Lardibutts
Aged Member
SSBBW (Multiple), Feeding Machine, ~XWG - An Italian dressmaker coaches her clients on their wardrobes - and figure enhancement.
[Author's note: This has grown out of the cracks in Slow Food. I started to fantasize about how the dress shop ladies might have gained their weighty stature, so apologies for another ridiculous story - some may recognize that a lot of it is a complete rip off of Il Gattopardo (The Leopard).]
Part 1 - The surprise lunch
Just as her business had grown, so Bernadetta had grown. She’d grown accustomed to compliments - both to the giving of them and the receiving. For years she’d worked ceaselessly at building her customer base as the direttrice of “Cumulo” a specialist clothes shop in Calle Corpulenza close by the Pantheon in Rome.
Nevertheless she had been overwhelmed by the genuine expressions of gratitude flowing from all sides at the surprise lunch party held at the Contessa’s Palazzo Pastosita to mark twenty five years of “Cumulo.”
She was home again now, eased out of the taxi by her assistant, Eli.
While Eli worked at a little late afternoon snack to fill the cracks that would undoubtedly be opening up as she digested her splendid six-course lunch, she was able to look more closely at the commemorative album of photographs and memorabilia prepared by Alfredo, the Contessa’s son, to mark the event.
Comfortably installed on her bed, she’d got the album open on the dome of her belly. She sat upright, her giant bottom riding right up behind her and affording a useful backrest – though being so soft it had to be bolstered with additional cushions skilfully arranged by Eli.
Turning the pages of the album the memories came flooding back (as did the tears too, here and there). It was an afternoon for reflection.
Specializing in clothing for the larger pear-shaped lady, Bernadetta had been as successful in expanding her own person (in particular - as was plain for all to see - her own lower figure) as she had been in growing her clients’ increasing dependency on her for their fashion wear.
The reason was her undoubted flair in procuring the ultimate in personalized couture for the more spectacularly shaped of Rome’s young beauties. In spreading the word about her attributes, her clientele said it was all due to her infallible judgement and keen eye.
But Bernadetta knew the real secret; it was simple enough. Put at its crudest it was “if you’ve got it flaunt it.”
Over the twenty five years she’d learnt how to tactfully gift wrap her naked business maxim, cunningly veiling her line of attack. She’d learned to work with compliments. The result was Bernadetta had perfected an infallible technique that without fail delivered the total addiction of her clients to her modest shop.
Summarized, the method worked as follows:
This opening diagnostic session, perfected over the years, was a key to Bernadetta’s success, and clients’ spreading the word about Bernadetta’s expertise and their appreciation of her practice would allude to it obliquely.
A typical evaluation session in the carefully sound-proofed backroom between shop and apartment might begin by Bernadetta discreetly leaving her client alone for a few minutes; time enough for her to remove her clothes down to her underwear. The room was decorated like an old world closet hung with bizarrely supersize vintage undergarments dripping sensuality. While waiting for Bernadetta to return, the undressed and half-naked client’s prurience would get the better of her and she would start exploring the more outrageous of the exhibits. A client might even try out an item, perhaps fantasizing a little while holding it against herself in the mirror.
When Bernadetta judged her client good and ready, she would make her entry, an extra long linen tape measure draped over her bosom.
Bernadetta would have to struggle to ease herself down, trying to manage her unruly lower body. Perhaps the client might assist and, glancing in the mirror, would realize how skeletal she looked compared to Bernadetta. Kneeling in front of her near-naked, newly expanded client, Bernadetta would draw the tape measure down from over her bosom lean back into her pillow-like buttock fat and sigh wistfully.
“Now, piccolo - we really do need to get your sizes.”
She would wrap the measure around as best she could, considering how her own huge lower figure made it near impossible for her to reach forward and around, and start taking measurements. As she recorded bottom measurements she would express admiration for the client’s carriage. She might feel gently around the buttocks all the time keeping up an unending flow of compliments.
Growing increasingly excited, she might realize just how exceedingly large this girl could eventually grow around the rear end, given insight and careful supervision.
Responding to Bernadetta’s increasingly intimate groping in and around her big bottom, the client might also have commenced breathing heavily.
Now they would both be really enjoying the probing.
Nevertheless Bernadetta’s rule was always wait for the client to lose it first.
