Within the ranks of Interpol, the position of chief is richly rewarding. The pay rate is impressive, of course. But, more meaningfully, a chief manages a host of ongoing investigations. With skillful direction, they can orchestrate the completion of many more investigations than an agent. That leaves them to sit behind a desk, combing through intelligence and issuing orders, rather than out in the field.
Carmelita left all of that behind her as she stood outside the Bistro du Joufflu. The sun traveled downwards, casting orange rays onto the white, palatial restaurant. Those same rays warmed her corpulent body, narrowly stuffed into her pants suit.
A stout gopher in a tuxedo held open one of the ornate double doors. He barely restrained a smile as he saw her. "Ahh, Miss Fox. It is a pleasure to see you again."
While she waddled past, scraping her thighs and heaving her rump, her plump fingers retrieved a 50-Euro note from her breast pocket. She tucked it in the gopher's breast pocket. "Same goes for you, Jeeves." Her weighty saunter accidentally bowled her immense hip right into his stomach. With haunches as wide as she was tall, she bumped into quite a few people and things. Luckily, the substance that made her wide also made her soft, like a built-in airbag.
Speaking of airbags, Carmelita's breasts strained her crimson blouse. Looking down, she saw heaps of fur push up between her shirt's buttons, all along cleavage as long as her arms. The immense knockers required an industrial-strength bra to contain, and they weighed on her back like concrete. But Carmelita couldn't deny the pride she felt lugging them around. She thrusted her shoulders, flaunting her rotund rack side to side. The immense mounds bobbed like buoys on the waves of her adipose ocean.
Ironically, her smallest feature was also her strongest. Her stomach rolled down her thighs and billowed under her breasts, but it failed to surpass either of them. Still, it roared ferociously, demanding sustenance. Carmelita answered its pained cries with a rub from her chubby hands. She had worked late to cover a troublesome case, and now, her stomach exacted its revenge.
She arrived at the host stand. Her tail eagerly curled back and forth, brushing her jutting rump.
A svelte swan stood there in a pink dress and bowtie. "Miss Fox! Always a pleasure. Shall I show you to your regular table?"
"Yes, please. No need for a menu. And, ehm, is Beau working tonight?"
The swan smiled knowingly. "Yes. Step this way, please." The swan stepped away and led Carmelita into the dining room. Their shoes clacked on dark tile that glimmered under decadent chandeliers. Cool air flowed around them, fragranced with sumptuous dishes.
With every footfall, Carmelita's cheeks quaked. Not only did her facial cheeks quiver against the neck fat that slouched to her sides, but her rump cheeks also slapped the backs of her thighs. Every step reminded her of her colossal, elegant girth. The further she walked, the more her hunger grew spiritually. Her belly was ravenous enough on its own, but her soul desired food, as well.
The swan stopped at a crescent-shaped table. A sofa without arms was seated in the indent of the table. It was on wheels, allowing her to slide it out gracefully. Then, she gestured her wing towards the table. "Your table, Miss Fox."
"Thank you." Carmelita shuffled forward. She pressed her portly thighs into the tabletop.
The swan pushed the sofa into Carmelita's backside.
Carmelita bent backwards. Her huge hindquarters pulled her with its doughy weight, and she plummeted. Her ass pounded the couch like two meteors of lard. They swelled up against the back of the couch, pushing deep into its cushions and plumping up against her meaty love handles. Her blubbery stomach scrunched between her flabby thighs and her tubby tits. Those breasts rolled over her stomach, grazed her legs, and bit into the tabletop. Luckily, with the table's crescent shape, her arms were able to reach a good deal of its space. Her own massive body left her no room to lean forward and reach for anything.
The swan stepped before her. "Are you comfortable?"
The chief wriggled her hips, settling their fat into the couch. "Yes, very. Thank you."
"Excellent. Your server will be with you shortly."
Carmelita took the moment to appreciate the atmosphere around her. Silverware clattered on plates, and patrons chatted casually. Quite a few of the other guests were heavyset, but none of them approached Carmelita's heft. She had eaten her way to a class all of her own.
A slender raccoon in a dress shirt and pants arrived. He held a gentle smile. Below, his long, fluffy tail was decorated with black rings of fur. "Welcome back, Miss Fox." He took a navy, cloth napkin from the table, then moved to her back and tied it around her neck. The large napkin covered her chest from her neck all the way down to the table.
