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THE FRENCH CONFECTION

Episode 5: Emilie Hongerig

* * * * *

"This morning, I received an answer to the yellow notice for Byron Nourrisseur."

Carmelita sat at her desk. In one hand was her phone. In the other hand was the last bite of her third doughnut. She popped it into her mouth and enjoyed the fluffy cake, the sweet blueberry icing. Her juicy lips mashed together while she chewed.

Her cheeks were fluffy as well, rounded with pudge and softened by lush fur. A small layer of fat under her jaw formed a gentle second chin.

Her breasts, on the other hand, were massive jugs bulging against her scarlet top--anything but gentle. Her belly had grown as well, now forming a noticeable bowl of adipose. Carmelita had accommodated it with blue jeans that had a gracious waist big enough to wrap around her increased midsection. It comfortably received that lower roll that spanned from her lovehandle to just under her navel. It also conformed to her melon-sized rump cheeks: each full, round, and heavy. Her bigger legs featured thighs that pushed each other apart with lard and thicker calves that had pushed her boots up a size.

"Emilie Hongerig is the chief executive in the Bruges water treatment plant. She oversees the whole operation, ensuring the city has clean water.

"She hired a one 'Byron Nourrisseur' to work there. Once his employment paperwork went through, our Belgian office took note and flagged the yellow notice.

"I called Miss Hongerig today to ask about her new hire. He fits Byron's description, and she was even able to provide a matching French CNI number. She agreed to talk in person. I've got a train out to Bruges later today. We've arranged to meet at Lijvig Pub.

"It will be a relief to finally see Byron. I was beginning to seriously doubt he'd turn up alive."

Carmelita plucked the final doughnut from her plate. Funny enough, it was baked in the shape of a B.

"Another doughnut letter here, this time a B. I've got to ask why they keep throwing in these extras." She hit "stop" on her phone and sank her teeth into her luscious fourth doughnut.

* * * * *

Carmelita approached the Lijvig Pub in the early evening, when dinner was in full swing. The pub was next to a picturesque canal with calm, clear water, and the warm rays of the sunset bounced off of it like glimmering diamonds. But this was no time for a boat tour; Carmelita was here on business.

She entered the pub to find a bright and lively restaurant. Its walls were paneled with a pale oak, giving it a safe and welcoming feel. It looked like every table was filled, be it with families of parents and young children, or old friends, or business associates, or new lovers. Conversations filled the air, spiced by laughter here and there. And there was a constant undercurrent of eating, with clinking forks, slurped soups, and full mouths.

Carmelita approached a podium manned by a tall, wide badger wearing a polo shirt. His chunky gut strained against it. "Good evening, Miss," he said. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm here to meet Miss Hongerig."

The badger's face lit up. "Ah, we've set up the back room just for you. Right this way, please."

He left the podium and weaved between crowded tables, and Carmelita followed. Near the back of the dining hall was an unmarked door. He opened it, then stepped aside. "You'll be dining in here. Miss Hongerig will join you shortly."

"Thank you," Carmelita said.

She stepped inside and sat at the only table. It looked big enough to host a party of 10.

A server came by and dropped off a glass of water, but she didn't catch them. They skittered out of the room without a word.

Carmelita pondered why Byron would turn up at a water treatment plant, of all places.

She was thirsty. She took a swig of water. She waited.

First, her stomach growled. She hadn't noticed how hungry she was. She was probably so busy finding this place that she had overlooked her own senses. And since when was the door behind her closed?

Next, her eyelids felt heavy. Strange, since she had just felt alert. But the wait was testing her patience. She stood up to try and stir herself awake. And she fell to the floor unconscious.

* * * * *

The scent of pizza. Mozarella. Tomato sauce.

"Pizza time," she thought someone said.

Carmelita's eyes bolted open. She stood up from a chair, only to find that her left wrist was strapped to the chair's arm.

A nearby rat shouted, "Hey!" With her free arm, Carmelita shoved him down immediately.

She wasn't completely aware of her surroundings, but she knew one thing: she needed that pizza.

By the time she had ripped the strap from her left arm, she realized she was in a musty concrete room. No windows, just an overhead light. There was a chair in the middle that she'd been strapped to. And there was a turtle standing near a table who looked at her in shock. A pizza box rested on the table beside him.

