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BOTH "525" - by agouderia (SSBHM, ~XWG, ~BBW, Dining)

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agouderia

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SSBHM, ~XWG, ~BBW, Dining - A SSBHM faces personal and professional decisions more demanding than putting together the next exquisite menu

"525“

The number rang out into the complete silence in the room. The physician looked shocked while pain, anger and distress washed over Warren Langdon’s face. In contrast he was astounded to feel only mild surprise, combined with a wicked tingle - so this was how 525 pounds looked and felt like. Over the past years he had gotten used to his expanding bulk, its weight, how it enveloped him in its roles, quivers and jiggles; the comfort of sensing its heaviness wrapped around him and resting in his lap. This reassurance surfaced again as he put both of his plump, well-kept hands on the sides of the vast pale expanse of flesh stretching before him, shoving it back and forth slightly, the familiar wobble re-vibrating through him. The sensation of moving flesh increased as he stepped down from the makeshift, awkward small manual fork lifter scale – and walked ponderously over to where he had draped his clothing over his desk chair.

“Jeez… 525 … that’s much worse than I’d imagined!” Warren groaned. “Christopher …. you have to do something about it! I can’t watch you slowly killing yourself with knife and fork! I don’t want to hurt you, believe me. You’ve been more of a son to me these past 10 years than my own children have. And I want it to stay that way, make you a partner in my hotels. You’re only 32…”

“Do you have any reason not to be satisfied with my work here at the ‘Langdon Residency’?”

“Not in the least my boy, not in the least. Your work is outstanding; you know that … hell, you’re better at it than I am by now.” Warren showed a sad grin. “But to continue in this line, become my partner, maybe take over the hotels some day, you can’t go on ballooning like you have over the past years – or sooner or later you’ll no longer be able to do the job. It’s for your very best, my boy.”

Despite sensing his sincere concern, Warren had gotten the fundamentals wrong in Christopher’s opinion. His girth was a in every sense of the word a big part of his success: His constant monitoring had made theirs one of the best gourmet hotel kitchens in the country, a league better than that of Warren’s own flagship ‘Langdon Imperial Residency’. Their, or better his, deli-range had received countless awards; he had even managed to revive his family’s bakery. And he had noticed his size seemed to put guests at ease, made them feel safe, comfortable, well taken care of in his presence.

He slowly sank into his wide, reinforced chair breathing deeply, his overinflated buttocks sinking into the cushion, the flab of his immense thighs spreading out to accommodate the enormous expanse of his stomach, his side roles flowing over the arm rests. Bending over as far as the flesh mountain of his belly permitted, he wiggled first one then the other leg into the tent like folds of cloth that made up his trousers, his feet somehow magically resurfacing from the much narrowed openings at the bottom. Pulling the cloth over the knees, he fitted his feet into the expensive, widened leather slippers with thick soles with the help of a long-handled shoe-horn, noticing how his breathing was becoming heavier as the pressure of his gut cut off some of the oxygen supply to his lungs. Leaning back, he took a deep breath as he pulled his button-down shirt over his arms. With another deep breath and a small grunt, he heaved his mass back into standing position in the movement tugging his trousers over his extra broad backside, the usual ton like slump of his belly giving into gravity, sinking lower towards his thighs running through him.

As he started to button his shirt, he noticed it had reached the degree of tightness that normally filled him with a certain naughty delight, since it documented the increasing volume of his body: It was not yet difficult to button in standing, but there was a palpable closeness and with his bulk expanding in sitting, the buttons would be put under tension, the fabric creased in tight folds and a agreeable light sense of constriction would encircle him. Same was true for his waistband – though only because he had had it let out recently: It was barely necessary to tug it a little to close the hook, but seated a conspicuous role of fat would now hang over it. He put on his tie and then his suit coat, closing the straining top button to put his wide bay window on best display. His stomach grumbled demandingly, since he had not been able to have his customary full breakfast because Warren had arrived earlier and the course of events had turned to the current nightmarish health check up.

“Christopher, I have several more business appointments in town now.” Warren fiddled with his phone not looking at him. “I’ll leave you with Dr. Wershowitz to discuss everything concerning a healthier lifestyle for you. We can all have dinner then together to talk about … well … I’d also like to know which events you’re planning and so on….”

