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THE FRENCH CONFECTION

Episode 6 Prologue: Carmelita Montoya Fox

* * * * *

"BurRAAP."

Carmelita sat in her office at the Lyon INTERPOL HQ. The hallway outside was dark, and a bright moon hung high in the sky. Her own office was dim, lit only by a desk lamp and the light of her computer monitor.

Carmelita held a now-empty energy drink can in her hand. Even her fingers were just a little thicker these days. She put down the can on her wooden desk with a hollow, tinny "plink."

She stared at a bright computer screen containing her notes. Her latest case was the disappearance of Byron Nourrisseur. He had gotten around quite a bit, leaving strands across Europe. Carmelita saw how it all wove together. But she didn't see how it ended up in Byron's disappearance.

The monitor lit up Carmelita's face. Potato chip crumbs stuck in her chubby muzzle. Her lips were fuller, rounder, and so were her cheeks. They puffed under her focused eyes. And below, it was now impossible to miss the pocket of pudge that softened her lower jaw and neck. Her midnight-black hair gleamed in the light, as well. It hung around her shoulders, looking a little unkempt as stray strands poked this way and that.

The monitor's white, sterile light also illuminated Carmelita's hefty bosom. Two furry loaves of fat filled out her chest and bubbled over her liberal neckline. Along that neckline, two buttons hung open, signifying that although the shirt still fit technically, it now fit to a lesser extent than it once had.

Her arms extended forward to her desk, nudging her bovine breasts with fluffy biceps. Her fingertips tapped the keyboard on her desk and penned an email to one Charles Beaumont. Charles was the local Lyon detective looking into Byron Nourrisseur's disappearance. He had reached out to INTERPOL for assistance; now it was time for her to report back. Her keystrokes reverberated through her padded arms and jiggled her breasts. Her curvy lips frowned into her plump cheeks.

An ever-billowing gut sat in Carmelita's lap. Its adipose spread broad over her generous thighs, with a lower doughy roll that was a few inches away from her knees. Carmelita had unzipped her pants, so it rolled over her waistband and bulged out from under her shirt. And at her backside, handful-sized pouches of pudge jutted over her waistband as her waist allocated flesh to her lovehandles. All told, a healthy spare tire of fat and fur swelled out from her lower torso.

Her upper belly was more spherical, like a squishy bowling ball nestled over her lower roll and under her protruding knockers. It was sealed behind a buttoned-up shirt.

Carmelita's right paw left the keyboard and visited the mouse. It clicked "Send" on her email. Then, it went to a bag of chips laying on her desk. She reached in and searched the bag with her fingers. They scanned to the bottom of the bag and found a sizable pile of crumbs. So, she retrieved her hand, picked up the bag, and held it over her open, waiting mouth. The chips raced out of the bag and onto her hungry tongue. She crunched them between her teeth. The jumble of brittle, salty morsels tasted just as good as her first handful did some hours ago. She swallowed. She crumpled the bag and threw it into the trash bin by her desk. This was the first time she'd eaten an entire family-sized bag of chips in a single night.

Carmelita pushed away from the desk. She stood up, pulling her bubble butt out of the chair. It was growing into a meaty rear shelf, graced by a fuzzy tail. Her rump cheeks were ballooning orbs that filled out her chair and bobbed over her thighs. They pulled her pants taut along with her decadently curved hips, dense with lard that swayed side to side when she walked, making every step unintentionally sultry. Her thighs had packed on weight, too, so ample that they smooshed each other and bulged round over the backs of her knees. Her portly calves wobbled in her boots.

As she stood, her gut sloshed with a long evening's worth of greasy chips and bubbly, caffeinated sugar. "Gurp," she burped carelessly, mentally fatigued and ready to pass out. She lifted her shirt up to her bust. Her pudgy, furry belly hung free. She then put a paw to her noisy middle and massaged it. She accidentally coaxed out another lazy belch while she fondled her midsection's plentiful pudge.

She was done for the night. She'd crash here, then shower tomorrow. Carmelita was used to overworking, so she kept a change of clothes here, and she had a cot set up as well.

Carmelita trudged plodding, undulating footsteps to the back of her office. She plopped her blubbery rump down on the cot. She kicked off her boots, and she breathed a sigh of pleasure as her furred feet met fresh air. She laid down and curled up on her side. Her legs brushed her paunch, which now pooled out on the cot. With her crotch squished between her chunky thighs and flabby underbelly, her panties felt a little too tight.

Actually...

She noticed a welling need between her legs. In her focus on finding Byron, she had lost sight of more personal matters. Her paw wandered along her bared belly up to her bulbous breast and cupped it in her hand. She licked her salty lips and stroked her nipple through her shirt and bra. Over her stiff shirt, she could feel how dense and voluminous her breasts had become, and pressing into her heavy tit offered enough resistance to work her bicep. It wasn't much for arousal, but it was more than Carmelita had gotten lately. She moaned, breathy and gratified. The stimulation wasn't enough to keep her awake, though, and she soon drifted into sleep.

* * * * *

Carmelita ducked next to an abandoned shack. Her abs were toned, the perfect middle to her hourglass shape, with striking hips, a proud ass, and a stunning rack. The night breeze kissed her naked fur. Above her was a window with no pane.

Slowly, she peered into the window. There he was: Sly Cooper. His bare-furred chest was slender but fit. Carmelita noted her arousal, but she remained determined. She had him now.

She leapt up and through the window, pouncing towards her prey. But she was halted in midair. She thought she was floating until she recognized a pinching feeling. She looked at her body and realized her stomach flooded the window. Just moments ago, she had washboard abs. Now, her stomach pursed around the window frame, heaping into rolls and folds where her bulging gut had to squeeze through the opening. Her breasts had swollen, too, dangling full and heavy from her chest. She clutched them in her flabby arms.

Sly folded his arms. "Looks like you're in a jam, Detective."

"Sly--!!" Carmelita shouted. She looked back, put her hands to the wall, and tried to push herself out. No good. She looked back up and saw Sly was gone.

Then, she felt furred fingertips caress her thickened thighs. Her wobbly upper legs felt sensitive. She shivered at the touch. Her determination melted. "Sly..." she moaned.

Then, she felt his hands grope her fat ass. His fingertips sunk into the plush adipose of her derriere. Her heart thumped. She breathed deep. She braced herself, and then--

"BREEP BREEP BREEP BREEP!"

Carmelita jolted upright in her cot, and her phone tumbled off of her rolly-poly belly and clattered to the floor. She leaned over, twisting her chunky waist and squishing her gut against the cot, and grabbed her phone from the floor. She swiped its screen to dismiss the alarm clock and shut it up.

"Damned dreams," she muttered.