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THE FRENCH CONFECTION

Episode 6: Pauline Nourrisseur

* * * * *

Carmelita stood at the bakery counter, reciting her order. "...and two chocolate chocolate doughnuts," she finished. Her strong, squared-off shoulders were now softened by a layer of flab, and her hips cast wide, generous curves.

She wore taut blue jeans that covered most of her rump, save for its top. Her orange-furred cheeks bubbled over the waistband by a few centimeters. Her tail granted her a measure of dignity by covering her crack, at least.

Her shirt faced a similar struggle. She had managed to button it from top to bottom, but it was drawn tight against her ample flesh, a dam of fabric holding back a flood of fat. Her tits strained against it, leaving little to the imagination. (More juvenile onlookers could see her nipples poke against it. She hadn't found a bra that would fit.) Her shirt didn't reach down to the bottom of her belly, either, and its spare tire swelled out of the shirt's bottom. Her lower gut felt pinched between the bottom of her shirt and her waistband. And between each button, the shirt opened a window to her bare fur underneath, since her wide waist and tremendous tits pushed her shirt out.

Her attire wasn't great, but she'd spent the night in the office. This was her only change of clothes for the time being.

The bakery was well lit overhead, with bright white floors, giving the place a sleek but welcoming look. The glass counter came up to Carmelita's elbows. It had three long shelves chock full of culinary delights, from bear claws to quiches to bagels, and... the list goes on. There was a chipmunk working the counter who Carmelita had seen a few times before. Her nametag, resting on a chest so big that the nametag itself was nearly horizontal, read "Pauline."

The chipmunk was facing a rack of pastries on the back wall, and a box sat on the counter next to her. She was a short, squat woman with a warm demeanor. She put the last doughnuts in the box, closed it, and picked it up. Her fur was a chestnut brown, and her big, soft cheeks were pressed up by a big, friendly smile. Her disarming visage was completed by faint blue eyes. Below, her shoulders were slight and dainty, and they were almost completely obscured by enormous breasts that stretched her shirt and dwarfed her head. She held the box of doughnuts over her chest, and still, her chest stuck further out. She wore an apron over them, and it covered a comically thin slice of their breadth. Pauline's middle was also far wider than her apron. It bulged forward over her pants' waistband and matched a waist that was wider than the box of doughnuts. Her hips were just a touch broader than that. They were supported by thick legs, along with meaty thighs that imparted to her a mild waddle.

Carmelita's mind drifted in the few moments that she waited. After a long night of hard work on Byron's case, she felt like she had put together his entire career. He was a baker who lived life in the fast lane, making quick and easy money. His food was widely sought, which meant he had his pick of employer. And he chose to work for rich crime bosses that could pay him top dollar with their own ill-gotten gains. He positioned himself downstream of illegal activity, so that he earned nearly as much dough, even though he was just baking madeleines. Strangest of all was that Byron had seemed to cool off in the recent past. When he disappeared, he'd been working at the highly respected, well-regarded L'Bouffer.

Pauline slid the box of doughnuts off of her rack and onto the counter. "10 euros, please," she said.

Another thing that didn't make sense about Byron's disappearance was that no one held a grudge against him. He had never done anything illegal, either--immoral, yes, but illegal, no. He had nothing to run from, and no one had an interest in ending his career. To Carmelita, the only feasible explanation was that he was slain by chance alone, and that the party was either 1.) natural, e.g. lightning or 2.) of no familiarity to Byron.

But now was not the time to get distracted replaying all of that in her head. Intermittently, over the past few months, this bakery had thrown in an extra doughnut here and there. For the past week, Carmelita had been checking her order before paying. She hadn't caught an extra doughnut yet, but she knew she would one of these days. "Just a moment, I want to check my order first," Carmelita said. She opened the box of doughnuts.

The "E" stuck out like a sore thumb. There they were, Carmelita's order of 12 doughnuts, perfectly delivered. But then there was one extra, formed in the unmistakeable shape of a capital "E." Pauline had snuck it in somehow, right under the fox's nose.

"Finally!" Carmelita exclaimed gleefully. She shut the box. Pauline was the one giving her extra doughnuts all along, she had just never put it together. Carmelita looked up from the box, and Pauline was gone. The kitchen door behind the counter was swinging. "Wait!!" she called out.

Carmelita clutched the doughnut box under her arm and prepared to give chase. She considered slinging herself over the glass countertop, but she wasn't sure it would support her weight. Instead, she found a door in the counter and ran through that.

BOMBE. The extra doughnuts arranged themselves in her mind, and they hit her like a thunderclap. She had a deep, unconscious feeling that something dreadful would come of this.

Carmelita burst into the kitchen. Pauline was ahead of her, waddling as fast as she could between rows of ovens and racks of pastries. Her flabby arms swung wide, and she bobbed side to side from the effort of sweeping her full thighs around each other. She huffed with each step, and her gelatinous ass cheeks heaved up and down.

Carmelita darted after her. Her own butt wagged up and down, bouncing heartily and heavily from the inspector's sprint. Her belly shook with rhythmic ripples, and her breasts leapt with each pounding step. For Carmelita, her weight gain was no sign of laziness or softening of character. She looked plush and curvy, and her weight gave her a pillowy, thickening allure; but she bore it with determination, precision, and skill.

She caught up to Pauline easily and put her paw on the woman's small but cushy shoulder. "Stop right there," Carmelita ordered.

Pauline whirled around. She unintentionally whipped her tubby breasts right into Carmelita's padded middle, like hitting her with twin fifty-pound duffel bags of lard. Carmelita staggered backward. Pauline's breasts were cushy and soft, but they were also hefty knockers. "A-ah!" she cried. "Sorry, I just... take anything you want. Your doughnuts are on the house. Anything you need catered?"

"There's only one thing I'm interested in," Carmelita said. Her eyes were fixed, unwavering on Pauline's.

"I was afraid of that," Pauline said knowingly. "Let's go to the break room where we can sit in privacy."

Pauline led Carmelita to a nearby door. Past it was a small room with a round table and a few chairs. They each took a seat. Carmelita sat the box of doughnuts on the table and opened it.

She found the chair's broad seat to be inviting and comfortable under her blossoming derriere.

"First thing's first. You're Pauline Nourrisseur, I take it?"

Carmelita had never spoken to Byron's wife--or at least, she didn't realize that Pauline the baker was Pauline Nourrisseur, wife of Byron Nourrisseur. The local Lyon PD would have interrogated her. Carmelita's job was exclusively to investigate the international scope of Byron's disappearance, after all.

Pauline leaned forward into the table, mashing her excessive bust against the countertop. Her boobs were so full and round that they splayed over the table, scrunched into its edge, fluffed up towards her face, and got in the way of her reaching arm. She leaned so that her pudgy fingers could snatch the E-shaped doughnut. She sat back with her pastry. Nervously, she took a big bite, cramming half of it into her puffy cheeks at once. "Yesh, I'm married to Bfyron," she said through a mouth full of cake and icing.