He nodded, poured himself a glass of water and turned to Wershowitz: “Dr. Wershowitz, how shall we proceed? I do have some work to take care of.”

“Hmmm, actually, to get a good overview, also while we wait for the lab results, I would like to simply follow you around your work, maybe ask a few questions in the process, if possible.”

“Why not? Even though I do not know how interesting it will be for you. I need to make some phone calls first.” He sank back down heavily into his chair, his flesh stacking itself in the accustomed thick roles and tires around him, it taking a while until the waves lolling through the fat settled.

After he had discussed the necessary arrangements for a conference booking and talked about an offer for a new set of bar tables and chairs, he looked at his watch and once again raised himself, half pushing himself off from his desktop. “Now I have to go check on our laundry delivery, there have been some problems lately,” he gestured to Wershowitz to follow him.

“525, 525, 525 … this is 525 moving pounds,” kept running through his mind as he fell into his regular lumber down the long hallway from his office to the service elevator. Despite the thick carpeting, the weight of his tread was audible as a small thump, as well as the swooshing of the fabric of his pants as the blubber of his thighs rubbed against each other for one leg to pass the other in walking and his loud, steady breathing. At first he had been embarrassed by his loud breathing as his weight had soared, but he had noticed he got much further, did not get out of breath as quickly if he took deep breaths as soon as he started moving. His bulk, especially the gigantic expanse of his belly started shifting and swaying in front of him and his arms fell into the practiced rhythm of vacillating along with his legs, helping him keep his balance and move forward. How many of the 525 pounds might be rolling around him right now?

“This is quite a walk to the elevator,” Dr. Wershowitz interrupted his train of thought. “Do you regularly walk it? Have you ever thought of moving your office?”

“You can’t run a hotel professionally sitting at your desk all day – there are many things you need to get a first hands impression of. And why should I move the director’s office? It has an ensuite and the nice balcony to the park.”

Having reached the elevator, he called it with his master key and stepped into the spacious cubicle, habitually resting his belly on the handrail to take some pressure off his back. Wershowitz observed him from the side, and wrote down a few notes.

“Ah, good to see you boss. Here are the only some of the flawed pieces of laundry from today’s delivery,” Odile, the large black head of the laundry department greeted him. He liked and respected her very much, not only for her professional competence, the fact that she had given her fabulous Mississippi chocolate fudge recipe, a family heirloom, for their deli selection but also for the feeling of personal kinship her size, which was close to his, always inspired in him. She gave Wershowitz a shrewd glance, resting her shapely breasts the size of small water melons on the counter, pointing at stains, little holes or discolored spots in the laundry.

Christopher pushed his belly to rest on the counter, looked at the damaged laundry asking: “What do you suggest?”

“We need to try out a different laundry. Too many deliveries are flawed– and they’re often late. I know they were the cheapest, but at this rate, we’re throwing out more than we can save. I’ve already gotten two new offers from other laundries. Why don’t we do a sort of competition? Like have each do a third and see which over the course of the month offers the best service?”

“Sounds like an excellent idea! I trust you to manage this. Send me a copy of the various offers and document the performance during the competition – then we’ll decide.”

Turning to leave, Odile handed him a flat box with a motherly grin: “Boss, here’s a little thank you for giving the job here to my poor neighbor’s little girl Sally. Home-made pecan molasses pie, I remember you really enjoyed that.”

He reddened under Wershowitz’s raised eye brows as he accepted the box, his stomach letting out a very loud growl. “Sounds like you haven’t been taking good care of your tummy and its needs today, boss. Your lunch time is still too far off for such a growl!” Odile winked and gave his belly an energetic pat as he pulled it off the counter making it bounce. “But remember, the pie is for dessert – eat the good veggies Claire is cooking for you first!”

“Thank you very much Odile – that is really not necessary. It’s good you suggested Sally; she is doing a fine job in her team. Oh – one more thing: Please finally call me Christopher like everybody else!”

“Any time boss!”

He ambled across the laundry and through a heavy steel door into a dim stairwell, Wershowitz following him. “Well, Mr. Maynard … I do not know how to put it, since it obviously was very well meant, about the pie…”

“Dr. Wershowitz, no need for detours. Don’t you think it has occurred to me that one of the first things you would take off my menu is a molasses-pecan pie? Here – take it. You in contrast look like your palate could use something sweet for a change,” eyeing the deep furrows running from his nose to the hanging corners of his mouth. “Only one thing: Don’t let Odile know – it’d hurt her feelings.”

