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THE FRENCH CONFECTION

Episode 3: "Apetyt"

* * * * *

Carmelita sat at her desk with a mouthful of doughnut. In her right hand was a circular, chocolate-iced pastry with fresh bite marks in it. Her jaw pushed her softened chin up and down as she chewed. On the desk sat her phone, recording audio.

"I'm off to Poland to meet Hanna Pekaty, better known as 'Apetyt.' I've placed a hefty wager on her performance."

Carmelita's white shirt was buttoned over a fluffy belly, but not over her crammed cleavage. A certain growth spurt had visited her breasts, leaving her without a bra that was comfortable. The tops of her jiggling jugs were bare. Under her soft arms, she could also feel the pudge of her sideboobs.

"While investigating the disappearance of star baker Byron Nourrisseur, Juan Eructo gave me intelligence related to an illegal gambling ring in Poland. They're organized by a woman named Pola Pozerac. They arrange sports betting on all manner of events, but they specialize in competitive eating. The organization has international tendrils, so INTERPOL is stepping in to help."

Her breasts loomed over a potbelly stomach. Its paunch was pleasant and pillowy, inching forward over her waistband. She found a certain comfort in its plush squish. She was really growing a pair of lovehandles now, too; luxurious adipose softened the sides of her lower back.

"I'll be going undercover first to investigate the ring. My superiors believe my weight gain in the past several months will be enough to disguise my identity.

"To investigate the ring, INTERPOL provided me with funds to place a big, fat bet. Patrons that wager large amounts--so-called 'whales'--have the opportunity to meet the person they're betting on. So, the INTERPOL money will let me interrogate members of the ring before any action is taken.

"That's how I came to arrange a meeting with 'Apetyt,' the eater I'm betting on."

A well-groomed tail rest over her round rump and out of the back of the chair. Her gelatinous ass spread over the seat of the chair. Her thighs were chunky too, providing a broad lap ready to catch her stomach when, some day, it would bulge forward and plop down. For now though, her thighs were content to smother each other and fill out her pants.

And her calves had actually outgrown her old boots. She'd bought a new pair that comfortably tugged up her thickened lower legs.

"On an untelated note, today was another strange doughnut day. I ordered two dozen and got twenty-five. No extra charge, either. They must have miscounted." She popped the last morsel of doughnut into her mouth. "I may as well take the extra one."

* * * * *

Carmelita stood in a snowfield outside a warehouse. She wore a heavy down coat. She appreciated the warmth of her own natural padding, as well. Not to mention her long, black hair flowing over her neck. She shivered, sending tiny ripples through the flab lining her body.

She was pretty sure this was the right place. Her Jeep was parked next to a few other offroad vehicles, so someone was here.

She walked to the door and took the handle in her leather-gloved hand. After a good yank, it opened.

The floors were dingy, but the lights were bright. One person was inside. A tubby bison, clad in a sports bra and yoga pants, sat on a folding chair. Next to her was a card table holding a few bottles. Her horns were short and curved. Her belly was a behemoth, a huge wrecking ball that spilled beyond her thighs and past her knees. Its top curve had a slight upward arc as it flowed forth from her figure, and her breasts slumped into the valley between her stomach's crest and her collarbone. Sitting like this, with her gut overflowing her lap, her midsection only had the tiniest of creases underneath her arms. Her upper belly curved gracefully outward to her broader lower belly in one smooth, wobbly surface. The one exception was her thoroughly padded navel.

The bison heard the door and turned to Carmelita. She asked, "Miss Cooper?" Her voice was warm, hearty, and welcoming.

"Sylvia Cooper, yes," Carmelita said. Someone at HQ was laughing their asses off at this fake identity. "And you must be 'Apetyt'?"

"That's me alright. It's good to meet you! You caught me right before a volume test." Her card table had a two liter bottle of water, a two liter bottle of kompot z suszu (dried fruit juice, or kompot), and a two liter bottle of milk.

Carmelita said, "I see. If you don't mind, I'm curious about the system here. Can I ask you some questions?"

"Sure, ask away. Don't mind if I take a swig, I'm listening." She picked up the water bottle in one hoof and put it to her snout, sealing her lips around it. She tilted her head back quickly but precisely.

Carmelita began, "So you eat competitively... do you get to meet the bakers that make food for your competitions?"

Apetyt's gulps were subtle and evenly spaced. The water bottle emptied down her gullet at top speed, but she looked like she was doing almost nothing. Even from this quick glimpse, it was clear that Apetyt treated this as a sport, a competitive physical form to be perfected and executed with precision.