As he did, she ordered. "Thank you, Beau. I'll start with a glass of Dom Perignon and two orders of escargot. For my entree, I'll take two--no, four orders of foie gras. After that, I'll have the tarte tarin and an espresso margarita."
Beau bowed. "Wonderful choices. The escargot is excellent tonight."
"I hope so. I haven't quite acquired the taste yet."
His smile curled ever so slightly further. "Ohh, you'll get it with time, Miss Fox. If your law enforcement record is anything to go by, nothing escapes you."
Carmelita flushed at the compliment. "W-well, that's very nice of you."
"Not at all. Now, let me take your order to the kitchen." He turned on his heel and swiftly walked to the back of the dining room.
Before long, he returned with two large dishes cradled in one arm and a glass of champagne in his other hand. He set them down on the table before her. "Your escargot, Miss."
Their fragrance, slightly peppery and slightly sour, billowed from them and hit Carmelita's nose. Between the two dishes, there must have been 40 little, curled shells stuffed with glistening, green meat. Melted butter smothered each one in its shell and overran, pooling into each dish.
The appetizer intimidated Carmelita, but she was no quitter. "Thank you."
Beau left her to it.
Her arms stretched far over her vast breasts to reach the table. In her left hand, she took a pair of silver tongs. She grasped a snail's shell in it. With her right hand, she used a two-pronged fork to stab the shell's green meat. It squelched under her poke, and as she lifted it out, she dredged butter along with it. Her right hand made the return trip over her breasts, soaring over those sweeping hills. The escargot dripped its butter all the way, dotting her napkin. At last, she arrived at her plump lips. She parted them and extended her tongue. At its touch to the snail, she tasted hot, rich butter. Her front teeth snared the snail, and she dragged it off the fork, into her mouth. Between her chewing teeth, the snail squished like rubber. With each mash of her mandible, she extracted more of its bitter, offputting taste. The morsel quickly shredded to infinitesimal bits in her mouth, and then, she swallowed.
Her distaste for it only drove her to take another. While the escargot's butter made a delicious first impression, that quickly gave way to its awkward, earthy flavor. One after another, she speared snails and claimed them in her mouth. Carmelita didn't stuff them down just to get through them. No, the talented chief focused intensely on their flavor, studying its subtleties and contours. Just as she would investigate the mind of a wily rogue, she poured over the detail of each snail, trying to figure out how it worked. Her jaw exercised ceaselessly, bobbing her chins and wagging her cheeks. Over and over, her flabby forearm dragged over her round bosom, while her blubbery bicep smooshed the side of her breast.
Lost in the intensity of the moment, Carmelita forgot her hunger. Perhaps, subconsciously, her stomach played some role in the speed of her ingestion. Regardless, she made short work of the appetizer. With 40 little snails in her, her stomach gurgled merrily. She could scarcely wait for the next leg of her meal.
To cleanse her palate before moving on, she took her champagne. Her hand, though thick with fat, gracefully held the glass by its delicate neck. She lowered her nose to its rim. After her trying appetizer, the bubbly drink's fruity aroma delighted her. She sipped it. Its dry, oaken taste refreshed her tongue and left her ready for another course.
As its carbonation reached her stomach, it mingled with gamey, greasy snails. Her gut simmered for but a moment before sparking gas. She held the back of her chubby hand to her mouth as she belched, "GhROOORrp." The sudden pop of gas bounced her, rocking her immense breasts and squeaking the couch under her broad rump.
The moment that Carmelita's bulk ceased its quivering, Beau arrived with a large dish. "How were the escargot?"
She mulled it over. "I'm not quite there. There's something about their squishiness, though. They're fun to eat. Granted, I don't think that's why they are considered a delicacy."
Beau smiled warmly. "No, but you aren't wrong. Their mouthfeel has a certain playfulness to it. Now, I hope you enjoy your next course more." He placed the dish before her on the table. It served four bent ovals in a pale, tan hue.
Carmelita restricted herself from ordering the foie gras more than once a month. She absolutely adored the dish, and she'd eat it for breakfast, brunch, lunch, pre-dinner snack, dinner, and bedtime snack if she allowed herself. The taste was too divine, though. No, not just the taste; the experience, too. If Carmelita ate too much foie gras and grew tired of it, she would lose one of life's greatest joys.
Of course, that meant that when she did order it, she'd go all out. If she could only eat it once a month, she had damn well better fit in as much as she could, and then some.