Handing Wershowitz the box, he turned towards the stairs, firmly grabbed the handrail and slowly, methodically started his climb, pulling himself and pressing his bulk up over his legs step by step, taking no break on the landing arriving on the ground floor puffing a bit.

“You take the stairs?” Wershowitz couldn’t keep the note of surprise out of his voice.

“According to my orthopedist, climbing stairs is good for my back and knees – while going downstairs is bad for both. It’s part of my day; after all, I live on the third floor with no elevator.” After a few deeps breaths, he opened the door, entered the lobby and walked over to the front desk, where the staff opened the barrier to let him in. Settling on a very wide stool, he went through papers, signed some, checked lists, took a few notes on complaints.

“Now I need to go to our restaurant, check on booking and menu suggestions for the days to come. Come along please.” As he made his way across the lobby, it seemed almost as if he were proudly pushing his belly ahead of him a lithe, long-legged blonde skipped over. “Wait, Christopher, it’s so good I get to see you before I leave.”

“Hi Cara, how’s my favorite model doing? Did you have a good shoot?”

“Everything worked out, thank you so much – all arrangements were perfect,” she beamed at him and squeezed his massive upper arm. “I want to introduce you to Jack Baines, our photographer he might want to use your restaurant for an evening dress shoot. Jack meet Christopher Maynard, the adorable director of this wonderful hotel.”

“Nice to meet you Jack. Haven’t you also done some food photography, I remember something in the Culinary Review..?”

“Pleasure Christopher – wow, you saw that? I was thinking of combining the two for a new client of mine– a stylish dinner dress shoot with real good looking food to go with it. Would that be possible?”

“Sounds great. Here’s my card. Why don’t you write me a short exposé – date, room you need, ideas for the menu, etc. – and then I’ll get back to you, see what we can do.”

Cara reached up and gave him a big smooch on the cheek. “Thanks Christopher, hope to be back soon and see you then.”

On entering the restaurant, he steered towards the stairs to the main level, once more heaving his weight up where the chef was waiting on the landing. He slumped a bit into a chair and asked for a certain tea. “Dr. Wershowitz – would you like anything?”

“I’ll have what you are having.”

“Sorry Christopher, I don’t have any samples for the menu suggestions for the next days for you. Claire said Langdon is here and you wouldn’t have time….”

“It’s okay Paul. Claire was right – this is not the occasion for me to start sampling,” his voice ripe with sarcasm as he shot Wershowitz a look of disdain. “What we do need to talk about are your menu suggestions in relation to produce prices. It looks like you’ve been going a bit too much for the show effect lately, when you could have achieved just as good, sometimes more innovative results with more basic ingredients. We should check if we can’t cooperate with the youth project that has started the organic gardens. They’re trying to do some good stuff, the squash we got there was very good – and it’s an idea worth supporting. Will you get in touch with them, or do you want me to do it?” His stomach growled more loudly than ever.

“The social stuff is a lot easier for you… shall I fix you something to eat? That sounds dangerous, like a whole pack of very hungry bears..”

“This tea is excellent, Mr. Maynard – very spicy, a sweet tinge to it, where did you get it?”

“Thank you Dr. Wershowitz – I recreated it from a tea I once drank in some back alley French Salon de thé. I’ll take care of the organic project … and lunch unfortunately has to wait.” Draining his tea, he got up abruptly, swept papers off the table with the sway of his bulk and headed towards the back entrance, from where he took the elevator back up to his office.

Half collapsing onto his chair, he took a few deep breaths to calm down and drank some more water. He was exhausted. The walking around was no problem – he was used to hauling his bulk, or his 525 pounds as he now knew, through the hotel. What he was no longer used to was going for so long with so little food to keep his energy level up. Normally he would have had a nice full breakfast, now tasted Paul’s sample dishes – and would be sitting here with his belly resting in his lap, ever so lightly puffed and satisfyingly filled, its soft heaviness confirming that everything was just the way it was supposed to be. Instead it was growling to the point he felt faint, he had to do everything under the scrutiny of this Wershowitz guy, disapproval for him and his fat seeping from his every pore.

