesn’t necessarily halve the work involved. Koenraad likes us lounging around close to the gangplank, snacking conspicuously, maybe pushing and joshing and feeding one another. This way no-one can sneak onboard – everyone has to push in between us getting on or off. You can readily appreciate how it is such intensely fattening and tiring work.

I Tell You!
Even just standing around for a bit takes substantial effort for both of us.

I’ve been trying to persuade Vilhelmina to get us strong wooden stools, but she and Captain Grieta dismiss this with “next you’ll be wanting a picnic table, a sunshade, a drinks cooler, barbeque… blah blah..”
And that’s sort of true: already Simone is thinking how an airconditioned little cabin would be a godsend.

In truth these shoreside security duties are not easy for Vilhelmina either since she has to keep all our snacks coming.

I am in serious need of a new uniform (when was I ever not!) and Vilhelmina says she wants to find me one to match Simone’s.
In truth I think Vilhelmina’s a bit too sweet on bloody Simone – just because she’s that much fatter than me and more wobbly.
The last week or so I’ve been noticing how Vilhelmina enjoys caressing the new saddlebags of soft warm blubber she’s been encouraging to develop along the outsides of Simone’s hugely fat thighs below her hips.
These, together with her ever expanding great fat arse, now cause Simone some difficulty, she has to walk with a ridiculously exaggerated great fatwoman’s sway.

My stupid cow of an Assistant seems to be letting herself grow to pretty much the same width she is high!

Secretly I’ve been trying to put a bit extra on here and there just to even us up, though in public I scold Vilhelmina saying she should spend less time fooling around in our fat and more time cooking and feeding us.
Vilhelmina just laughs at the competition she is encouraging, reminding us she is German so simply cannot resist big girls in uniforms.

I tell her its like she’s become completely besotted with the ship’s uniformed security personnel.
In reply Vilhelmina dumps down a great dish of paella in front of each of us made by the Frying Dutchman, gives me a hug and whispers that maybe I’m right.

She also passes us on some Good News:
Tomorrow we are heading west again, leaving the Turkish coast behind for the winter, sailing back towards the southern Med where Koenraad reckons to stay through the winter months. That means returning to Sicily, and best of all down to Pannecotterra, the heaven for fat girls.
“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”

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Old 09-14-2013, 06:48 PM   #17
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Update moved without edit in interest of fairness and time.
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Old 05-04-2014, 01:20 PM   #18
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A month or so later back we were again at the little island of Pannecotterra tied up against the quayside. We love calling in at Pannecotterra, because for serious fatties the island is like a totally fat friendly paradise.

It was mid morning and, as usual whenever we are in port, my assistant Simone and me were on shore side security duties. While Simone was face down noisily slathering down a great slab of cold baked pasta, I was briefly in-between snacks trying to flick some greasy crumbs of filo pastry off my gappy shirt front (and up out of my cleavage).

I’d been eying up three deliciously spectacular plumpettes picking their way past all the luxury pleasure boats tied-up stern first against the quayside.
Even though Pannecotterra is noted for its fatties (it has the fattest population statistically in the EU), this trio of plump young dumplings balancing on their high heels were a sight to behold.. Noisily laughing and giggling, they traded risqué repartee boisterously with all the yacht crews as they tripped unsteadily over the mooring ropes.
All three were short - and outrageously bulbous, looking for the world like twisted together Jeff Koons balloon sculptures!

Best of all, it seemed that all three were dressed like they never realised they were at all fat.
Two were in undersized crop tops and wore tight pants like they were painted on: one in a black pair, the other bright red.
But the third wore a bizarre white sort of bridesmaid’s dress with an ultra short stick out skirt. This looked just about OK from the front but at the back the white frills tipped up and showcased two great fat cheeks hanging out of a skimpy pair of panties.

Simone caught sight of the trio just as she’d pushed her mouth full with baked pasta: “You Gloof!” she tried to shout; instead she sprayed my uniform with partially masticated cheese, chopped tomatoes, onions and capers.
Because I couldn’t reach far enough round the front to deal with it, Simone tried to assist - excitedly contributing even more than she mopped up.

Next thing I knew the three balloon sculptures had me in hand.
It was most unexpected - and also highly pleasurable – finding myself engulfed by all this luscious young puppy fat busily petting me.