Carmelita bolted for the pizza. The turtle gathered his wits and blocked her path. A violent but calculated urge rose up within her; better not strike his hard shell, better to go for the extremities. She deftly dropped to the ground and swept his legs out from under him, and he fell gracelessly.

The rat approached her as the turtle got back up. She laid the rat out with a flurry of punches and the turtle with one precise hit to his noggin.

The pizza was all hers, now. She never considered eating it by the slice. No, instead she instantly took one end and rolled it up to the other, like a big pizza burrito. She opened her maw wide and crammed it in as far as she could. She bit down. The greasy cheese squished audibly in her jaws, and hot tomato sauce dotted her muzzle. She chewed that bite in moments, swallowed it with a huge gulp, then took another. Another. Another. Until the whole thing vanished down her gullet. She licked the remaining sauce from her face.

Starvation gnawed at her, piercing and deep. She tossed aside the first pizza box to find another beneath. She inhaled that pizza as well. With each thick, gushing chew, she sent more dense food into her plump belly. It expanded in kind, revealing an inch of bare tummy between her waistband and shirt. At the same time, its swelling pressed hard against her waistband. She finished the pizza without noticing her expanded middle.

She did not find the relief she had hoped for. Her stomach issued a long, rumbling groan and a sharp pang of hunger. She clutched her pudgy belly, squeezing its bulging fat in response to its painful emptiness. Her heart raced. She was too hungry to question why or ask what had come over her. She just knew she needed more food.

Her survival instincts had kicked in to answer her body's desperate hunger. And for Carmelita, a fight-or-flight survival instinct boiled down to just a fight survival instinct. Her body was immersed in adrenaline. Her mind was determined to throw aside anyone who would stand between her and a single bite of sustenance.

She left the room and found herself on a catwalk above a factory floor--or something like it. Giant pipes ran over the floor below, in parallel, and pumped through loud-humming vats. The catwalk spanned to the top of a short wall ahead. Beneath, each pipe ran into the side of that short wall.

And at the end of the catwalk was a lynx in a folding chair, who now stood after noticing Carmelita. Her hips spanned wide with pudge and packed her leather pants. She must have been almost twice as wide as Carmelita. Her belly was soft, too, rolling out under a ratty sleeveless shirt. Her breasts strained the top taut over her bust. But her arms looked thick with muscle rather than flab. She took a ready stance with her dukes up.

Carmelita smelled sweetened fried dough and a hint of cinnamon. She saw a plate stacked high with waffles behind the lynx, as if she was poised to guard it.

Carmelita took long, swift steps towards the lynx. Chest forward, her broad bosom shifted side to side as her strong shoulders and padded arms swung wide. The lynx charged with a clumsy gait, swinging her arms high and bouncing her belly and breasts.

The lynx reared back her right arm, then shot forward with a punch. Carmelita stepped aside and responded with her own fist in the lynx's pillowy gut. She reeled from the force, but she quickly launched her left fist back at Carmelita. Carmelita sidestepped this one, too, and grabbed the lynx's arm. She yanked the arm forward so that the lynx staggered behind her, and she kicked the lynx's doughy, jiggly ass. The lynx fell on her broad gut with an "oof!" She laid on the ground in a pile with her enormous ass protruding into the air.

Carmelita felt sweet relief as she turned to the waffles. Despite her enormous pizza binge, she felt as if an eternity had passed since she last ate. She snatched the plate from the ground and picked the top four waffles at once. She opened her mouth wide and tore into them. They were dense and chewy, although little bits of caramelized sugar here and there crunched between her teeth. They were hunting waffles. A rich cinnamon flavor permeated each bite.

They plummeted down her gullet and into a bottomless stomach. She grabbed another four and shred those to pieces as well. Even though her midsection tensed against her limited waistband, and her upper belly bubbled far over the top of her pants, her insides felt infinite.

Eight heavy waffles remained. Carmelita stretched her paw to claim all eight at once, then thrust them between her lips. Her jaws worked hard to tear and sunder so much thick dough, commanded to operate with full force by her dire instincts. In moments, her jam-packed mouth emptied into her ravenous gut, contributing even more to its bloat. Finally, the button sealing her waistband snapped off, and her bare belly flopped out of her pants. Her top rode up her stomach as well, with its bottom few buttons pulled tight over the growing surface of her gut.

