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THE FRENCH CONFECTION

Episode 1: Charles Beaumont

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Inspector Carmelita Fox had long, wavy hair, jet black. Her golden-furred muzzle had softened with flab, padding her cheeks and jawline. Even her red-glossed lips were juicy. But her brown eyes were set with the same determination that she was known for.

She wore a blue blazer over a white shirt along with blue pants. She wore her INTERPOL badge on a collar, and the badge dangled into her cleavage. Her two breasts enjoyed the open air above her neckline like two risen loaves of dough. Below, her cushy midsection pressed against her shirt and muffined over her waistband mildly.

Her hips flared outward, casting daring curves on her figure. They were accompanied by a bubble butt that bounced like gelatin and thighs that smushed together at their inseam. She wore respectable flats on her feet.

She was underdressed, but she was here for business. She walked towards the double doors of L'Bouffer, the premiere restaurant in Lyon, France.

The double doors were under a tall archway. Above that, the facade of the building had three stories of wall-high windows, each set in its own identical, ornately-bevelled windowsill.

The doors were double for good reason. Carmelita stood aside as two doorpersons in tuxedos opened the front. Slowly, a teal-feathered peahen waddled out. She wore a long, flowing pearl-colored dress, pulled taut over three things: a stomach that passed within half a meter of the ground, hips that spanned as wide as she was tall, and quivering breasts the size of beach balls. She took ponderous strides while swinging her plump arms horizontally. She took up most of the room offered by the double-wide doorway.

A peacock in a tuxedo emerged afterwards. He was almost as wide, but his weight centered more in his belly. He shuffled out resting his sausage fingers on his middle, and his multicolored tail swayed from his ungainly gait.

The two definitely could not have walked out side by side.

Carmelita walked inside. She strode past the host confidently, saying, "Carmelita Fox, here to see Charles Beaumont."

Carmelita was here to meet Charles Beaumont, detective from the local Lyon police department.

She went on into a high-ceilinged dining hall. The tables must have been two meters in diameter, even though they only sat two at each table. The tables were even farther apart, presumably so that patrons like the peahen could still fit between tables that sat guests with globular rumps. The chairs were just as wide as the tables, after all, and they had quite a bit of room for those with well-endowed hindquarters.

The dining guests filled out their chairs in unique ways. One horse had a derriere that flooded the seat behind them. Another patron was a retriever with fluffy hips that jammed between the arms. And over there, one panda's behind only filled a fraction of the chair, but their gut billowed to the floor and tucked under the table.

Not much talking went on. Carmelita mostly heard the soft clinks of forks against plates, the slurps of creamy soups between lips, the scarfs of big bites, and even moans of pleasure. Everyone was too busy eating to talk.

The smells of this place were amazing, too. Her nose danced from one scent to the next as she walked through the hall. Rich butters, juicy steaks, savory sauces, strong cheeses, sweet glazes. It was a lot to take in. Carmelita felt hunger gnaw at her insides. She willfully ignored her fluffy middle; she would let nothing distract her.

She spotted Charles Beaumont, a heavyset bulldog wearing a tuxedo. He sat at a table.

He scooted his chair back and stood, jostling his rolling belly out of his lap. Even with his chin of many folds and a bulging gut that leaned against his legs, he seemed small for this place. He was maybe half of the width of his chair. He smiled warmly and extended a paw. "Good to see you, Inspector Carmelita Fox," he said.

Carmelita shook his hand. "Likewise, Detective Charles Beaumont," she responded. She sat in her oversized chair and Charles sat in his. Her chair's seat dwarfed her broad backside. "Thank you for agreeing to brief me on the Nourrisseur case. But why here?"

"Think nothing of it," he replied. "And it's here because you need to really *feel* this place. Byron Nourrisseur was the head baker here at L'Bouffer, and you can still taste his soul, or at least catch a whiff of it."

For a few weeks, Charles Beaumont had been investigating the disappearance of a star baker named Byron Nourrisseur. The investigation was being transferred from the Lyon PD to INTERPOL because it looked like the case was international. Inspector Carmelita would take over the case. Charles would brief her on what he knew thus far.