There she goes! . . . . Aaargh!
Gasping, the client would go weak at the knees sinking down over Bernadetta. The big woman would adroitly reposition herself to maneuver the girl’s inert bulk across her and commence gently working her to a climax. As Bernadetta unerringly found the right spot, clients might be writhing around in mad passion, their fat thighs engulfing the bigger woman.
For some time after, as the client helped in hauling Bernadetta’s bulk up off the floor, Bernadetta would still be panting. Then they would commence choosing garments.
At the bottom end of the market the client might be some young girl blushing with embarrassment about the reality of having to face up to weight gain garnered injudiciously on her journey through puberty.
An hour later the young maiden would be looking radiant in her new acquisitions. Perhaps she would exhibit a delightful roll of muffin top between skimpy top and low rider jeans – Bernadette might even assure her that leaving the top of her jeans undone so as to let her soft puppy fat tummy hang out would be the icing on the cake.
Not only would she emerge flaunting her new high fashion silhouette, but a whole new-found sensuality: the total package.
She would swing her way around the corner and into Rome’s best ice cream shop, confident she could now let rip and indulge.
And so Bernadette would land another promising client . . . One year later, the significant curves would have ripened into roundness. Five years on, she would be truly bottoming out. Ten years on, being obliged to arrive in a taxi, she might even outdo la direttrice.
For the only way Bernadetta could leave her shop these days was by taxi. Only able to manage a dozen steps without needing to catch her breath, she had the greatest difficulty in hauling her giant bottom around her little domain. Because for her mobility she’d become increasingly dependent on the little seamstress first employed for last minute alterations, Bernadetta had been obliged to require Eli to move in and share the living space behind the shop with her.
Escaping the sweat shop
It had not always been this way. Bernadetta had begun working in the tailoring sweat shops of old Pancuito when only a waif of eight or nine. Skipping schooling through her childhood, she’d toiled, first at tidying and fetching for the older girls, then year on year graduating through the skills: hemming, button holing, tacking, and finally cutting and fitting plus, most difficult of all, customer skills.
At sixteen, as a simple young dressmaker, she had been plucked out of the city by her patron the Contessa.
For all her adult life she had worshipped her glorious, unpredictable Contessa. The only true love of Bernadetta’s life, the Contessa had been her motivating force. It was the Contessa who’d endowed Bernadetta with her livelihood. She’d also shaped her – just as Bernadetta had shaped the Contessa.
The Contessa had only just gained her handle by marriage when Bernadetta first entered her service. The spoiled daughter of a rich Genovese industrialist, she was in her early 20s. Her doting father had, via his hunting connections, fixed up a dynastic marriage to a faded old aristocrat. With a knowing wink at his daughter he’d whispered how the old Count had no shots left in his locker save his extensive pedigree.
For their spring honeymoon, the Count had taken his new radiant young Contessa down to stay on his family estate on the Mediterranean island of Pannecottera.
From the start she’d got off on the wrong foot with the Count’s daunting cook-housekeeper. As head of the estate staff the old bag had organized the initial formal welcome, the estate staff lining up on the steps of the palazzo to shake hands. They passed through to the great terrace over looking the estate where, under flaming torches, lavish excesses of ceremonial feasting had been arranged to mark the couple’s first night.
When the Contessa was seen to have picked at no more than four or five items on a single plate, the obese cook-housekeeper had insolently not even bothered to disguise her contempt.
Withdrawing into their honeymoon suite, the new Contessa, used to getting her own way as the spoiled little rich girl, blew her top. Hurling off her clothing, flinging it in fury at the heavy drapes, she had raged at the humiliation. Only later had it dawned on her that the whole episode had been planned by the Count as the first step to becoming a Contessa worthy of the title.
Six weeks later, the Contessa found herself abandoned, expected to spend the summer months at the palazzo alone, the sole recipient of the lavish attentions of the staff on the extensive estate. Innocent of the elderly Count’s motive in carrying her off to the island, the fragrant young Contessa was now distressed to find herself gaining weight inexorably as life at the palazzo got into its summer stride.
The estate staff, receiving instructions by telephone from the Count, knew just where to turn to for appeasing their distraught, but ripening, charge. Renowned on the island, Madame Zachary operated a long established business dedicated to expansively dressing all the old well-to-do families.
