Foie Gras Night

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.

"Miss Fox?" Beau roused her from her reverie.

She looked to him. "Thank you! I can't wait to dig in."

"Good, good." He collected her escargot plates and left.

Carmelita collected her fork in her left hand and her knife in her right. With that, she plunged the fork into one liver. Her knife cut through it like it was no more substantial than air. She raised the tender, fluffy piece of meat. Her thick lips kissed it. So soft, so tender, even its touch on her lips excited her. Gently, her lips wrapped around the bite and took it into her mouth. Although its flavor was light, it was at once savory and sweet. It nearly melted on her tongue. With slow, careful bites, she carefully studied it, lest she lose focus on its subtle tones for even an instant.

She swallowed and forked another bite. Its fine, buttery texture was only possible by taking the liver of a fattened duck. Every calorie in the duck's body contributed to the tenderness of its liver, and with a properly fed waterfowl, its liver reached heights of delicacy that verged on the ethereal. The duck's story encouraged Carmelita with each passing bite. Like her meal, she too pursued the beauty of stuffing.

So, as the fatty meat weighed heavier and heavier in her gut, she was not discouraged. Instead, its weight validated her efforts. She consumed luxury, stockpiled it in her stomach, and filled herself with corpulent opulence. She was soon to become more luxurious herself.

At the end of the second liver, her stomach ached. Its insides burbled and churned, urgently digesting. Laden with a deluge of heavy, fatty calories, her heroic organ rallied to the best of its gastric abilities. She felt an intense pressure where her stomach simply could not grow further.

And then, it surged. In one giant leap, her belly expanded out, claiming more of her tubby lap. Her breasts hopped, muscled aside by the sudden growth spurt of her midsection. A breeze tickled her stomach. Then, she heard a clank from below. In the aftermath, her stomach gurgled sweetly. Its pain drifted away.

She lowered her hands to her stomach. She could feel her fur directly. Her shirt had come open. She felt along the side of her shirt and confirmed that no buttons remained attached. Next, she burrowed her fat hands under her rotund gut and reached for her belt. It parted wide, and she could not find its buckle. The golden latch must have caused that clank as it hit the floor, but she was in no position to confirm that now. There was eating to be done.

With renewed vigor, she dug into her third liver. Although she had already eaten two of them, its taste was no less stunning than before. That taste hypnotized her. She did not fork the foie gras and put it in her mouth. Rather, the foie gras came to be forked, happened to reach her lips, and entered her mouth. Between her lips and on her tongue, it sang the poetry of cuisine. Carmelita listened to that song, recording every note in her stomach. For all its faintness and fragility, the song was that much more enchanting. The further she listened, the heavier her bare stomach grew. It weighed, loud and distended, on the long crease between her broad thighs.

When at last that song concluded, Carmelita stared at her plate. Four foie gras, all gone. She reflected on the incredible art she had just witnessed. In tribute, she raised her glass, then drank the end of her Dom Perignon. Its popping bubbles and dry, fruity taste prepared her for yet another change of dish. As a final goodbye, the foie gras burbled with her champagne, then sent up a deep, luscious belch, "BhrOOOourp."

As if summoned by Carmelita's burp, Beau returned. This time, he held a dish in one hand and a crystal coffee glass in the other. "I trust you enjoyed the foie gras?"

"Ve--" The instant she tried to speak, Carmelita's fullness hit her. Even for a woman of her substantial stomach, four supersized duck livers was no measly portion. Dull pressure pushed outward from within her stomach. She put a hand to her stomach, soothing its bloat, as she attempted once more to respond. "Very much so." With each breath, her stomach pressed into the tabletop.

Beau set the glass and the new dish before her. Orange and coffee liqueur wafted from the glass, while cinnamon and vanilla emanated from the dish. There, a circle of apple slices rested in a thin, flaky crust, shining with cloying butter. He was about to grab the foie gras plate when Carmelita stopped him short.

"Before you go, could I trouble you for something?"

He stood at attention. "Of course!"

She took a breath, manually operating her lungs under the stress of her decadent meal. "Could you... (hoof)... Does this couch lean back? I'm a little... (huff)... I'm getting kind of full."

Beau's eyebrows jumped as if in shock. "Yes, right away!" He knelt to the side of the couch.