Carmelita found no reprieve as her stomach escaped its denim confines. Instead, she felt utter despair. She felt a hunger so profound that she could perceive no other sensation, and there was no food remaining.

Her stomach hurt. But it wasn't the taxing ache of an overfull belly, the kind of pain that punishes an overeager appetite. Instead, it was the gnawing pain of hunger, the kind of pain that prompts action, that urges its victim onward. The kind that electrified Carmelita's senses and made her distressed and exhilerated all at once.

She stalked ahead, eyes studying her surroundings in a crazed search for comestibles. The short wall ahead was actually the side of a giant pool full of water. A long walkway traced the upper rim of the pool. Carmelita saw a boar up ahead on the walkway. She was thick in her waist, sporting a bare, protruding gut like a beach ball. Her navel was wide and padded densely with blubber. Slight breasts sat on top of her stomach, lounging in a sports bra. Chunky hips and tapering thighs packed her cargo pants.

The boar stood her ground while Carmelita approached. In fact, she seemed to be relaxing by taking a long swig from a big jug full of an amber-colored soft drink. As Carmelita got closer, she could hear the gulp, gulp, gulp of each swallow in her chug. Carmelita's ears perked up at the sound. Drink. Sustenance. She needed it.

But when she came within several feet, the boar lowered her jug and raised a lighter. She flicked it on, curled her lips, and blasted a roaring belch over the flame. A tremendous plume of fire rushed forward from the incendiary burp and lapped at Carmelita. The starved fox fell backwards and narrowly escaped the blaze.

The boar quickly chugged more, splashing the carbonated drink into her hefty belly and setting the jug down. She snorted and burped over the lighter towards Carmelita again, "huuUUAARRRP!" Her belch swept forward across the flame and spread it wide. It scorched the air, but Carmelita hopped beside it and closed the gap between her and the boar. Her conscious goal was the drink. Her honed reflexes guided her to it silently, unconsciously, darting beside the flame.

She reached for the lighter, but the boar caught her arm first. Carmelita reached with her other arm, and the boar belly-flopped onto her, using her swollen paunch to pin Carmelita's arm to the ground. Carmelita felt her own flab smooshed against the ground under the boar's deluge of pudge.

The boar guffawed crudely, "Buhuhuh!" and lifted the lighter to her mouth. Carmelita heard a growing gurgle within her foe. With only a split second to act, she raised her plump leg beside the boar's globular gut and used her knee to knock the lighter out of the boar's hoof. The lighter clattered to the ground. The boar ripped an ear-shattering burp into Carmelita's face, but without her lighter, it was all bark and no bite.

Carmelita pushed with all her might into the boar and flipped her onto her back with a thud. Carmelita swung her legs around the boar's bulging gut and plopped her chunky rump atop the mountain of midsection, rippling it. She socked the boar clean across her jaw.

Carmelita rose. Finally, she could focus on her critical hunger. There was no food, but there was another jug with four liters of the amber liquid. A clumsy masking tape label identified it as "FASSBRAUSSE". Carmelita stooped to pick it up. She popped off the cap, sealed her lips over the rim, and upturned the jug over her head. It steadily emptied into her, and she chugged hard and eagerly to suck it all down. Her gut continued swelling. After a few gulps, the bottom button of her shirt popped off, unable to survive the outward pressure from Carmelita's feast. A few more gulps, another button. Her tubby tummy looked rounder, more stuffed, as it burst through two more buttons. Her shirt covered only her breasts and arms.

When the last drop entered her, her belly had grown yet a few more inches. She let the jug drop to the floor. She was empty, starved, panicked. If only there was some food in this damn place.

She walked along the walkway, unflagging even though her belly sloshed and jostled from her firm, decisive march. Her need for food was as acute as ever. Her current focus was on the distant smell of fried potatoes.

Up ahead, the walkway ended at a wall beneath a higher walkway. A busty guard stood next to a ladder and a metal drum. The guard was an owl in a leather leotard. Her breasts looked like overripe watermelons fit to flop out of her top. Her top was open at the sides of her waist, and her tubby gut flooded out of its sides. A healthy crease at her sides was clearly visible. Her fishnet sleeves pinched her wing flab right up to her plump hands, each in a leather glove. She held a whip taut between her hands. Her feathered legs also bulged through fishnet stockings, with thighs that rubbed despite her widened fighter's stance and calves that billowed over the tops of her leather boots.