One morning in late June, Madame Zachary, accompanied by her trusty assistant Bernadetta, was driven sedately out to the palazzo by the Contessa’s chauffeur in a high, square old Isotta Fraschini, its windows hung with lace curtains like a hearse. Since a mere child, Bernadetta had never failed to deliver on Madame Zachary’s deadlines even for the most intricate of ballgowns. Now sixteen and fully fledged, Bernadetta was rated by Madame Zachary to be one of her principle subordinates.
The problem was that (like the trundling old limo) the slow-moving Madame Zachary belonged to an earlier age. She’d been in her prime during the nineteen forties and early fifties, the era of Italian new wave films: snappy brimmed hats and long grey frocks with shoulder pads.
Out at the palazzo, the Contessa was appalled as Madame Zachary tried to pigeonhole her into baggy two-piece old ladies costumes and loose-fitting frocks of a bygone age.
Reverting to poor little rich girl, she’d stamped her foot, exclaiming how it was all so unfair.
“Its only 30 lbs or so after all!” she complained - even though she’d felt like a goose being fattened.
She slammed off into her bathroom.
Bernadetta had been reading the signs; she’d examined the silver-framed wedding photos where the bride was a rangy 6 ft 3 skinny clotheshorse (130 lb max, Bernadetta thought) and checked out the risqué chic - now unwearable - hanging in the Contessa’s closet.
A lot more than 30 lbs had been stacked on the young Contessa. Bernadetta smiled to herself taking stock. Her long thighs were full and, on an emergent hourglass figure, lush, convex curves were developing. She’d even noticed the cutest latent droop of puppy fat under the Contessa’s chin.
Bernadetta observed how in bikini top and tight shorts, succulent new breast flesh hung out of cups shaped for little more than nipples. And when the C flounced away from them, a beautiful, plump little bottom was on show, straining the tight shorts.
She’d got to be 180 lbs, maybe more.
The Contessa was beginning to occupy space, Bernadetta thought in summing up.
The delectable spoiled darling could soon be knocking at the door of 200 lbs!
Talking through the door about all the exciting potential, Bernadetta set about winning around the plumpening Contessa.
To Madame Zachary’s intense irritation, minidresses, floaty little numbers, even minimalist leisure wear, was being proposed. Anything was possible!
Reassured now that the young girl Bernadetta seemed far more understanding in responding to her quandary - the young Contessa emerged shyly.
By the end of the session the young Contessa had been completely captivated by Bernadetta. Despair evaporated completely as Bernadetta and the Contessa excitedly pinned and experimented with fabrics that showcased the proportions of the Contessa’s tall blossoming figure to the fullest.
The Contessa had particularly appreciated Bernadetta complimenting her on the way she was learning to occupy space. She remembered how as a spoiled little rich girl she’d been so insecure immediately after the wedding in having to act the formal Contessa.
Impetuously, the Contessa (reverting as usual to spoiled little rich girl) demanded that Madame Zachary deliver some of the exciting new garments the following day.
Madame Zachary, miffed at Bernadetta’s success, wasn’t going to bust her arse. She most certainly did not intend losing any beauty sleep over this difficult over-indulged brat, Contessa or no!
So it was left to Bernadetta to work through the night, ready to be the sole occupant riding out behind the curtains of the chauffeur-driven Isotta Fraschini the next morning.
For the rest of the summer, in a profitable deal for Madame Zachary, Bernadetta had been lent to the Contessa, expected to live in at the palazzo. She was to allay the Contessa’s fears about being “enhanced” using her dressmaking skills: snipping sewing and creating. Rapidly she earned a position of trust, the Contessa becoming increasingly dependant upon her as confidante.
And so Bernadetta became the Contessa’s friend – it seemed her only friend - in a place where (as Bernadetta agreed it was undoubtedly true) all seemed to have a single purpose: to make the young Contessa as plump as they possibly could.
To be continued
[Author's note: This has grown out of the cracks in Slow Food. I started to fantasize about how the dress shop ladies might have gained their weighty stature, so apologies for another ridiculous story - some may recognize that a lot of it is a complete rip off of Il Gattopardo (The Leopard).]