After he had finished checking his e-mail, sorting the mail, he went over into the hotel room ensuite to his office, aware that he did prefer using his own, adapted to his needs bathroom since he had gotten so big.

“Oh so you do live up here,” Wershowitz commented on his return.

“No, it seems you have not been listening to what I say very well, instead only looking for clues to confirm your pre-conceived notions,” there was barely suppressed rage in his voice. “I told you I live on the third floor with no elevator – in my old student apartment I bought a few years ago. It’s right on the other side of the park.”

“That’s good. So you drive here every morning?”

“No, I walk here. It’s only a little over half a mile through the park – and it’s easier than maneuvering my weight in and out of a car simply to get stuck in a perpetual traffic jam. It’s probably even faster, despite my lack of speed,” sounding cynical by now. “Now – even though you seem to have the objective of keeping me from eating, I’m going for lunch. I feel literally faint from hunger, even if you think that ridiculous in my case.” He stumbled and puffed a bit on the way to the elevator, his flesh rolling around him with more force than usual since his anger had kept him from getting into the correct pace of movement and breathing.

“Mr. Maynard, please to not get me wrong. Mr. Langdon sent me to you with the best intentions. It’s not about criticizing you, it’s about finding ways for you to live healthier and lose weight. If I may ask, could I speak to your kitchen staff about what I would suggest as your lunch?”

“If that’s part of your commission, please go ahead. Ask for Claire, she’ll fix everything you think adequate for me.” His normally light brown, almost amber colored eyes had gone dark with resentment, his tone was cutting.

Some twenty minutes later, Claire brought out his lunch – a piece of steamed white fish with a plate of mixed steamed vegetables – her eyes wide with helpless fright and pity, her ‘Bon appétit Christopher’ only a whisper, hurrying off again. Taking two hungry bites, he called after her: “Claire come back – have you forgotten how to cook? How bland is this?”

“I did everything as this doctor ordered.”

“Well, it’s obvious then that this doctor cannot cook. Bring me the 5 pepper-mix, lemon juice, freshly chopped parsley, our French fish spice, a teaspoon of olive oil and grill three spring onions. Then this will be eatable.”

“Please Mr. Maynard; it really is for your best. This is a healthy, balanced ….”

“Dr. Wershowitz, to be very blunt – I am thoroughly fed up with your condescending manner as if I were some 525 pound imbecile. The additions to your meal I am having Claire bring will not add many, if any calories, but a whole lot of taste. It’ll stay as healthy, balanced as you intended.”

As Claire placed the ingredients as well as a hot plate on the table, he aggressively started seasoning the fish and vegetables, before he hungrily shoveled in almost the whole portion before turning to Wershowitz again, who was only picking at his food. “Just so you finally understand: All of this here is high quality fat, probably has a lot better ingredients than those measly few ounces of fat you might have to offer.”

He stuck out his belly farther, making the buttons of his shirt gape, the flesh pushing onto the table and patted it provocatively. “I’m not a lazy 525 pound slob who sits on the couch all day and stuffs himself with fast food. I’m a successful professional who happens to love, live and work with excellent food. My fat is made from scratch – no industrial chemicals masquerading as food, artificial ingredients, food substitutes, transfats or the like. I’m active because that’s the only way to run a hotel, and it’s my life,” finishing off the rest on his plate, frustrated at the lack of filling satisfaction. The portion had barely taken the edge off his hunger.

“I’m sorry if I offended you Mr. Maynard. You seem to have misunderstood my intentions. Mr. Langdon and I have the utmost respect for your professional credentials and achievements. We’re worried about your health. You must be aware you are severely overweight, or not? Technically speaking you have a BMI of 66 and are high up in the category of morbid obesity.”

“Morbid obesity,” he murmured, a warm glow rising in him. Like “amaretti morbidi” the wonderful soft, bittersweet Italian cookies – or the ‘Salon morbide’ 19th century French style, often depicting food in their paintings. How could something be bad that brought upon such delicious associations? From his ears, morbid had decidedly more positive connotations.

“Have you ever thought of, or tried to lose weight before?”

He shrugged and then shook his head slowly. “Is an espresso okay before we return to my office?”

 

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