As Carmelita approached, the owl scowled, "You aren't getting through here."

Before Carmelita could form a response, she blasted a fierce belch, as if she'd just shaken a belly with four liters of soda: "bhurrAAUUOOORRrrph!!" She clutched her gut to steady herself, nearly knocked off her feet by the explosion. The owl fell backwards, shocked and shaken by the raw power Carmelita wielded in her gas.

The owl sat on the floor in a heap and whimpered. "I'll do anything, just don't--"

Carmelita was in no mood for this. Her hunger consumed her. If she didn't get those potatoes, she felt she would die. She barked, "WHERE--".

The nervous owl cut her off. "The Bruges Water Treatment Plant. Please--"

Carmelita stepped closer, "No, what--"

"Hongerig has rigged the city's water with a hunger stimulant to increase tourist revenues, but she keeps an antidote hunger suppressant for her and her friends!"

Carmelita took another step, "Shut up!! Why--"

"You drank a strengthened dosage of the hunger stimulant. Hongerig thought it would make you desperate and weak. But instead, you--"

Carmelita stepped forward so that now she stood over the owl. "The damn potatoes!!" In frustration, she knocked aside the drum beside the guard. Beneath it was a humongous cardboard tray of potato frites swimming in thick mayonnaise and curry ketchup. Carmelita instantly fell upon them, kneeling down at the tray and digging in with both hands.

She had no idea why they'd be hiding under a drum. She didn't care. Utter glee flooded Carmelita as she pulled up frites, hot and dripping with sauce, and crammed everything into her mouth. Her cheeks bulged with potatoes. The sauce slickened them and made them easy to swallow with minimal chewing. Carmelita ignored the sauce soaking her hands and dug right back in.

At the start, it was as if she had found an oasis in a desert. Scoop after scoop, she had plenty to shovel down her gullet. But as she ate more and her belly inflated yet a few more inches, dread crept in. She stuffed her mouth full over and over and over, yet her stomach issued crooning cries for more. No amount of food could assuage her famished agony.

After pounding the entire tray, Carmelita's gut swelled out to her knees as she kneeled. Her breasts no longer overshadowed her stomach, which pushed them up as it occupied more space. Her overburdened-but-underfed stomach groaned. She huffed and puffed, catching her breath after her frenzied stuffing, and her breasts heaved atop her lungs. An uneasy belch passed through her, and a hiccup rocked her.

But she needed more.

"Inspector Carmelita!" shouted a voice from above. She looked up to see a catwalk above with a rabbit and an immense cake. The voice continued, "Would you like some?"

* * * * *

The rabbit was Emilie Hongerig, clad in a black blazer and matching skirt. Her thin waist tapered outward to curved hips and a modest rump. A slit ran halfway up the side of her leg, showing her sleek calves. On her backside, her puffy tail accented her elegantly curved derriere. She stood next to a cart which carried a five-tier cake coated in decadent pink icing. Also next to her was a ladder that extended downward to Carmelita's level.

Carmelita's mouth watered. Her eyes grew wet. A few drops of sweat coursed her brow. Her heart pounded. And her stomach growled ferociously.

Emilie continued. She knew Carmelita's answer already. "Bow for me."

Carmelita was still kneeling. Without a second thought, she pushed her bubble butt off of the ground, then rolled her inflated gut off of her lap and plopped it bare on the ground with a slosh. Its outer layer of pudge oozed broad against the cold tile floor while her meaty breasts smooshed wide over its surface. Carmelita cast her eyes down and put her palms to the floor.

Emilie smirked. "Good. Now, your INTERPOL PIN."

Carmelita parted her lips. She caught herself before uttering a syllable. She hesitated.

"I know you heard me," Emilie said. "Your INTERPOL PIN for the cake."

Carmelita had known calamity before: assault, gunfire, explosives, you name it. But calamitous hunger was new for her. Her reflex was to shout her PIN and stuff her face. Instead, rationality stunted her instincts. She thought twice. The cake was obviously less important than protecting the classified information she had access to at INTERPOL. She recognized her course of action.

She leaned her back upright, sliding her bloated gut into her lap. She managed to get one foot on the floor, then pushed up with that. Her balance was rocky with a packed stomach swaying at her middle. She stayed focused on standing as she brought her other foot under her and stood completely.