Bottoming Out
The Memoirs of an Outsize Couturier
Parts 1-8
The Memoirs of an Outsize Couturier
Parts 1-8
by Lardibutts
Part 1 - The surprise lunch
Just as her business had grown, so Bernadetta had grown. She’d grown accustomed to compliments - both to the giving of them and the receiving. For years she’d worked ceaselessly at building her customer base as the direttrice of “Cumulo” a specialist clothes shop in Calle Corpulenza close by the Pantheon in Rome.
Nevertheless she had been overwhelmed by the genuine expressions of gratitude flowing from all sides at the surprise lunch party held at the Contessa’s Palazzo Pastosita to mark twenty five years of “Cumulo.”
She was home again now, eased out of the taxi by her assistant, Eli.
While Eli worked at a little late afternoon snack to fill the cracks that would undoubtedly be opening up as she digested her splendid six-course lunch, she was able to look more closely at the commemorative album of photographs and memorabilia prepared by Alfredo, the Contessa’s son, to mark the event.
Comfortably installed on her bed, she’d got the album open on the dome of her belly. She sat upright, her giant bottom riding right up behind her and affording a useful backrest – though being so soft it had to be bolstered with additional cushions skilfully arranged by Eli.
Turning the pages of the album the memories came flooding back (as did the tears too, here and there). It was an afternoon for reflection.
Specializing in clothing for the larger pear-shaped lady, Bernadetta had been as successful in expanding her own person (in particular - as was plain for all to see - her own lower figure) as she had been in growing her clients’ increasing dependency on her for their fashion wear.
The reason was her undoubted flair in procuring the ultimate in personalized couture for the more spectacularly shaped of Rome’s young beauties. In spreading the word about her attributes, her clientele said it was all due to her infallible judgement and keen eye.
But Bernadetta knew the real secret; it was simple enough. Put at its crudest it was “if you’ve got it flaunt it.”
Over the twenty five years she’d learnt how to tactfully gift wrap her naked business maxim, cunningly veiling her line of attack. She’d learned to work with compliments. The result was Bernadetta had perfected an infallible technique that without fail delivered the total addiction of her clients to her modest shop.
Summarized, the method worked as follows:
1 . Persuade the client that recent expansion had to be welcomed.
2. Express admiration and reassurance (in that order).
3. Put together a dress package for the client poised at the very edge of risk .
4 . Repeat #2.
5 . Monitor with frequent measurement.
6. Give and receive compliments.
7. Start again at #1.
Not without sacrifice, she had worked at building her business. She was a career woman through and through - this went as far as her sexual preferences: she kept a strict dictum – only mix pleasure with business. Overt lust surfaced whenever Bernadetta got down to work trying to embrace (sorry: evaluate) her latest customer.2. Express admiration and reassurance (in that order).
3. Put together a dress package for the client poised at the very edge of risk .
4 . Repeat #2.
5 . Monitor with frequent measurement.
6. Give and receive compliments.
7. Start again at #1.
This opening diagnostic session, perfected over the years, was a key to Bernadetta’s success, and clients’ spreading the word about Bernadetta’s expertise and their appreciation of her practice would allude to it obliquely.
A typical evaluation session in the carefully sound-proofed backroom between shop and apartment might begin by Bernadetta discreetly leaving her client alone for a few minutes; time enough for her to remove her clothes down to her underwear. The room was decorated like an old world closet hung with bizarrely supersize vintage undergarments dripping sensuality. While waiting for Bernadetta to return, the undressed and half-naked client’s prurience would get the better of her and she would start exploring the more outrageous of the exhibits. A client might even try out an item, perhaps fantasizing a little while holding it against herself in the mirror.
When Bernadetta judged her client good and ready, she would make her entry, an extra long linen tape measure draped over her bosom.
Bernadetta would have to struggle to ease herself down, trying to manage her unruly lower body. Perhaps the client might assist and, glancing in the mirror, would realize how skeletal she looked compared to Bernadetta. Kneeling in front of her near-naked, newly expanded client, Bernadetta would draw the tape measure down from over her bosom lean back into her pillow-like buttock fat and sigh wistfully.
“Now, piccolo - we really do need to get your sizes.”
She would wrap the measure around as best she could, considering how her own huge lower figure made it near impossible for her to reach forward and around, and start taking measurements. As she recorded bottom measurements she would express admiration for the client’s carriage. She might feel gently around the buttocks all the time keeping up an unending flow of compliments.