She set the bottle down, now empty, and breathed deep through her broad nostrils. "Yeah. We gorge ourselves on their food, so we get to know them pretty intimately. When you eat such huge quantities of one person's food so frequently, like we do in eating contests--it's strange, but you really get to know someone."

Apetyt took the milk bottle next.

Carmelita was stunned. "Aren't you full after the water?"

Apetyt snorted a laugh through her nose. "You do know what you're betting on, right? This is nothing." She put the milk to her mouth and chugged deftly, although not so quickly this time. Her swallows were neat and precise: gulp, two, three, four, gulp, two, three, four.

Carmelita stammered, "O-of course, it's just different seeing it." She composed herself and went on, "You know, speaking of bakers, when I first heard about this underground eating competition, I heard great things about Brian. Brian Nurser, I think?"

Carmelita didn't want to give away that she was investigating a missing person, Byron Nourrisseur. Whatever she could do to disguise her motives, including reciting his name incorrectly, would help.

The last of the milk flowed into Apetyt, and the bottle popped free from her lips. With shut eyes, she took a few moments to breathe, massaging her belly. She gently pressed its top, reaching her flabby arms around her plump breasts. In a wide stroke, she drew her hooves around to the sides of her belly and rubbed in circles. Its pudge rolled under her touch. The front of her stomach was beyond her reach. She opened her eyes. Breathy, she asked, "Do you mean Byron Nourrisseur?"

"Yes, yes! That's the one."

"Byron was great. This new baker, they're crass and showy. But Byron knew nuance. He could make a dish understated but poetic and deep, the kind of cookie you were happy to eat hundreds of times over."

Apetyt took the juice bottle and lifted it to her lips. She took a breath, shut her eyes, and gingerly tilted the juice into her mouth. Utter calm came over her as each careful, tense swallow streamed from her mouth to her stomach. While one hoof gripped the bottle of juice, the other rubbed in circles over her gargantuan midsection, massaging her stuffed stomach by gingerly compressing the fattened walls of her belly inward. With expert techniques like controlled ingestion and targeted massage, she could press farther than most people thought possible. To call her a glutton would be a disservice to her skill. Her performances were not binges, they were displays of bodily proficiency and honed talent.

She had downed half the juice when she pulled her lips free and held the bottle aside. She took deep breaths and puffed out through pursed lips. Her gut groaned long and low. Her free hoof fondled her upper stomach.

Carmelita was in awe. "Five liters... that's incredible!"

Apetyt licked her lips as she caught her breath. "Oh, I'm not done yet." The bottle went back to her lips.

Four liters is already an impossible volume of liquid, only to be attempted by trained professionals. Five was unheard of. Six liters was absolutley nuts. Carmelita wondered if this was part of the appeal of Pozerac's ring: that she showcased eating talents that went above and beyond safe standards. Carmelita was speechless as she watched Apetyt's extraordinary guzzle.

The end of the juice dripped into Apetyt. Weakly, she pulled the bottle from her mouth and dropped it on the table. She panted like she'd just run a marathon. Her heaving lungs pushed her quivering breasts up and down, and her puffs expanded her flabby cheeks. She clutched her stomach and cautiously pushed down into its top.

Carmelita looked on in concern. "Are you alright?"

Apetyt's huffing slowed. "Yeah, huff, but this is, puff, about my limit."

Apetyt's belly quaked over her laborious breaths and under her groping massage. Over time, its rumbles and squelches went from loud and alarming to moderate and only mildly worrying. It took on a monotone, comforting character. Carmelita sat silent as she witnessed a master at work. Eventually, Apetyt's diligent belly became too quiet to hear.

Apetyt went on, "I was crestfallen when Byron left Pozerac's employ to go bake at L'Bouffer. I even visited L'Bouffer for training just to eat Byron's baking, when I could afford the trip. The last time I went, though, I found out he'd gone missing the night before."

Carmelita's fur stood on end. Apetyt had visited L'Bouffer the day after Byron went missing?! There was more information here to tease out of Apetyt, if she could manage it. Carmelita said, "That must have been disappointing."

"More than that, I was crushed. I'm sure everyone else was, too. I overheard from the staff that even Brioche Bombe had lost her appetite entirely. Hell--if I was in her shoes, I wouldn't be hungry either."

"So did he ever turn up?"

Apetyt shook her head no. "No. That was a few weeks ago, so, well..."