"No," Carmelita said simply. She approached the ladder that led up to Emilie.

Emilie put her hands on the cart and pushed it flush against the guard rail. "Stop right there, Inspector, or the cake gets it."

Carmelita's heart leapt into her throat. But she focused her vision on Emilie, not the cake. And she put her hand on the first rung of the ladder.

She lifted one foot onto a lower rung, nudging her swollen middle up with her puffy thigh. Her stomach, in turn, nudged up her boobs and bounced them in her top. With her gut hanging bare out of her shirt and pants, and with sauce coating her hands and mouth, the integrity of her top over her breasts was one of the remaining dignified features of Carmelita's appearance. That, and her fiery gaze.

Emilie watched, nervous, uncertain what to do with the cake. She hadn't counted on her gambit ending in defiance.

Carmelita had never wanted anything in this world as much as she wanted that cake at that moment. To distract herself, she focused on sensations away from her hunger. She felt her ballooned middle jounce as she pulled herself up. She felt it wobble her heavy tits, unable to rest with a bouncy belly bumping them. She felt her fluffy forearms press her broad boobs when she pulled herself up. And, as she shifted one foot up the rung, her thick hips tilted and wagged her rotund rump.

Emilie shouted, "If you think I won't, you're wrong!"

Carmelita stayed focused. Her body jiggled head to toe while she climbed up, from the gut she juggled over her fattened legs, to her boobs that haplessly rode along, and her wide ass that rocked side to side.

Emilie tipped the cart up, and the cake slid off. It tumbled over the railing. Carmelita could feel it whiz by her through the air. Her instinct was to leap off, to chase it downward. But she kept climbing. As the cake hit the floor below, its splatting noise struck Carmelita's ears as if it was just next to her. In the next moment, her eyes crested the walkway above, and she snatched Emilie's ankle.

The rabbit tried to run, but instead tripped forward to the floor while Carmelita's grip held fast. Quickly, Carmelita let go of her leg so she could whip out a pair of handcuffs. She slapped one on a rung of the railing and the other on Emilie's ankle.

Carmelita climbed up and stood over Emilie. She huffed and puffed to catch her breath. "Byron Nourrisseur," she said breathlessly.

Emilie chuckled. "Aren't you forgetting my rights, Inspector? A lawyer? Medica--"

"GurrRRROOWR!" bellowed Carmelita's ravenous gut, cutting off Emilie.

Emilie wet her lips. "I never met him personally. But I did hear that he didn't follow regulations. I was about to terminate his employment, but we couldn't locate him. So, any irregularities you may find..."

Carmelita's blood boiled. This was the telltale maneuvering of a liar. "So he was a patsy for your drug scheme. The best kind, too--a dead one, the kind that can't talk back."

Emilie stayed silent.

Carmelita continued, "I just need to know who gave you his French CNI number. Tell me now, and they might go easy on you when they charge you with my kidnapping."

Emilie hesitated, then answered. "He did, Inspector. The paperwork's all in order."

Carmelita burped. Her stomach yearned for still more food, and Emilie wasn't making things easier. "I've got half a mind to devour you, smartass."

Emilie guffawed. "If only you knew who said that to me last," she said.

"Oh yeah?"

"But I can't tell you. No, I'll take my chances with the cops before that."

Carmelita sighed an exasperated sigh.

* * * * *

Later that night, Carmelita rest in a hotel room. Her weighty body sank into the firm mattress under her. Her belly formed a dome of flesh, quivering with each labored breath. It pushed aside her breasts towards her face. Her fingertips caressed it up and down.

Two carts and a bed full of empty plates were all the remaining evidence of her binge. Her stomach groaned a happy, satisfied groan, now stuffed and content.

She spoke into her phone.

"My hunger is finally gone. I think the drug finally wore off, but not before I took advantage of some room service. (Hic!)" She hiccuped with enough force to wobble her lard-lined body side to side, causing the bed to creak under her.

"Emilie Hongerig is booked for kidnapping. Whether she'll--urp--stand for poisoning the water is another question for another time. Her alibi with Byron might stick, even though it's bullshit.

"Which reminds me, I've got to make a filing under the Drinking Water Directive.

"As for Byron, it's clear he was never here. I need to head back to Lyon and regroup."