Growing increasingly excited, she might realize just how exceedingly large this girl could eventually grow around the rear end, given insight and careful supervision.
Responding to Bernadetta’s increasingly intimate groping in and around her big bottom, the client might also have commenced breathing heavily.
Now they would both be really enjoying the probing.
Nevertheless Bernadetta’s rule was always wait for the client to lose it first.
There she goes! . . . . Aaargh!
Gasping, the client would go weak at the knees sinking down over Bernadetta. The big woman would adroitly reposition herself to maneuver the girl’s inert bulk across her and commence gently working her to a climax. As Bernadetta unerringly found the right spot, clients might be writhing around in mad passion, their fat thighs engulfing the bigger woman.
For some time after, as the client helped in hauling Bernadetta’s bulk up off the floor, Bernadetta would still be panting. Then they would commence choosing garments.
At the bottom end of the market the client might be some young girl blushing with embarrassment about the reality of having to face up to weight gain garnered injudiciously on her journey through puberty.
An hour later the young maiden would be looking radiant in her new acquisitions. Perhaps she would exhibit a delightful roll of muffin top between skimpy top and low rider jeans – Bernadette might even assure her that leaving the top of her jeans undone so as to let her soft puppy fat tummy hang out would be the icing on the cake.
Not only would she emerge flaunting her new high fashion silhouette, but a whole new-found sensuality: the total package.
She would swing her way around the corner and into Rome’s best ice cream shop, confident she could now let rip and indulge.
And so Bernadette would land another promising client . . . One year later, the significant curves would have ripened into roundness. Five years on, she would be truly bottoming out. Ten years on, being obliged to arrive in a taxi, she might even outdo la direttrice.
For the only way Bernadetta could leave her shop these days was by taxi. Only able to manage a dozen steps without needing to catch her breath, she had the greatest difficulty in hauling her giant bottom around her little domain. Because for her mobility she’d become increasingly dependent on the little seamstress first employed for last minute alterations, Bernadetta had been obliged to require Eli to move in and share the living space behind the shop with her.
Escaping the sweat shop
It had not always been this way. Bernadetta had begun working in the tailoring sweat shops of old Pancuito when only a waif of eight or nine. Skipping schooling through her childhood, she’d toiled, first at tidying and fetching for the older girls, then year on year graduating through the skills: hemming, button holing, tacking, and finally cutting and fitting plus, most difficult of all, customer skills.
At sixteen, as a simple young dressmaker, she had been plucked out of the city by her patron the Contessa.
For all her adult life she had worshipped her glorious, unpredictable Contessa. The only true love of Bernadetta’s life, the Contessa had been her motivating force. It was the Contessa who’d endowed Bernadetta with her livelihood. She’d also shaped her – just as Bernadetta had shaped the Contessa.
The Contessa had only just gained her handle by marriage when Bernadetta first entered her service. The spoiled daughter of a rich Genovese industrialist, she was in her early 20s. Her doting father had, via his hunting connections, fixed up a dynastic marriage to a faded old aristocrat. With a knowing wink at his daughter he’d whispered how the old Count had no shots left in his locker save his extensive pedigree.
For their spring honeymoon, the Count had taken his new radiant young Contessa down to stay on his family estate on the Mediterranean island of Pannecottera.
From the start she’d got off on the wrong foot with the Count’s daunting cook-housekeeper. As head of the estate staff the old bag had organized the initial formal welcome, the estate staff lining up on the steps of the palazzo to shake hands. They passed through to the great terrace over looking the estate where, under flaming torches, lavish excesses of ceremonial feasting had been arranged to mark the couple’s first night.
When the Contessa was seen to have picked at no more than four or five items on a single plate, the obese cook-housekeeper had insolently not even bothered to disguise her contempt.
Withdrawing into their honeymoon suite, the new Contessa, used to getting her own way as the spoiled little rich girl, blew her top. Hurling off her clothing, flinging it in fury at the heavy drapes, she had raged at the humiliation. Only later had it dawned on her that the whole episode had been planned by the Count as the first step to becoming a Contessa worthy of the title.
Six weeks later, the Contessa found herself abandoned, expected to spend the summer months at the palazzo alone, the sole recipient of the lavish attentions of the staff on the extensive estate. Innocent of the elderly Count’s motive in carrying her off to the island, the fragrant young Contessa was now distressed to find herself gaining weight inexorably as life at the palazzo got into its summer stride.