"And the extra doughnuts you've given me are more than just mistakes or freebies," Carmelita continued. Pauline mowed down the last of the doughnut and swallowed hastily. "What were you trying to tell me about Brioche Bombe?" Carmelita asked.

Pauline swiped another doughnut and tore into it. "Shorry, I'm a nervoush eader," she said. Her rounded cheeks puffed out and in as she chewed.

Carmelita didn't relent. "Let's say I take for granted you know that I work for INTERPOL, and that you knew INTERPOL was investigating Byron as a missing person case. Those aren't common knowledge, but they aren't exactly secret, either. What were you trying to tell me?"

Pauline choked down the doughnut. "N-nothing," she said. Pauline had agreed to talk not five minutes ago, but now that she sat with the Inspector, she was halted by anxiety. She sat still for half of a moment before plucking another doughnut. When she ate, she jammed her cheeks full, playing out the stereotype of the binging chipmunk.

"I can see I need your trust," Carmelita said. Her stomach grumbled with annoyance: a big, delicious box of doughnuts sat before her, and she hadn't had breakfast yet. But Carmelita's drive for the truth pushed her to ignore her need for sustenance.

Carmelita continued, "I know Byron disappeared while under Brioche Bombe's employ.

"One informant told me that other members of the L'Bouffer staff have gone missing, and that was accurate. But that's circumstantial. It doesn't speak to Byron's disappearance in particular."

Pauline nabbed two doughnuts at once. She listened intently. Her round ears perked up, and she took moderate bites from her doughnut sandwich. Her diminutive mouth had to stretch wide to fit both in at once.

"Another told me that Bombe ate nothing the day after his disappearance, citing a lack of appetite. Fair enough; he was crucial to her business, and perhaps he meant something to her personally. I'm sure they worked together; they may have formed a friendship. She expressed as much to me in person."

Pauline gulped down her current doughnuts and took two more. Her big bites came faster, and she didn't pace herself so well. Her cheeks filled out gradually with every mash of her teeth, eventually puffing out like two balls. As she chewed, her cheeks wagged with their sugary contents.

"Another person with privileged knowledge told me that Bombe went up two clothing sizes soon after Byron's disappearance. Now, I don't know if you've seen Brioche Bombe, but she's a woman of some... lateral stature. She might go up in clothing sizes the way I take breaths of air. But what's funny is that this informant knew generally how often Bombe outgrew her clothes, and that person thought Bombe's growth was fast. But, even still, maybe Bombe just had a good week. Maybe she managed to fit in a third dinner every night, when she usually only gets two."

Pauline's attention intensified. Her heart raced. She clutched three doughnuts and tore into them. She wanted to block out Carmelita, but she had to hear her, too. Stuck in the middle, she sought to squash her anxiety under a mass of baked food. Her stomach felt tight and packed bearing half a dozen doughnuts, but its yawning groans meant nothing to her.

"But there's one thing, one clue, one scrap of hearsay that I can't shake. Do you know what it is?"

Pauline stared at Carmelita. Her eyes bulged with shock. Her cheeks bulged with doughnuts. She laboriously worked her jaw through a logjam of cake.

"Emilie Hongerig, the chief executive of the Bruges water treatment plant--I mean, FORMER executive--was using Byron Nourrisseur's personal information to cover up a hustle with the waterworks. This was well after he went missing. Who would have access to that information, information for faking an employment?

"That's not even the clue, though. Hongerig told me something very interesting. She told me that someone had threatened her. Someone, and Hongerig wouldn't say who, said this to her: 'I've got half a mind to devour you.'"

Carmelita concluded her case with pride. All the work she'd done linked together like a puzzle box come undone. But as she looked at Pauline, all she felt was regret. The chipmunk's eyes welled with tears for one pregnant moment before she broke into a wailing sob. Carmelita felt like a fool. She'd played out Pauline's trauma, right in front of her, like a terrific jackass.

"Pauline, I--" Carmelita started. Words failed her.

"No, it's true," Pauline said, words trembling over streaming tears. "I saw it. It's the most horrifying thing I've ever seen. I see it in my nightmares."

Carmelita figued that "it" referred to Byron's murder, but then it kind of sounded like Pauline was referring to something else. It sounded like she meant a tangible THING that was horrifying, not an event.

All Carmelita could do now was sit and listen. She wondered if Charles Beaumont had heard Pauline's story.

Pauline continued. "It happened late one night at L'Bouffer. After closing, and after most of the staff had left, Byron and I went to go meet with Brioche.

"At first, we were both going to meet her. Byron and I were going to start our own bakery, you see, and we wanted to tell her together. But at the last minute, Byron became distant. Like I couldn't see his soul through his eyes any more. I think now--I think he was scared, but didn't want to let on. Anyway, he told me to wait in the hallway outside her office.

"And I did. So he walked in." She choked back her tears. "Alone." She breathed in deeply, then out. "When I heard them arguing, I looked into the office, and she was... he was..." An image gripped Pauline's inner eye that defied verbal conveyance. "Her jaws had consumed his head. He was trapped in her paws. And she pulled him up, and up, and up, until he was all gone, down her throat. She made the most terrible, wet, grunting noise, and I saw the love of my life pass into her on the eve of our greatest triumph.

"I can't get that big, long, wide, gaping maw out of my mind.

"I was mortified. I panicked. I ran. I wonder now if I could have done something.

"I don't think she saw me. I've been too scared to tell anyone my story. If this ever gets out, I'm sure she'll eat me, too." She clutched Carmelita's shirt and yanked it. "You can't tell a soul, okay?! I made the doughnuts so you'd never know it was me, so you'd never have anything to file away as evidence."

"Absolutely," Carmelita said calmly. "It's my job to protect you. No one will ever hear what you just told me."

Pauline turned again to the doughnuts. She was a little relieved, but the discussion had left her with fluttering, uneven breath. She took the last three doughnuts and munched on them slowly. She grunted with effort, and her belly growled with discomfort. She sat back in her chair, arched her back to press up her rotund gut, and rubbed it. Her hand passed under her chest, bumping it and shifting her malleable mammaries. A hiccup bounced her body into heavy undulations.

Carmelita appreciated Pauline's candor. But it was the ravings of a madwoman. The notion that a woman opened up her mouth and swallowed a man whole was preposterous. On one hand, it at least corroborated Carmelita's newfound theory that Bombe had disposed of Byron's body by eating it. But that corroboration was of little use when it left the bounds of sanity.

Carmelita could at least appreciate Pauline's tragedy. She held Pauline's hand. "Look, I'm just a cop, at the end of the day. I really think you should see a grief counselor."