It turned out the three girls were tripping along to greet “Big Auntie Simone”.
Simone introduced her niece Delia and her cousin Aprile; then the two girls introduced us to their friend Bliss.

All three said they were BA (Media Studies) graduates; they’d been looking for jobs for over a year now without success. If you ask me (who never had the benefit of a college education) they are like all such kids: they just hang around with far too much time on their hands.
And hanging around seems to make folks fat – which is why these three were so deliciously plump.

The trio looked across at the ship excitedly, clearly hoping for some action. Vilhelmina, quick on the uptake as ever regarding young plumpers, decided to make use of their local knowledge and dispatched them on a couple of shopping errands to replenish the ship’s pantries.
But then back they came the next day again – and the day after that!

After Vilhelmina had stuffed the ship full to overflowing with local Pannecotterra treats, she began badgering Captain Grieta to find them various odd jobs above deck (we would never allow them down into the more intimate areas below). After a few days Captain Grieta formalised things and, agreeing to feed them, set them to endless menial shipboard chores like chipping and re-painting.

Anyway, the next thing we knew, the three began turning up to Simone’s and my daily Security Guard parade inspection sessions (Simone explained how they’d taken a shine to me). All went well at first with them watching us line up and do our marching and a bit of drilling, until…….

I caught them cavorting around sniggering and imitating how our big girls’ uniforms keep splitting. When I challenged them about this, all three blushed beetroot with embarrassment. I really bawled them out, pointing out how they weren’t exactly sylphs themselves.
Corporal Simone reacted more calmly, suggesting they should try a bit of their own medicine. So we lined all three up and waddled around them, drawing attention to all the bits where they themselves were carrying great jellybags of quivering blubber on various parts of their fat bodies.

This show-down was the prelude to a whole new turn of events. During their apologies, Bliss managed to stammer out the fact that her uncle was a tailor who specialised in uniforms. She said she knew he would be delighted to measure Simone and me up for more comfortable better-fitting uniforms for a special price.

So at long last - after months of make do and mend - we got kitted out with svelte new uniforms. Mr Spiteri, the tailor recommended a deep purple for nautical work instead of the olive green trousers, but the purple did look good with the yellow blouse and the checkerboard sash.

What I hadn’t bargained for was the three girls turning up on parade a couple of days later wearing the same uniforms. They fell in with us and participated in the drill practice.

Actually it did look good and Koenraad just happened to come by and witness the spectacle. All of a sudden we were in business as a Security Fivesome and I was in charge!
I made myself up to Captain though Simone decided to stay gaining as a Corporal.
Of course Delia, Aprile and Bliss are just plain “officers” but have really enjoyed settling into life below decks. Vilhelmina has them doubling as kitchen skivvies while at sea. With a shortage of bunks, they sleep on the galley floor so - yes you’ve guessed - they’ve started gaining weight at an alarming rate.

They’ve become Vilhelmina’s devoted helpers - just as Vilhelmina is devoted to helping them round out.
Actually, since their arrival the whole ship has got a lot of pleasure out of helping the young voluptuaries add inches to their spectacular hourglass figures. The happy plumpers now wiggle their way provocatively around our little ship, their curves growing ever more exaggerated.

Proud of their bodies, they wear little or nothing while we are at sea, modesty seems never an issue, clothing is merely minimalist protection from the sun. The trio seem to inflate by the minute: we all watch big India rubber rings of fat blowing up around their middles.

Vilhelmina relayed on to me a proposal from the rest of the ship’s company that it would be a lot more sensible if my Security Corps did its drilling while at sea out of uniform; it would save needless wear and tear on expensive tailoring. Konraad and Captain Grieta, in full agreement, granted permission.

So now the Corps turn out in just singlets and shorts or bikini bottoms every morning and we never fail to attract an audience for our marching routines.
I bark out commands standing erect, staring straight ahead, stamping my bare feet from time to time; marching on the spot.

Our poor “Corporal” can do little more than sway her wobbly pear shaped bulk about, while the three fatso young “officers” are busy bouncing around vigorously all the while.


We didn’t realise but the rest of the ship’s crew began posting videos of us on You tube. This only dawned on us once all the Tweets started arriving.