Their penguin waiter took their orders: beef stroganoff for Carmelita and chicken cordon bleu for Charles. Then the waiter left.

Charles reviewed the circumstances of Byron's disappearance, then Byron's known relationships. Carmelita asked questions along the way, looking for important nuances.

Their waiter returned with a cart. Grunting, he lifted a salad mixing bowl, then placed it before Carmelita. The giant bowl wasn't for sharing; it was Carmelita's entree. It was filled to the brim with juicy hunks of beef, fried slices of mushroom, and a thick, sour cream-based sauce, all piled over a bed of piping hot noodles.

Charles got his dinner, too, a huge honking chicken breast jammed with ham and swiss. They thanked the waiter, and he pushed the empty cart away.

The beef stroganoff's aroma was incredible. The savory steak mingled with creamy sauce, both rich in their own way. Carmelita took up a fork and dug in. Just like her bowl, her fork was oversized, too. She shoveled a mouth-filling bite into her maw. It filled her cheeks, and she mashed her mandible, pushing excess food into her cheeks and plumping them out further with each bite. The smell was great, but the taste was orgasmic. She was about to moan when she realized she was in public. She swallowed her dense bite with a heavy, audible "galunk."

She took another bite like that, and another, and another. Her packed swallows slid down her gullet and plopped her tasty prey into her stomach. If everything in the menu was this good, Carmelita thought to herself, she could see why L'Bouffer patrons blimped to impossible proportions. Carmelita had the urge to cram herself full of food. Her taste buds were in euphoria, and her stomach welcomed the onslaught happily.

Charles explained what had led the Lyon PD to reached out to INTERPOL. He had foreign leads to follow up on, but that was in Carmelita's hands now.

Carmelita listened intently while pigging out. She asked through a full mouth, "Fwha' ki'e o' ghonash?" She swallowed, pumping more into her belly. "Sorry. What kind of contacts?"

She was sated by now, for sure. Looking at the bowl, she could see she'd put away 10 centimeters from the top of the bowl. She'd hardly made a dent in her meal. There was absolutely no way she could finish, but she'd go as far as she could. Their conversation continued as they ate.

After a time, Charles nodded to a particularly wide poodle waddling through the dining hall. She had grey fur and a pink dress. "See the poodle? That's Brioche Bombe, owner of L'Bouffer."

The obese poodle's bangs were fluffy, and so were her ears. Dense neck fat wrapped thick around her head like a furry boa made of lard. Her belly bulged far beyond her reach, and its bottom swept under the bottom of her dress, hanging heavy just centimeters from the floor. Grandiose breasts draped elegantly over her gut, covering its entire top side. She wasn't much for modesty; her dress showed abundant bosom fur, with its open top along the entire breadth of her rack. Although, as wide as her belly and bust were, her hips had them beat. They were almost as wide as a table, certainly wide enough that their edges spanned beyond her chubby fingers' grasp. Below, her thighs were thick enough that they forced her feet to stand half a meter apart. That is to say, so much lard crowded her legs that she couldn't put two legs straight to the ground. So crammed were her legs that she had to stand with her legs tilted away from each other.

Her pace was lumbering; she leaned to one side, lifting one leg. She pivoted her lifted leg forward, then softly lowered it to the ground. In this way, she compensated for the adipose that widened her stance. Even so, her footfalls weren't clumsy or hard. Rather, they lent a sexy sway to her fat. When she put a foot down, her belly bounced enough to just graze the floor. It wobbled side to side enticingly, followed by her rack, twin peaks of shifting blubber. She dragged her prodigious arm flab across her flanks in her stride. She didn't heft her blubber in some utilitarian march; she swayed it rhythmically in an elegant saunter.

She stopped at Carmelita's table. "Detective Beaumont," she said to Charles, "how does this evening find you?"

"Wonderful, madame. I should introduce you to my associate." Charles nodded from the poodle to Carmelita. "Brioche Bombe, this is Inspector Carmelita Fox, who will search for Byron abroad." Charles then gestured to the mammoth poodle. "Inspector Carmelita, this is Brioche Bombe, owner of L'Bouffer."

Brioche the poodle said, "A pleasure to meet you."