* * * * *

Carmelita spoke with Charles Beaumont over the phone immediately instead of waiting for their meeting. He was the Lyon PD detective who was investigating Byron Nourrisseur's disappearance. Carmelita was working the case internationally to assist him.

She insisted that he should order a search of Brioche Bombe's office. It had been several weeks since Byron went missing, so it was probably too late to catch any evidence. But it was worth a shot.

Charles declined her suggestion. He didn't see it the way she did. He offered only one compromise: meet with Brioche Bombe personally in her office.

Carmelita and Charles met at L'Bouffer. Currently, they sat in chairs in an enclosed waiting room outside of Bombe's office. It had all the elegance of the restaurant proper, with beige, ornately patterned wallpaper and crimson-upholstered chairs.

Charles himself wore a tan trench coat, which did little to obscure his protruding belly. It was a colossal gut, a rotund heft of blubber that widened his waist like a blimp and jut out past his knees as he sat. His flabby arms draped over the chair's armrests. His arms had grown so pudgy that they creased around his wrists, bloated with fat like floaties. His stocky bulldog build was complete with a dense roll of pudge girding his neck and a deep cleft chin.

Carmelita sat in the chair next to his. Her rounded fingers clutched her armrests. She was certain of the truth, but she didn't know how to convince Charles. Her hunger thundered from her gut, "rrrooOOAAWrr." The way it carved her insides made her feel ready to inhale a vat of food.

Charles looked at her with concern. Her belly sounded angrier than a rabid dog. "Are you sure you wouldn't like a bite to eat, first? We could grab lunch here," he said. His voice was deep and buttery.

"I appreciate it. I am famished. But something about this smells severely wrong," she said. "No. I need to see this through."

At that moment, Carmelita heard cold steel clanging. She jumped in her seat, only to find that her forearms were now bound to her chair by metal clasps. "What the--" she stammered before she heard a shout of pain.

She looked to Charles. Metal clasps had sprung up from his armrests, too, but now they dug into his thick arms, painfully squeezing his chunky flesh. His arms had been too fat for the clasps to fit around them. He yanked his arms free, and the clasps clamped shut in an instant. He rubbed his sore arms to massage their pinched pudge. "That smarted like none other... Someone tried to get the jump on us, but they didn't make the trap quite the right size."

"Speak for yourself," Carmelita said. Charles turned to her and saw her helpless in her seat.

The extra-wide door to Brioche Bombe's office swung open and slammed the wall. On the other side was a ponderous poodle of incredible proportions. Her vast hips spanned wider than she was tall, casting curves so extreme that she looked like a sturdy wall, even as her hips wobbled unceasingly. One leg alone stored hundreds of pounds, lusciously bulging with decadent adipose. Bombe wore a business skirt that ended just above her knees. Her hips pulled the skirt tight, and below, her thighs showed a few bare centimeters that flared outwards below the confines of her clothing. Each mammoth thigh ended with a deep crease capping each bulbous calf, wide and round like Charles' midsection.

But their heft was obscured by the colossal, swaying, meteoric stomach that proudly surged from her middle like a combustion of fat. Her belly stuck out from her waist about as far as she could reach. Her upper abdomen was cleanly buttoned away behind a blazer, but below that, her gray-furred gut blimped out from under her top. It was too wide to call an apron belly; no, she had a confident bulldozer belly, a wide and dense apparatus, groomed by an appetite that was second to none. It swung dangerously close to the ground. Its navel was barely recognizeable as a series of overlapping folds just beneath her blazer. Her belly button was so wide and deep that Charles could have probably stuck a fist in there with ease.

That same blazer cupped her breasts. They sprawled side to side, slumping off of her waist, and projected forward to overshadow her well-fed stomach. The blazer had reached its limits in holding her bosom; her boobs muffin topped its neckline and pulled its buttons as tight as could be. Even then, the blazer compressed the top of her breasts into rolling dimples, packed as they were in her immodest attire.

Her wider-than-life figure left her arms little room, and so she held their flab-flooded weight on her sloping waist. Her neck was a pool of fat in which her head rested, cushioned further by blubbery cheeks. Her lips were a little plump, but all the more eye-catching for their glistening, scarlet color. Her tongue ran along her bottom lip, then her upper lip.

Charles stood at once. "Brioche!! What is the meaning of this?!" he demanded.

Brioche Bombe scoffed, rippling her generous cheeks. "I'm nipping a problem in the bud. You could have lived such a happy life if it wasn't for this weasel leading you astray."

Brioche took pounding, quaking steps forward. She hefted her opulent bulk up with one meaty leg. Then, she let her immeasurable weight drive her foot back down, shaking the floor under them and blasting an intimidating thud. "BAM!" went her footfall, sending her dense blubber into an everlasting wobble: jiggling her tits, wagging her belly from her waist, and rocking her hips side to side. "BAM!,... BAM!,... BAM!" she marched.

Carmelita even felt the vibrations inside her. Her muscles tensed. But she was trapped for now, unable to fight. "Charles, get me out of these things!" she shouted.

Charles, half oblivious and half panicked, turned to Carmelita. Bombe approached him and turned sideways. Her rump was barely contained at all in her skirt, and her ass burst outward under her hemline. Her cheeks were two yoga balls of lard, carefully maintained and tended in order to smooth out the many lumps and dimples that a woman of size would naturally acquire. They flopped against the backs of her legs, even down to her calves. And just above them, two plush mounds of back fat squeezed out under her blazer and over her butt, forming fluffy pouches. Her short, slender tail wagged to and fro excitedly under the two lovehandles, nudging into the left one, then the right one, in turn.

Bombe reared her hips away from Charles, then she thrust them directly into his billowing belly. Her healthy hips forced their overwhelming weight into his soft gut, impacting its thick but pliant surface with her dense, heavy haunches; her own fat pounded a crater into his stomach. He lost his footing immediately. Even before he could fall, though, her ass followed up and pummelled him like a 160 kilogram pendulum. Her cheeks clapped as they bopped him. Charles hit the ground with a slam as her cheeks wobbled.

Laying prostrate, he reached in his coat and pulled out a pistol. He rose wearily and pointed the gun directly at her. He uttered every following word with stern command. "Brioche Bombe, stop or I will shoot."

"Okay," she said carelessly. She turned around to face him and crouched as far as her lard-swollen legs would allow. She pressed calf fat to thigh fat, squishing them even broader against each other as she prepared a pounce. Her belly bunched into folds against the ground from her lowered stance.

Charles didn't know why, but he feared for his life in that moment. And so, he pulled the trigger. The bullet fired with a deafening boom and flew directly into her massive, blubbery gut. Charles knew regret instantly as he watched her flesh ripple outward from the impact like throwing a pebble in a pond.