Yes, it was likely Byron would turn up dead. Carmelita said, "Sorry. It sounds like he meant a lot to you."

* * * * *

After Carmelita's undercover interrogation, she reported back to her superiors. Together, they concluded the best course was to raid on the day of the next eating competition. They would catch all of the chief perpetrators, including Pola Pozerac, the mafia mogul responsible for organizing the illegal gambling ring.

On the day of the competition, one hundred or so people gathered in the warehouse. Rows of folding chairs were lined up in front of a raised platform, the stage. It wasn't an impressive setup, Carmelita noted, but it was one with disposable evidence.

Carmelita was in the audience, comfortably seated in the middle of the crowd and inconspicuous. She saw Pola Pozerac in the front row, a tubby, snow-white hare with an apple figure. Based on her size, it looked like she'd won plenty of eating competitions herself. Carmelita also spied accountants and bookies working in a room behind the stage, prepping their books. Those books would be instrumental evidence for shutting down Pozerac.

A beaver in an ill-fitting tux walked out of the back room. He took a mic on the stage in his paw. "Hello, and welcome to this evening's heavyweight bout!" As he talked, the clamor in the room died down. "First, coming in at a well-fed 250 kilograms, it's The Bottomless Belly herself, Apetyt!"

Apetyt emerged gut-first from the back room. She wore her sports bra and yoga pants, leaving her giant, brown-furred belly bare. Her stomach wobbled left and right as she waddled, and her heavy footsteps and bouncy gait jiggled her bountiful midsection. Her arms swept horizontally in her stride, wagging their juicy flab to and fro. The crowd clapped and cheered.

She trudged to a folding chair seated at a long table. She pulled it out and carefully lined up her rump with it. Then, she slowly bent at the waist and knees. It was difficult scrunching her belly with her legs, and her calves strained to maintain posture as she sat. She was so heavy that she wanted to just plop down. But if she slammed her ass, there was no doubt she'd flatten the folding chair.

(And that was a different competition.)

"Next up, at a scale-crushing 265 kilograms, it's the growing star: Usta!"

In the back room doorway now was a white stork with hefty hips. She wore a tube top that only covered her breasts and gym shorts that looked lost in her folds. Her tits were pert and plump handfuls each, and her round belly provided a soft, feathery apron to her upper thighs. But her biggest assets were her hips. They were stacked with so much pudgy, dimpled lard. A deep crease formed between her pelvis and leg, a sign of her body packing fat in her frame any way it could.

Initially, she walked straight to the doorway to enter the main room. She was greeted by cheers as well. But her hips wedged into the door frame, stopping her momentarily. Hoots and hollers lent a new energy to the cheering. Usta had become familiar with the feeling of fat trapped in a doorway lately. She backed out, turned sideways, and sidled through the doorway. Her blubbery glutes overflowed with adipose, jutting over half a meter behind her and overwhelming her thighs, squishing into rolls against her legs. Above her ass crack, black feathers formed a cute tail that swayed over her gelatinous rear. As she sidled, her ass shook and bobbed. The gravid heave of her butt disturbed her balance, and she held her arms out to steady herself. Not that she needed it. Her rump pressed against one side of the doorway while her hungry belly pressed the other. She scraped her way through.

When she popped free, her jiggly body rippled. Catcalls from the audience expressed excitement at the sight. She waddled to two folding chairs, rubbing thigh on thigh. She pulled one seat out, then the other, and aimed one rump cheek squarely onto each.

Her ass splayed over the seats of her chairs lazily. The sloppy fat of her gut draped over her thighs, and her breasts slumped from the top of her belly to its sides. A long slit of pudge in the front of her stomach marked her navel.

Sitting, Apetyt and Usta turned to each other. Apetyt extended a flabby, furry arm past her globular gut. (It was getting harder to reach past these days.) Her stomach growled, anxious to showcase its talent.

Usta raised a pudgy, feathered arm and shook Apetyt's hoof. Her stomach growled too, but in a fierce, frightening way. Her hefty belly quaked, wobbling in her lap as if some invisible hand was engaging in belly play. It growled loud and angry. Usta broke her handshake in surprise and gripped her rolling gut in her feathery hands, trying to steady it. She laughed nervously.

The table had four plates, two for each competitor. One held a huge stockpile of kielbasa. The other offered a massive heap of paczki: fried dough pastries filled with fruit jam and lathered in a rich, sugary glaze. The competitors had their choice of drink; Apetyt had a teacup and teapot with hot blackcurrant tea, while Usta had a big bottle of cola.