We began getting requests: like “if you are a proper Security Corps, you ought to practice making successful arrests!”
Aprile - whose bum has been growing more and more like her auntie’s whopper (remember how she’s the one who squeezes into little white dresses when she’s in civvies) – volunteered to act as villain suggesting that the rest of us should try to catch her and overpower her.

This proved a real crowd pleaser. Delia and Bliss ran after Aprile who was waddling off for all she was worth away along the deck. They caught up and held on to her by her stretchy tee shirt until eventually Simone lumbered up. Under my command Simone was ordered to sit upon the miscreant to neutralise her. Actually Simone had enough spare rear end capacity to overpower all three and our little audience clapped enthusiastically at the cameo pyramid of (mostly exposed) fat flesh as a finale.

Next thing we knew, Koenraad was posting proper pictures of our “little” force on the net as an advertisement - since when we’ve quickly gained a big cult following. Vilhelmina has taken it upon herself to deal with the fan mail and has begun posting personal details about us officers, including our weights and measurements, favourite foods etc.

She and Koenraad started taking bookings for security duties - typically at day events like open days at yacht marinas and the like and it quickly got to the point where our appearances diary began to influence our cruising agenda and ports of call.

Call me naive but I don’t think I have ever properly appreciated how much us big girls in uniform bring in as earnings to offset Koenraad’s operating costs.

Vilhelmina says we ought to had some idea of it by the extent to which our squad is being pampered. This has the ring of truth about it for recently the ships company have been complaining about being left neglected and hungry compared to us gels in uniform. And it costs an arm and a leg to keep us expanding fat girls in uniforms, the tailor - Mr Spiteri is constantly in attendance

Unfortunately as Vilhelmina continued blubbering us up with all this soft new fat, we started attracting a whole load of obscene tweets from macho bastards saying we were no more than useless jelly blobs. So Koenraad decreed it was high time his girly squad demonstrated a proficiency in unarmed combat.

While we were holed up in Marseilles for a month, Captain Grieta engaged a trainer to give us lessons. Corporal Simone and I proved a bit too large to do anything other than learn how to fall safely and accept punishment in theatrical ways but Delia, Aprile and Bliss have become really good at putting on a good show of wrestling and dominating us big fatties. Videos of these sessions have become big earners.

Vilhelmina naughtily egged Simone’s nieces on into feeding their poor big Auntie Simone up into an ever more grotesque gigantic pear shape. She was becoming the butt of everyone's jokes - Corporal Simone looked to be morphing into nothing more than an enormous animated pair of quivering buttocks.

By now Vilhelmina was totally besotted with grooming the ship’s uniformed security personnel.
And, despite the Frying Dutchman’s daily fry-ups, the overall ship’s catering was suffering. It became clear further management changes would be necessary.
However none of us anticipated that Koenraad would opt for a new ship’s cook. Vilhelmina now had full responsibility for looking after us – plus she was assigned a couple of Captain Grieta’s girls to assist.
“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”

Last edited by Lardibutts; 05-04-2014 at 01:23 PM.
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Old 09-06-2016, 04:28 PM   #19
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Lardibutts can now be the recipient of "two cans" jokesLardibutts can now be the recipient of "two cans" jokes

I'm sorry, I realise I left the ‘Frying Dutchman’ without any link to where the story went from Koenraad hiring a new cook.

I hope this does the trick:

At his normal mid day fry-up session Koenraad suddenly announced in his direct ‘Frying Dutchman’ way that it was time our uniformed Security Corps found a new home. We had grown too big for his little ship!
“Too BIG !” we all exclaimed. “Why? We all thought you liked us this way!”
“None of you lovely soft Sweeties could ever be too big for The Frying Dutchman” Koenraad guffawed – “its just that your Security/Combat show has gotten much too successful.”
“You need to have your own identity, a separate business – your stuff is ideal for digital TV”

Our life had suddenly been up ended; we were hived off as a separate business with Vilhelmina as CEO.
Our story continues in this link to “SSBW Uniformed Combat Corps” versus
the secret police “Balloon Squad”

“When I grow up,” she said, “I want my boobs to be as big as yours, daddy.”
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