But Bombe remained unphased. The bullet, spent, rolled limply out of a crease of adipose and dropped to the floor. No blood, no anything. She took a gunshot to the stomach like it was nothing.

Charles had no time to think before Bombe stepped forward, twisted her waist, and whacked his hands with her behemoth boobs. The gun flew out of his grip and clattered to the ground, far out of Carmelita's reach. Then, Bombe pinned Charles against the wall. Her stomach inundated his body like a tidal wave of blubber come crashing against him, while her corpulent haunches stabilized her stance in place. Her breasts spilled out of her top and flowed over his shoulders and against his face. Her arms couldn't reach the wall, not past the hoard of fat shared between Charles and herself. Instead, she reached under her tits and grabbed hold of his coat.

"Ooh, Charles, you're so BIG. You must be quite the ladykiller. And now, hmm... I'm the maneater~."

Charles jerked and squirmed with all his might, but Brioche Bombe was a colossus of calories, a figure granted super powers by her insane accumulation of adipose. Nothing he could do would phase her. He was snared in the trap of her body.

Carmelita looked from her seat. She could see Bombe's side. But she couldn't see Bombe's face past her fluffed knockers.

Bombe opened her mouth. Her jaw extended downward, cracking like she was popping her knuckles. And her mouth stretched wide as the sides of her lips pushed back layers of deep but yielding cheek.

Charles felt himself suddenly small. He was peering into a woman's maw like it was the dank depths of a cavern. The insides of her cheeks started pink near the front, but as he looked deeper, they faded into impenetrable darkness. Behind her upper lip and behind lower lip, each, was installed a lengthy row of sharp teeth. Most chilling of all was her wet, broad, rouge-pink tongue, which lolled out before him and offered a path down into the bottomless pit of her gullet. Her breath was surprisingly pleasant, smelling of mint and rose.

Carmelita couldn't tell what Bombe was up to, but it looked bad. She shouted, she stomped her feet, and she tried to rock the chair free from its bolts in the floor. "Let him go!!" she yelled assertively. But her cries were impotent. Bombe had no interest in stopping, and the waiting room was soundproof.

Bombe lowered her mouth around Charles' head and buried her chin in her bulging neck. He jerked and jostled fruitlessly. Her lips met his shoulders and stroked them as her lips widened alongside them. As they did, they swept his coat off of his shoulders. The massage was strangely relaxing, and her velvetty tongue along his brutish snout was welcoming, inviting. Her mouth flowed with warm, soothing air. He felt her lips run down his arms, and her teeth scratched his tubby gut. He was trapped. This was it. But he didn't expect the journey to be so sensual and intimate. As his shoulders stretched her throat wide, he was at once terrified and pacified.

Carmelita saw Bombe hunched over her stomach, which formed an enormous, bulging sack squeezed broad across the ground as she shoved it to the floor. And Carmelita saw Bombe's head craned forward. Her jaw was impossibly wide, and in its snatches, Carmelita saw Charles' incredible stomach. She wasn't sure what she saw was real. But shaking her head didn't wipe the image from her vision. Bombe was gulping down, whole, a man too fat for most chairs. Bombe's neck bulged with all his generous circumference, and it jut out in a sphere the size of Charles' waistline.

Bombe's stomach was already huge, but Carmelita witnessed it stretch longer and wider the farther Charles travelled down her throat. Each choking gulp that Bombe took inflated her belly at an unbelievable rate. Her belly burst free of her blazer entirely. It rest on the ground. It pushed up her breasts. It pulsed bigger, and bigger, and bigger, forcing apart her legs and shoving aside her breasts. At last, his dangling feet passed into her stomach. Bombe felt overtaken by a gut that had distended with an impossible weight. Its skin was pulled tight over a churning, grousing belly, showing stretch marks under her now-thin fur. She put her hands to her stomach, which quaked and throbbed, pinned between her and the wall. She gasped and panted desperately for air.

"(HuRK) You--(hic)--you got--ohhHHHhh--(mmbwELCH)--lucky this t-(URp)--(huff, puff)--this time, InspectURRP." Her face was red with exertion. "My--(unf)--appetite has been (ngh) sa(HORP)--sated, for now. (BurrUP)"

Bombe stopped talking to rub her lower jaw. It felt sore from its gigantic stretch. Bombe loved conquering prey, but Charles Beaumont was particularly meaty compared to her usual fare.

"You, Inspector, I'll save for later--ohhhh..." Bombe uttered weakly. She stopped to catch her breath and ended up fighting down thirty seconds of hiccups and burps. When she finally recovered, she finished, "You'll be sleeping with the beans."

"What do you mean by that?!" Carmelita demanded.

Sluggishly, Bombe backed up from the wall. She put one foot behind her, nudging one rump cheek into the other. Then, she rocked her weight onto that foot, dragging her belly backwards over the carpet while her front leg poked into it. She then pulled her front leg out of her superstuffed stomach, causing it to slosh and heaving a whining burp out of her. Finally, she put that leg back, starting the process over.

"That's for, (huff) me to, (puff), know, and you to, (whoof), find out."

Carmelita watched Bombe back up. The poodle was just a couple of meters away, but her lunch weighed her down and brought her gait to a crawling pace. Carmelita knew something was coming, but her mind was blank. No escape plan seemed possible, bound as she was. Instead, she sat there, powerless as the boulder of rumbling, squelching flesh drew closer agonizingly slowly. She stared at Bombe's backside as it approached her, two jiggling orbs big enough to crush a person.

Finally, Bombe's ass met Carmelita's legs. The fox grimaced and held her head back as Bombe's wobbling saunter continued backward, engulfing Carmelita's lap under encroaching piles of rump. Bombe's ass pressed up against Carmelita's chest, and she felt her breathing constrict. Her lungs toiled to suck in air, but the weight that bore down on them made it challenging. And at the last, despite craning her head as far back as she could, Bombe's crack smothered over her head. Her face was caught between untold volumes of ass cheek. She heaved her lungs to draw air, but found only the dense, doughy, enclosed crevice of Bombe's backside. Carmelita felt dizzy. Then, it all went black.

* * * * *

Carmelita awoke when something warm splashed her face. It was lumpy and smelled of cumen. How long had she been out...?

She opened her eyes. She was slumped against something soft but dense. Around her, walls towered above her. They were about two meters apart, tan and fluffy. And she was up to her neck in chili.

She swore she was inside a bread bowl.

The situation was too preposterous to believe. But she didn't have time to decide whether she believed it or not. Soup gushed in overhead, plop-plop-plopping steadily. She leaned into a nearby wall, hoping to tear it, but she had no luck. They stretched but never tore. These walls were tough!

Groggy, she tried to stand, but she fell face first into the chili with a meaty splash. She realized her feet were bound at the ankles. Then, she realized her hands were bound behind her back. All the while, chili poured in overhead from a giant hose. On her knees, she was submerged under the piling chili. She struggled to her feet for one last breath before the bean-and-beef sludge filled up the bowl above her head.