The beaver counted down: "Three, two, one"--and with a thump of his tail--"EAT!" He scurried offstage.

Each competitor began, initially blind to each other.

Apetyt followed the plan she had formed for this very meal. She plucked a kielbasa link, and using well-planned bites, she inhaled it in two chomps. Four links shuttled down her gullet in practiced order. The paczki was a little harder. Her best strategy was to bite open the pastry, swallow the dough in her mouth, lap out the jam in one swoop of her expert tongue, then finish off the rest in two bites. After three rounds of four kielbasas and one paczki, she took a delicate swig of tea, no bigger than what she needed to rinse her mouth.

She was truly an eater's eater. Her bites were swift, precise, and elegant, with smooth, soundless swallows. She was silent as she stuffed food between her pudgy cheeks. The loudest part of her meal was the chair that creaked under her shifting bulk. She had to reach forward to nab food, squeezing her adipose-filled gut as she bent at the waist. The shift put pressure on the front of the folding chair beneath her. She would pick up a kielbasa, then lean back. The lardy thighs that supported her monstrous gut pursed their fat past the seat of the chair, and her lovehandles squished around two bars holding up the back of the chair.

Apetyt could hear her rival, though. Usta shredded her food with abandon. She clutched a handful of kielbasa, then shoved the hot, greasy links into her beak. She chewed frantically, bobbing her stuffed cheeks beside her long, thin beak. She swallowed hard. Then she grabbed more. She shred the links wet, loud, and obnoxious, and her lumpy swallows issued a gushy, meaty "galunk" sound. She leaned forward in her chairs. Each ass cheek overflowed the seat of its personal chair, while each thigh splayed wider than the seat of each chair. Her legs were open so that her rolling gut could hang between them as she leaned forward. She would reach forward with one arm to clutch food, then the other, twisting at the waist and performing an impromptu belly dance.

Using both hands, she took the bottle of cola, put it to her beak, and tilted her head back. She swallowed two cups before slamming the cola back down. She reached forward for more kielbasa, but a thick belch took her off guard. She paused to let the gas pass, then dug right back in.

Apetyt ate with confidence. Usta was reckless, with no care for form or the restraints of her own gut. She'd burn out quickly.

Apetyt had eaten a quarter of each pile when she decided to adopt her slower strategies. As she acknowledged her growing fullness, she took more care with each bite so that she could fully utilize the volume of her stomach. This was the strength of Apetyt's practice sessions: as much as they were about pushing her stomach to accept larger binges, they were also about learning to use her stomach as efficiently as possible.

Worryingly, Usta did not show any signs of stopping or of fullness. She'd rudely wolfed down the kielbasa links in entirety and was now moving onto the paczki pastries. She shoved three into her maw, mashing them wildly before gulping down and slurping the jam off her beak. No, it was more than worrying, Apetyt concluded--Usta ate crazed and starved, like she hadn't seen food in a week. Even the most foolhardy, overconfident eaters would have shown some sign of fullness by now. Was this an unheard-of natural talent, was it a refined skill, or was it something else?

Carmelita looked around, trying to spot any hint that the SWAT team was on their way. They sure were taking their sweet time.

Apetyt didn't let the thoughts about Usta cloud her mind. Instead, she applied herself diligently to the kielbasa and paczki. She reached forward gently, taking care to maneuver around her blimped, stretched gut. She picked up a kielbasa link and bit through it slowly as she breathed deep. Her full breasts quivered over her taxed belly. She could feel that her burbling, swollen gut was running out of room fast. By contrast, the unending gluttony of her competitor was unsettling.

Soon, Apetyt had to admit that there was no use fighting beyond her capacity. She took her final paczki and ate it in small, laborious bites, forcing her mandible up and down to chew the food. Her gut felt like a ton of bricks, a tremendous weight bearing down on her lap. Her stomach rose and fell over her hard breathing, and a weak hoof stroked her churning, distended gut. It was times like this that she missed having a stomach small enough that she could reach its front. She polished off the pastry and admitted, "I'm, huff, done." All told, she'd cleared half of each dish.

Meanwhile, Usta had devoured both of her own plates fully. Her stomach spoke in hungry growls at the same time that it uttered working groans. It looked more bloated and less flabby, bulging out in a full dome from her frame. Pink stretch marks like lightning streaked up and down her belly.