Carmelita responded, "Likewise, Miss Bombe."

Brioche Bombe said to Charles, "Everyone here is grateful for your efforts to find Byron. If you need anything from us, anything at all, just say the word." She turned to Carmelita, squishing her double chin under her jaw. "Byron was more than head baker here, he was a beloved friend."

"I'm sure," Carmelita said.

Brioche's stomach growled, yearning for sustenance. "If you'll excuse me, I'm late for my second dinner. Good day, I hope you enjoy your meal with us, and we hope to see you back here soon." With that, she commenced her heaving yet graceful waddle away.

In terms of appetite, Carmelita approached her limit. Her bites were slow and steady now. Her meal pushed on her stomach, which was confined in her pants. She leaned back somewhat in her chair--difficult to do when you can't reach the back of the chair. She unbuttoned her pants, and her belly fluffed outward. The pressure in her middle eased, and she breathed a sigh of comfort. She ate more, eager to enjoy as much of her beef stroganoff as she could.

Charles was nearly finished his chicken cordon bleu. He spoke haltingly as he rubbed his immense abdomen. "Brioche--has been eager to--help, but she doesn't have--much information." He stopped and took his last bite, concluding his entree.

Carmelita took her last bite as well, but nowhere near the end of her entree. She had finished a third of the dish, if you were charitable, and she felt positively stuffed. She put her fingertips to her stomach's surface. Its chubbiness had given way to a taut food baby. Her distended gut was hard. Rubbing its surface gently dulled the pressure just a bit.

Their penguin waiter returned and found Charles' empty plate and Carmelita rubbing her belly. "How are you two doing?"

Charles uttered, "Check--please."

They split the check. Carmelita got her remaining food boxed as humongous leftovers.

After paying, Carmelita stood and hiccuped. It heaved her lungs, bouncing her breasts. She saw that one of the buttons near the bottom of Charles' shirt had unbuttoned too, likely on its own.

She took slow, steady steps to Charles' side. Her gut sloshed with her meal as she did. She held out her paw. "Det(HIC)ective, thank you for your time. I'll get in touch if I need anything."

Charles, staying seated, shook her hand. He nodded lazily. "Mm," was all he could say.

She picked up her leftovers and walked. Her stride was slow and careful, and she held a hand to her burbling gut. She felt like the peahen.

* * * * *

Carmelita woke to her alarm clock. She raised an arm out from under the comforter and flicked the off switch on her clock. She pulled the covers off and sat up on the edge of the bed, nude.

Her full, plump breasts leaned a touch against her fluffy belly. As she leaned forward over her legs, her midsection scrunched into folds, particularly as it pooched outward near her navel. It was nice not to have a rock for a stomach any more.

She breathed deep. The Nourrisseur case. Today, she would pick up where Detective Beaumont left off.

She stood, and her tummy rolls smoothed out, leaving her with a thin, pillowy layer of adipose over her middle.

She plodded over to her dresser, pulled open the top drawer, and plucked out a black pair of panties. She pulled them on one leg at a time, scraping them up between her smooshing thighs. She pulled the waistband up to her lovehandles, which were a couple inches thick. The seat of the panties felt a little tight, and they pulled taut over her mound and pelvis.

Next, Carmelita opened the drawer below and took a pair of trusty jeans. She put one leg in, then the next, and pulled up. The pant legs gripped her thighs, dragging their pudge upward as she tugged. When her jeans were all the way up, her thighs felt jammed into her pants.

But they were still unbuttoned. She tried to pull the waistband together over her pelvis, but the button would not meet its clasp. As she tugged, her pants constricted her hips, biting into the soft flesh between hips and waist.

She turned around to see the back of the pants in the mirror. She put her tail up to get a good look. Her ass cheeks bubbled over the top of the waistband. She pulled the button towards its clasp again, tightening the pants, and she watched her jutting rump purse around the waistband, flubbing over its top.

First, she would find new pants. Then, she would start on the Nourrisseur case.

Her stomach growled. She put a paw to her flabby middle.

Correction. First, she would get some breakfast. Then she'd find new pants, and after that, she'd start the case.