The chili was hot, but not scalding. Carmelita kept her eyes sealed shut. She heard burbling chili all around her and felt it press in on her.

She leapt up, pumping her legs hard to pierce the chili overhead. She could just barely poke her head above the surface. She took a hasty gulp of air--and some chili along with it, accidentally. Damn... she had forgotten how hungry she was, and this was really good chili. Her feet hit the ground again.

She couldn't swim with her hands bound. So, she hopped forward. It was strange, slogging herself through a thick, savory swamp. Soon, she bumped into a mushy, pliant surface. This must be the bread bowl wall, she realized. She leaned into it with all her weight, but it only squished under her. Her bread prison was still too tough to puncture with weight alone.

She jumped up again to snag another breath, taking another unintentional mouthful of chili. Her stomach grumbled ravenously. It felt perilously empty, and this stuff was so good that she could eat it all day. Which was when she realized that of course she could escape. She just had to use her mouth. If the wall of bread wouldn't push open, surely she could rip and tear it open with her teeth.

Carmelita leaned into the bread and opened her mouth wide. Chili flooded in and filled her mouth immediately. It stretched her cheeks outward from inside; it pressed down on her tongue; it made for her esophagus. Quickly, she brought her teeth down on the bread and tore off a decent chunk. It wasn't as much bread as she could have torn off with an empty mouth, but it was progress nonetheless.

With concentration, she forced more than a mouthful of chili and bread down her throat. She felt her throat stretch, and she had to strain to shuttle everything downwards. She'd always taken her esophagus strength for granted, and now she was truly testing how hard it could work. It had to have been the biggest swallow of her life. She expected her stomach to be grateful, to be gratified by the sudden onslaught. Instead, it demanded more, more, turning her hunger up to 11 now that she'd finally unleashed it.

She opened her mouth again and shred off another bite of bread. The chili ran thick and hot into her in an overwhelming deluge. She clamped her lips shut again. The bread was tough, and it gave her jaw a workout just to shred through. She mashed it to a pulp in her mouth. Then, she pounded the food down with another heavy, forceful gulp. She felt a little better now. These oversized swallows felt great. Her stomach demanded endless food, and here it was, all around her.

She jumped up again to breathe, hearing a "sploop" as her ears cleared the surface. At the crest of her jump, she noticed a slosh in her gut as the heavy chili swished around inside her. As her ears fell back under the surface, they were filled with an ominous burbling.

Carmelita again held her face to the bread. She opened her mouth, bit off bread with a flood of chili, and swallowed. Her stomach grew fuller. And more, nnghulp. Carmelita got good at slamming big, belly-bloating gulps. More, GULP! As she gorged on soup, her desire for the delicious taste took over, and the filling in her gut was such a welcome feeling. And more, more, hnng-GUlp!! She lusted for the dual, intertwined pleasures of delectable chili and filling gluttony. More... guu-LP. Her stomach swelled with choice chili.

As desperate as she was to break through, her stomach approached full capacity, and she started to flag. She took her next mouthful with care, cramming down yet more chili into a stomach running out of room. Her binge had been fast and furious, like a mudslide funneled right down her gullet. And just as suddenly, her stomach realized its fullness. One more nnn--GULP! down the hatch, pumping another gullet-stretching mouthful into her swelling middle. She couldn't see her stomach, but from inside, it felt massive and taut. She staggered back, almost losing her balance while her feet were tied up. A belly rub would have done wonders. But with her hands tied behind her back, that was not an option. At any rate, she couldn't give up now.

She tensed her legs, then jumped, again reaching for a breath of air. The jump tossed the contents of her overloaded stomach into a churn. Once she broke above the surface, she belched--"hooAAAUUrrp"--wet and rippling, and fell back under. She cursed in her mind. Then, she jumped again, and finally wheezed for air.

With any luck, she was close.

She prepared herself and leaned into the bread. She found the spot in the wall she had been eating from. Then, decisively, she shot open her mouth, thrust her muzzle into the wall, and snapped her jaw shut to tear off yet more bread. She wanted to spit it out and reject yet another truckload of belly-bound food. But the external pressure was too great. Any attempt to open her mouth would just let more chili force itself down her throat.

She paused one moment before pushing it down into her belly. She forced a gushy, meaty swallow that became hard as her throat compressed it. She could feel her middle expand. She could feel her fur grow just a little tighter, and she could feel her upper belly inflate just a little further with chunky soup. She felt like she'd inhaled a cannonball.

More gas welled up inside her. Her stomach burbled and ached as it processed huge stores of greasy, fatty chili. She held her lips shut as her esophagus released a deep and rumbling burp. She swayed back from its force, but she bent forward from her waist until she leaned into the wall once again.

Carmelita opened her mouth. She was determined to make this the last time. She rammed her jaw, wide as could be, into the wall. Chili raced into her mouth, and the bowl's surrounding pressure pumped it directly into her stomach. At the same time, she drove her mouth forward through the bread, using her sharp teeth to sunder the tough, hearty bowl like a butcher knife. Her maw was packed with beef, beans, cheese, tomatoes, soup, and most importantly of all, bread. All of it pumped constantly into her gut with no chance for a break. There was no gulping or swallowing. Instead, food rushed her body without end, without rhythm. Her stomach felt like a water balloon, and she'd left it on the hose with no regard for its physical limits.

Farther and farther her teeth sliced, making slow but steady progress. And then, her lips felt fresh air. And there was nothing left in her mouth. All of it had drained into her belly. Chili dripped from her muzzle. She drew fresh air from her nostrils. She'd broken through the bread bowl, and now her soup-covered face poked out of it.

Chili spilled out through the hole and splatted onto the ground. She rest her head on the rim of the opening and panted desperately for air. She had just escaped a horrible fate, but her jam-packed belly only allowed her measured, shallow breaths, so she had trouble catching up. The hole in the bowl tore downwards slowly, giving way under Carmelita's weight along with the pressure of liters of chili. It shred off a piece of the bread bowl under Carmelita's body. The bread landed on the floor with a wet smack, along with Carmelita laying on it on her side. She ended up on a mattress of soggy bread bowl while a flood of chili flowed over her and poured onto the kitchen floor.

Now that she didn't face impending doom, the physical reality of her situation struck her. Her stomach was swollen beyond its capacity. Its incredible weight pulled her down into the floor, and its gurgling, churning breadth was eased only by the softness of the chili and bread under her, which made a serviceable (if sticky) pillow. She felt stretched thin, as if any errant poke would pop her belly open like a pin to a balloon. Resting on the bread before her, her stomach bulged more than half her armspan from her waist. From inside, it felt like a beach ball. Only instead of air, it was filled with groaning, bubbling concrete. She took careful, labored breaths because she was concerned about disturbing a gut that felt ready to pop. When her lungs expanded, she felt it shift her tender, bloated, creaking stomach.