The estate staff, receiving instructions by telephone from the Count, knew just where to turn to for appeasing their distraught, but ripening, charge. Renowned on the island, Madame Zachary operated a long established business dedicated to expansively dressing all the old well-to-do families.
One morning in late June, Madame Zachary, accompanied by her trusty assistant Bernadetta, was driven sedately out to the palazzo by the Contessa’s chauffeur in a high, square old Isotta Fraschini, its windows hung with lace curtains like a hearse. Since a mere child, Bernadetta had never failed to deliver on Madame Zachary’s deadlines even for the most intricate of ballgowns. Now sixteen and fully fledged, Bernadetta was rated by Madame Zachary to be one of her principle subordinates.
The problem was that (like the trundling old limo) the slow-moving Madame Zachary belonged to an earlier age. She’d been in her prime during the nineteen forties and early fifties, the era of Italian new wave films: snappy brimmed hats and long grey frocks with shoulder pads.
Out at the palazzo, the Contessa was appalled as Madame Zachary tried to pigeonhole her into baggy two-piece old ladies costumes and loose-fitting frocks of a bygone age.
Reverting to poor little rich girl, she’d stamped her foot, exclaiming how it was all so unfair.
“Its only 30 lbs or so after all!” she complained - even though she’d felt like a goose being fattened.
She slammed off into her bathroom.
Bernadetta had been reading the signs; she’d examined the silver-framed wedding photos where the bride was a rangy 6 ft 3 skinny clotheshorse (130 lb max, Bernadetta thought) and checked out the risqué chic - now unwearable - hanging in the Contessa’s closet.
A lot more than 30 lbs had been stacked on the young Contessa. Bernadetta smiled to herself taking stock. Her long thighs were full and, on an emergent hourglass figure, lush, convex curves were developing. She’d even noticed the cutest latent droop of puppy fat under the Contessa’s chin.
Bernadetta observed how in bikini top and tight shorts, succulent new breast flesh hung out of cups shaped for little more than nipples. And when the C flounced away from them, a beautiful, plump little bottom was on show, straining the tight shorts.
She’d got to be 180 lbs, maybe more.
The Contessa was beginning to occupy space, Bernadetta thought in summing up.
The delectable spoiled darling could soon be knocking at the door of 200 lbs!
Talking through the door about all the exciting potential, Bernadetta set about winning around the plumpening Contessa.
To Madame Zachary’s intense irritation, minidresses, floaty little numbers, even minimalist leisure wear, was being proposed. Anything was possible!
Reassured now that the young girl Bernadetta seemed far more understanding in responding to her quandary - the young Contessa emerged shyly.
By the end of the session the young Contessa had been completely captivated by Bernadetta. Despair evaporated completely as Bernadetta and the Contessa excitedly pinned and experimented with fabrics that showcased the proportions of the Contessa’s tall blossoming figure to the fullest.
The Contessa had particularly appreciated Bernadetta complimenting her on the way she was learning to occupy space. She remembered how as a spoiled little rich girl she’d been so insecure immediately after the wedding in having to act the formal Contessa.
Impetuously, the Contessa (reverting as usual to spoiled little rich girl) demanded that Madame Zachary deliver some of the exciting new garments the following day.
Madame Zachary, miffed at Bernadetta’s success, wasn’t going to bust her arse. She most certainly did not intend losing any beauty sleep over this difficult over-indulged brat, Contessa or no!
So it was left to Bernadetta to work through the night, ready to be the sole occupant riding out behind the curtains of the chauffeur-driven Isotta Fraschini the next morning.
For the rest of the summer, in a profitable deal for Madame Zachary, Bernadetta had been lent to the Contessa, expected to live in at the palazzo. She was to allay the Contessa’s fears about being “enhanced” using her dressmaking skills: snipping sewing and creating. Rapidly she earned a position of trust, the Contessa becoming increasingly dependant upon her as confidante.
And so Bernadetta became the Contessa’s friend – it seemed her only friend - in a place where (as Bernadetta agreed it was undoubtedly true) all seemed to have a single purpose: to make the young Contessa as plump as they possibly could.
To be continued