The announcer beaver prepared to come back out on stage, but hesitated when Usta stood up and grabbed Apetyt's unfinished plates. Her doughy arm flab danced and squished as she shoveled more and more and more food into her mouth, now carelessly cramming kielbasa and paczi into her mouth all at the same time. The crowd cheered, ecstatic to get an encore. Apetyt was less enthused, not because of her loss, but because her rival seemed to have gone mad. Usta tore through the remaining food in half a minute, and her belly roared--whether from anger over the new contents forced into it or anger that the food had ended, Apetyt couldn't tell. Usta swiped the cola and chugged its remaining contents: gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp . . .

The bottle fell from her grip, and she unleashed a fierce, powerful belch. Apetyt could feel the stage beneath her rattle, and her flabby gut rocked from the force of Usta's burp. The raucous crowd fell silent under the overwhelming, overpowering sound.

Carmelita was pissed. If that SWAT team took any longer, the raid would be a bust!

Usta left the stage with quick, ungainly steps. Her lard-laden arms wagged through the air, and her chunky thighs rippled from her pounding footsteps. Her huge ass disrupted her stride more than anything. She took fast, sweeping steps that bounced her monumental ass cheeks and slapped them back down. While her butt was stocked with uneven, dimpled lard, her bulging gut was smooth, plumped outward in a heaving globe that was pumped full of food, with just a layer of fat on it. It bobbed over her the furious wobbles of her stomping legs. She marched her fat ass to the front of the warehouse, bolting--as fast as she could at her weight--for the exit. She moaned, "Moar . . . MOAR FOooOD!!"

Wait. Was Usta using the door straight-on? Carmelita stared at Usta's quaking ass trudging towards the open doorway. Usta's breasts and belly scraped through with some discomfort, their blubber pursing around the door frame. Her hips scraped, too, until they didn't. They fit snug into the door frame, holding her in place. Irate, she gripped the door frame and pushed against it, but to no avail. She grunted and groaned, but all she managed to do was wiggle her corpulent ass at a room full of shocked onlookers. Her ass was on full display, since her shorts had been rendered into panties by the sheer girth of her backside.

Then, Carmelita heard a shout from outside: "This is INTERPOL! Step away from the door!"

Carmelita scoffed. Really?!

Then, from inside, a smoky growl: "What do you MEAN I don't fit?!"

Carmelita followed her ears and saw something in the back room. An obese white hare in a jade-colored dress was sunken into the floor up to her waist. It was Pola Pozerac. Carmelita reasoned that the back office had an underground escape route: one that was now plugged with the twin forces of Pola's jiggling, cellulite-covered ass and her overfed, chunky gut. As she raged, she jostled her fat and bounced her tits, but nothing could pull her free. She'd trapped everyone.

The people around Carmelita scrambled to find another exit. But this warehouse was chosen for illicit activity for its discreet presence: no windows to speak of, at least within reach.

All Carmelita had to do was pop Usta free. She walked towards Usta, rolling up her sleeves. Usta's weighty cheeks jostled and rippled as she struggled, and armored police tried to yank her blubber free on the opposite side. Carmelita took a firm stance, planting her right foot back. She pushed her hands full force into Usta's bare ass, and her palms clapped against its dense adipose, sending ripples through the doughy flesh. Carmelita pushed with all her might with every fiber of muscle in her body, but all she managed to do was push her paws into plush blubber that squished between her fingers. Usta didn't budge.

Carmelita let go and backed up. She saw what to do. "Hey!!" she shouted to the SWAT team on the other side. "Get ready to catch her!"

The officers on the other side of the doorway quit pulling Usta. Carmelita turned at the waist, putting her shoulder forward, and charged. Her plump breasts flopped over her jostling belly, and for a split moment, Carmelita regretted that she hadn't found a fitting bra. But she bore through the pain of her heaving boobs and leapt into Usta's back at full speed.

Usta yelped in shock as she popped free. Armed police on the other side grabbed her arms and steadied her. Carmelita landed on her feet after bouncing off of Usta's tremendous butt. The SWAT team streamed in around Usta and Carmelita.

Carmelita watched.

* * * * *

The ensuing raid went without a hitch. The key players were taken in custody and caught red-handed: Pola Pozerac and her bookies along with all of their materials documenting payments to and from whales.

While local police and INTERPOL agents cleaned up their haul, Carmelita munched on unsold concessions. She enjoyed some kielbasa herself. Watching Apetyt and Usta go at it really made her hungry!