She wished her damn breasts weren't so big. They bore an uncomfortable weight down on the apex of her distended abdomen. Her shirt buttons had long popped open, and Carmelita had zero interest in trying to clasp them shut, even if they did provide her bust some measure of support.

She wanted to lie there and rest her aching gut. But she had work to do.

First, she had to get out of these bindings. Laying on her side, she pulled up her feet behind her and found them with her hands. Luckily, she was bound with simple rope. She handily untied the rope over her ankles with her fingers.

But her hands were still tied together at the wrist. She at least had to get them where she could use them. And so, she brought her knees up. She bumped her sloshing belly, and out from her rump blared a loud, hasty fart, "BLART." Her tail stood straight in shock. She quickly pulled her hands under her rear, around to her front, and lowered her legs again.

If the sound of chili dripping to the floor didn't get anyone's attention, that fart was sure to.

She leaned upward, wincing because her stomach gurgled and whined fiercer as it compressed in her lap. She planted her feet on the mushy, chili-soaked bread underneath, and she stood up.

Chili coated her. It was wet for now, but it was starting to dry. She looked around and realized she was in a big kitchen: clean white floors, islands with marble countertops, pots hanging here, knife blocks sitting there, and so on. This place was probably big enough to service a restaurant, with enough staff.

Carmelita heard footsteps from outside the kitchen. She looked around. She could hide behind an island. She began to dart, but her legs felt suddenly sluggish, and her packed gut swirled. A heavy belch, "ghORP!" stopped her in her tracks. She put her tied-up hands on her gut, hoping to ease its tension. Then, she delicately swung one leg forward and slowly bobbed onto it, transferring her weight onto it carefully. As her balance shifted and her leg nudged her stomach, her gut sloshed gently, and she felt its packed weight sway under her hands. She took a breath, swung her next leg, and collected herself into a waddle to carry herself behind one of the islands.

A wide-hipped crane stepped into the room. Her neck was long, but lined with thick fat that jiggled as she walked. She wore a french maid getup that showed generous, silver-feathered cleavage. Its apron tied under her bulbous belly, and its fluffy, black skirt was just long enough to cover her tree trunk thighs. She was almost as wide as Bombe, wide enough that she probably had trouble with normal doorways.

"Hey! You!" the crane shouted. Her voice was high and scratchy. "I knew I heard something. You thought you could escape, huh?" As she sneered, plump cheeks encroached on her eyes. She put her right foot forward into the kitchen, and her monumental hips rolled left. She stepped again, rolling them right. Her deep waddle threw her hips left to right, like a pudge-encased pendulum, and her light skirt swished around her in kind.

Carmelita looked down to her own middle and swept a patch of chili off of it. Her fur was drawn taut as a drum, gurgling angrily and bearing fresh stretch marks. She was in no shape for action. It was time for some quick thinking. She looked around for what she could use... a heavy pan? A sharp knife? And then she realized, she was standing between two kitchen islands. This kitchen wasn't exactly built with Bombe in mind. No, the islands were spaced apart so that most chefs would easily navigate between them, but...

Carmelita groaned and rubbed her stuffed stomach. "Not like this, I can't. I don't think I'm going anywhere anytime soon." She leaned against the counter and huffed.

The crane guffawed. She waddled forward as fast as she could. Her lumpy bulk oscillated rapidly, and her inner leg feathers ruffled, mashed between two replete thighs. She panted with each stomping step, but her beak was open with glee. She bolted straight for Carmelita and plotted a course between the kitchen islands. Carmelita backed off slowly as she approached. Then, suddenly, the crane's furious waddle concluded with a squawk.

The crane looked down. Her hips were pinched by a countertop on each side. Her expansive lard pursed around the countertops. Her haunches filled up the space between two islands, and then some. She was stuck fast; she couldn't waddle forward or backward. She tried rocking her torso to push herself, but all she ended up doing was wobbling her gut and rippling her cleavage. "Damnit!" she cawed.

Carmelita breathed a shallow sigh of relief. Her plan actually worked. "Now, HIC!" she started. Her lungs jumped at her hiccup, tossing her heavy tits up and down while her gut sloshed. "Ugh... Where are we?"

The crane blinked. "...The kitchen."

"Let me try this again. (Brrup.) Whose kitchen? Is this L'Bouffer?"

The crane grunted, pushing against the constricting kitchen countertops. "No, idiot. You're in Mistress Bombe's mansion."

"So that chili... I was about to be served to Bombe for lunch, wasn't I?"

The crane chuckled. "That's right."

The thought was chilling. But that didn't matter, Carmelita had faced far worse. What mattered now was that the law put Brioche Bombe's murderous binges to an end. "She's squashed justice underfoot for too long. It's time the law took a bite out of her, instead."

While the crane continued her struggle to escape countertop confinement, Carmelita trudged around an island towards the entrance to the kitchen. Her gut squelched and groaned along the way, and her still-bound hands eased her raw, tender tummy. She stopped to lean on the counter as discomfort rose within her. Her gut issued a swell of lurching groans, which climaxed in bubbling flatulence, "frrbbp-bbp-bbpt." She felt a little better.

A gunshot rang out. Carmelita's ears perked up and her eyes opened wide. What was going on? Then, a few short moments later, a wild groan or growl or something filled the air. Its timbre was peculiar, and the ground rumbled. She finally placed it--that was a burp. Hanging pots and pans clanked into each other as the raucous gas shook the mansion itself.

* * * * *

Earlier that day, Bombe sat in her home office. For the prodigiously pudgened poodle, usually a chair with a three-meter-wide seat was comfortable. Today, though, it was a little tight. Its cushioned arms creaked under her globular ass cheeks, which squished tight into the seat and pursed into folds as it flooded over the chair's arms. Charles had been quite the meal, and Bombe had outgrown her wardrobe so fiercely that she could only fit into one final piece of clothing: a racy silken one-piece nightie. Its bottom was a thigh-length skirt with a slit running up its side. It was tight, and it didn't cover even half of her ass. Her entire right hip stuck out of the slit, bare. But it would have to do.

Her bulky gut, on the other hand, was constrained by a high-strength corset. While she sat, her planetary belly swelled forward over her legs and sank to the ground under its own immense weight. And that was while she wore the corset. Bombe huffed from discomfort. Her midsection was jammed tight into her clothes. But, again, it would have to do for now.

Her breasts weren't as agreeable. Her super-supersized belly yanked her nightie down, pulling its shoulder straps taut and digging them into her ginormous tits. The oversized knockers would have spilled out otherwise. In their current state, their nipples poked firm against the neckline of the gown, and their areolas were gratuitously visible above the neckline.

Bombe cradled her smartphone in her bulging palm. She raised her other arm, squishing her overloaded tit under gallons of jiggling arm flab. She put a fat-swollen index finger to her phone, and she was about to call Sara Sarta when another call interrupted. Her butler. She swiped to answer.

"Make it short," she barked.

"The police have entered," her butler replied.

"Shit," she said, bouncing her cheeks from the furious utterance. She hung up and put the phone down. She might have been too hasty in gobbling up Charles Beaumont, and now she had to deal with his pals.

She planted her chunky feet on the floor and stood up, commanding her thigh muscles to heave her body's bulk upright. Her gut rose from the floor, if only by a few centimeters. She grunted as its weight, in the painfully tight corset, strained her. And something firm pinched her ass. She looked over her plump shoulder to see that the chair had come up with her, hugging her butt. She bent forward and thrust her hips back, then rocked her hips up and down. Her rump heaved up and down like two massive, quivering beach balls of pudding. She could feel the chair slowly slide off until finally, her blubbery cheeks popped free and the triple-wide chair clattered to the floor. She stood still for a moment as her cheeks kept quaking. Her dimpled derriere cheeks poked out of the bottom of her nightie as they wobbled and slapped against each other. From behind, they almost entirely obscured her legs.

She barely lifted one foot by swinging it to her side. Its cankle still drooped to the floor. She swung it forward, shifting her scrunched stomach and nudging that into her jammed boob. Her center of balance was compromised, and her foot fell to the floor with a loud stomp that reverberated through her body, quaking it. She held her arms out to her sides to keep her balace, or else she was liable to topple forward onto her gut or backward onto her butt. Normally, Bombe carried her lard with a masterful saunter. Today, it was an ungainly trudge, a tightrope walk where she had to exert enough energy to shift her ample adipose without letting its momentum tumble over itself, dragging her down with it.

She bobbed and swayed, ill at ease, to the door. She leaned forward, stretched her arm ahead while smooshing her belly into the wall, and grasped the doorknob. She had to approach the door from the side so as to prevent her rotund form from smothering the door and keeping it shut. Anyway, with little patience to spare, she swung open the door.

On the other side of the door was an opulent, two-story foyer. She was currently on the ground floor. The foyer was a spacious room with brilliant marble floors. On the left and right, two curved staircases ascended to a second-floor balcony, each with ornately carved railings. The balcony was positioned above a sparkling pool, which was about three meters wide.

Six police officers stood in the middle of the foyer, with a cheetah standing at the front.

Bombe said, breathy, "Welcome to my humble abode."

The cheetah spoke. "Brioche Bombe, you are under arrest under suspicion of murder."

Bombe stepped into the doorway of her office. Even its extra-wide frame was getting a little tight. Her hips plugged into the doorway. She had to wiggle them to inch her fatty haunches along. The doorway jutted into her flesh like a clamp.

Bombe could wriggle herself through to the other side. But, instead, she saw an opportunity by pretending to be stuck. "I'll go quietly," she said, "but I need help getting out."

The police hesitated.

She raised her arms, letting their hunks of flab droop and jiggle against her tits, her waist, and the doorway. "I'm unarmed. All I have is this nightgown."

The cheetah gestured his head forward to two fellow officers, a sparrow and a groundhog. They approached her commanding stomach. She held out her arms. "If you please," she said with hollow grace.

The sparrow took one hand and the groundhog took the other.

"SAY HELLO TO MY LITTLE FRIEND!!"

Bombe bent forward, and her gut forcefully expanded with a deafening BLAM!!! She had clenched her abs, and in response, her stomach popped open the corset, shred the nightie, slammed the floor, shattered the door frame, and exploded into the two officers before her while she clasped their hands. Her belly ripped their balance away and knocked the wind out of them, and they flopped onto her overblown paunch like ragdolls.

Her stomach took on its true form: a mountain of lard that flooded to the ground and bulged out over a meter before her.

Bombe opened her jaw wide, pulled up the sparrow, and brought her lips around the shoulders. From there, she sucked down the bird like an olive from a martini.

The other officer, a groundhog, winced as he looked up at Bombe. He saw her suck in his partner's feet, and he couldn't fathom what he had seen. Bombe yanked him up next. He opened his mouth, but he only managed a half-shout before her lips came down on his head. Her ravenous gut vacuumed him down her gullet like a thin strand of spaghetti. The other officers could hear his muffled cries from inside her.

She waddled forward. She felt in control again without that terrible corset. Even as she shifted her gushingly glutted gams into her belligerent, floor-bound belly, pushing fat with fat, she felt normal. She had all the energy she needed to haul ass--and thigh--and calf--and foot--and gut.

Bombe pushed her paws down into her doughy gut. She felt its swelling fur squish like bread dough--and she was about to make that dough rise. It squelched rewardingly as it took care of its latest visitors. She licked her lips and eyed the remaining police.

The four officers stared at her from a few meters away. The cheetah stood at the front, aiming a shotgun at Bombe. Bombe, wild with hunger, charged ahead. Her gut dragged along the ground, and her hips undulated with a sea of bouncing blubber. The cheetah fired a slug right into Bombe's middle. She howled and stopped in her tracks. The mammoth glutton doubled over, clutching her gut.

She whimpered. The cheetah signalled another officer, a panther. They approached her silently. Her whimpering grew weaker.

When they reached her, she let go of her stomach and siezed them. She snatched the cheetah's wrist in her left hand and the panther's in her right. They were shocked as slug fell out of her folds and dropped to the floor harmlessly. She yanked the two officers together and squeezed them into each other with her paws, holding them together like a police sandwich. They floundered, pushing against her thick arms and kicking her dense belly, but there was no negotiating with a wall of lard that absorbed and muted every force. Every focused punch was just a playful slap against her jiggling rolls. They were helpless in her hungry grasp. She lifted her arms, passing the men through her deep cleavage, constricting their breath by crushing their lungs with her immense knockers.

She opened her mouth and rolled out her tongue. Its pink, slimy surface was the red carpet she extended to them, a one-way ticket to the world's greatest digestive organ. They say the first-class baker extraordinaire, Byron Nourrisseur, had been there himself once. Liked it so much that he was never seen anywhere else again. And now, the cheetah and panther stuffed her maw. Her wet saliva on their fur instilled them with a sense of dread.

Outside, their fellow officers watched them vanish into her oceanic mass. Bombe's upper belly looked a little more rounded... maybe. She licked her meaty, wobbling chops. Her head reared back, and her paws readied on her abs. A volcanic rumbing issued from her insides. A blast of gas thrust open her lips, ringing throughout the mansion with titanic uproar: "BhuWWAAA..."

The belch continued while Carmelita emerged from the kitchen into the first floor foyer. She was crusty with drying chili, and her heavy tits rest on her taxed belly. She saw the officers confronting Bombe. Bombe's mouth hung wide open with a continuous burp, now hearty and bassy, "...AAAAAOUUUUU...". The bloated poodle had been feasting on police, Carmelita realized, and they were overpowered by her glutted bulk. Carmelita needed to step in before it was too late. She headed for the stairs to the second floor.

The floors quaked with Bombe's gaseous blast, "...UUUUURRRRR...". The foyer's gaudy crystal chandelier jostled and clinked overhead. The two surviving police officers backed away, towards the front door, and planned their next move.

Bombe's burp wavered, "...UUUuUUuRRrRRrr...". Then it stopped, "...rrrRRP."

Carmelita put her foot on the first step of the staircase. She shouted, "BOM--hhhic!--BOMBE!"

Bombe wheeled around, dragging her enormous stomach along the ground. "Inspector!" she shouted back. "What are you doing out of my soup, you miserable miscreant?!"

"If you're still hungry for this," and she slapped her gut and out came a burp, "come and get it!" Carmelita started up the stairs, slowly.

Carmelita eyeballed the second floor balcony. Bombe was too big for any external force to handle. So, Carmelita hoped that her own weight would be her downfall.

Bombe shuffled with alarming speed towards the stairs. But once she got there, she discovered a problem. She couldn't scoot her belly forward, because it just scrunched against the step. So, she rose her foot to place it on the lowest step, but then she just brought it back down on her underbelly instead of reaching the step. She kicked and jostled her immense breadth, frustrated and trying to force it up the stair any way she could.

She found a solution. She turned sideways and put her foot on the first step from the side. This way, she heaved her gut to the side and shuffled up beside it, walking up the stair sideways. Her butt slumped onto the railing behind her, and her belly swallowed the railing in front of her, but it was something workable, at least. And so, she lifted her leg sideways, scraping and pinching her cankle as she slowly found purchase on one stair step at a time.

Carmelita's own ascent was sluggish. Each time she raised a leg, her overfed gut whined, and it was hard to haul its heft upward. She took the steps as gently as she could, but even that was enough to slosh and disturb her gorged gut.

Bombe called up to Carmelita. "You, huff, know you--GWORP--can't run forever." She brought down her foot, stomping the staircase and sending ripples up her bloated form. She could move a little faster if these railings didn't poke into her rump and belly. As it was, with each step, she had to grind her ass and stomach along the railings. Her squished rear smooshed into her thick lovehandles, and her belly bloomed up over the railing, creating an incline that slumped her ponderous tits towards her face.

Carmelita plodded one foot up the next step. "No, but I can def--hhuuRP--hic--buOORP--ngh, I can definitely run (frrrt) farther than you." Her heavy breasts slid side to side over her packed middle from her uneasy gait, pulling her left and right alternately. She regretted not keeping bigger bras at the office.

Bombe took another step, then she stood in place. She teetered side to side, drawn by a rocking gut. She'd never eaten four people in one go, and they were putting up a hell of a fight. "Impossible, Inspector," she said as she put her pudgy paws on her blimped belly, hoping to hold it steady. "NgrrUUP--nothing escapes my bOOORP--guhurp--belly." It groaned and growled.

Carmelita lifted her leg to move up a step, and her ass blew a bassy fart, "pbffbRRRtch." Her bubble butt was only getting bigger, wobbling lewdly no matter how delicate her step. She tried to raise her leg to the side to avoid shifting her stomach so much, but her thick, puffy thighs made it impossible.

The two women trudged up the staircase. Carmelita and Bombe were both weighed down by recent binges. Carmelita felt ready to rupture, and her swollen belly blasted enough gas to that end. Bombe, on the other hand, was a poor fit even for her plus-sized mansion. It was the slowest, fattest, gassiest chase in police history.

After a seeming eternity, Carmelita reached the second floor. She lumbered over to the balcony railing and wiped sweat from her brow. Not long after, Bombe came up as well.

Bombe slogged from the stairs towards Carmelita. As she shifted her bulk, the floor creaked. "Is that it, Inspector? Is this where your illustrious career of justice ends once and foOORRRP--for all?"

"If you can, huff, get me, gurp."

Bombe laughed, wheezing and tired. She pulled her belly right up to Carmelita's. "I already have," she said. She pressed further, pushing Carmelita into the railing and flooding her gut around the fox on either side. Carmelita felt enveloped in lard. Bombe's excessive, corpulent form squeezed an uneasy burp out of the obese inspector's inflated middle, "bhurrUUrp."

Carmelita looked back. Behind her was quite a drop, down to the first floor pool. If this didn't work soon, she'd be shit out of luck.

Bombe leaned forward, smothering Carmelita with her tits. She reached down into her cleavage and pulled Carmelita up between her tits, resting her prey on her stomach.

Carmelita's bloated form looked so delectable. She bore healthy haunches, with a juicy rump that plumped up behind her and thick hips layered decadently with supple fat. Her thighs were ample, too, with promising stores of pudge.

Carmelita belched and farted simultaneously. The fox's indigestion informed Bombe that her lunch had been stuffed to the brim. Carmelita's puffy cheeks bowed out as she panted. She hiccuped, bouncing her hefty breasts appetizingly. But best of all, her stomach flesh was pulled taut over a glutted belly without a crease or fold in sight. Not a centimeter of her was wasted. She looked so exquisitely stuffed. Bombe couldn't wait to taste her beautiful prey.

Then, Bombe felt something shift haltingly under her. Her legs were probably tired after that stairway chase.

The floor cracked suddenly and splintered under Bombe. She felt the floor depart from her feet. Gravity rushed down on her with full force, shoving her down, down, down, until PLOP--

Carmelita looked around. She wasn't falling. Dust settled from the ruined balcony. Bombe's clutches on her were loosed.

This was the first floor. She jumped off of Bombe's tremendous gut to the ground and backed away. That stomach had probably cushioned her fall.

It did more than that. Looking at Bombe, Carmelita realized that the obese poodle was plugging up the pool. Her belly filled it out: front to back, side to side. Its lard muffin topped her obscenely luxurious fixture.

The two police officers approached cautiously.

Bombe came to her senses and pawed at her flesh. "When I get out of here, you're mincemeat!!" But all she could do was thrash and jiggle.

Carmelita scowled. "When you get out of there, it'll be in a muzzle and handcuffs, Bombe. But there's just one thing that bothers me. Why did you take out Byron Nourrisseur?"

Bombe's squirming died down, and she melted into a heap of overworked blubber. She panted as she answered, "That boy was going to leave me. He was the best damn baker we'd ever had, and he was just up and leaving!" She swatted her belly from frustration, and it rippled. "I couldn't let him go. Better to do him in before another restaurant pilfered him. What else could I do? You would have done the same thing in my position, Inspector."