Soon, the back of the couch lowered. It tilted Carmelita's back without laying her flat. Her stomach ebbed away from the table, while her breasts leaned back against her chest. With more room from her arched back and less pressure from her heavy breasts, Carmelita's stomach felt relief. Positioned like this, her stomach jutted out, free to take up whatever room it saw fit. However, since her head tilted back and her breasts loomed before her, she could no longer see the table, much less reach it.

But Beau had already noticed that. First, he placed the tarte tarin plate on her chest. It straddled her napkin and just touched her lowest neck roll. As he slotted a fork between her fingers, his finger brushed hers. From that, a momentary grin passed on his face, gone as soon as it arrived. Then, he took the coffee glass and set it in a cup holder on the arm of the couch. "How do you feel?"

Still reeling with relief, Carmelita's response came out breathy. "Wonderful." Her laborious breaths shifted her breasts, giving the tarte tarin an uneasy table.

Beau bowed. "Excellent. Please, enjoy dessert." With that, he left.

Carmelita opened her mouth wide, pushing down her neck fat under her chin. Her lower lip plunged below the plate's rim. She gave the pastry easy passage to her gullet. This close, the pastry's heady aroma flooded her. Carmelita lifted her fork to the tart, mashing her flabby arm deep into her massive breast. She sliced the side of the fork decisively through the crust and sheared off a hunk. That swept easily across the plate and onto her outstretched tongue.

Unlike the more delicate, refined flavors from earlier that evening, the tarte tarin blasted her instantly with apple, cinnamon, and vanilla. Saccharine and syrupy, the tart dripped with thick, viscous flavor. Even with a filling belly, Carmelita could hardly resist such an ecstatic, loud dish. Its coup de grace was its crust, which crunched into thousands of sweet crumbs. After a meal of ooey gooey meats, she appreciated a good crunch.

While she scooped bite after bite into her mouth, her stomach enjoyed its new posture. It eagerly claimed mouthful after mouthful. It consumed with joy of food and pride of growth. Her free hand wandered to her stomach and stroked it idly. Its broad, bulbous contour pleased her. She enjoyed the way it felt, inside and out.

That joy gave Carmelita the ability to engorge herself further and further. Her pleasure overpowered the constraints of mere biology. Like that, she scraped every crumb from the plate. Once complete, she set it on the couch beside her.

One item remained. The perfect cap to a perfect meal. Carmelita reached to her side and barely nabbed the coffee's handle. The hot liquid graced her nose with dark, bitter notes alongside citrusy, orange liqueur, brought together with the sweetness of coffee liqueur. She tested a sip, and the coffee was just right: not too hot, but it had not gone lukewarm. She tipped it back.

Thick, creamy coffee flowed over her tongue and into her gullet. She gulped it and reflected on her own journey here.

Once a scrappy trainee, she proved her worth with countless hours, bringing villains to justice. She could hardly relate to her old lifestyle of dingy apartments and scraping by on crummy meals. Her latest position afforded her the best that life had to offer, including food.

Like Carmelita Montoya Fox, the dessert coffee started dark and gritty. Also like her, as it developed, it grew sweet and intoxicating.

Each gulp warmed her belly, soothing it after a long meal. Still, the liquid occupied volume within her stomach. Its bloat marched ever onward. After reaching the bottom of the glass, she cautiously set the glassware back in the couch's cup holder.

Carmelita took long, strained breaths. Not from the weight of her breasts on her chest; no, she was well used to that. Instead, her distended gut impeded her breathing. She couldn't see her stomach past her breasts, but she could feel her pelt stretch around it, stretched to its limits. In her hands, it felt as hard as a rock, with every ounce of its fat spread thin over the churning bulk within. The bloated stomach pressed into the tabletop and expanded wide, pushing out against her arms. Luckily, her lardaceous thighs made a plush cushion for her turgid, turbulent tummy.

She grinned with pride at overcoming such an enormous, lavish meal. There was nothing she couldn't do. And soon, she would wear the evidence of her accomplishment with wider hips, deeper buttocks, and larger breasts.

She just needed to digest it first.

Beau arrived once more. "Can we get you anything else tonight?"

Sluggishly, Carmelita shook her head. "No no no. That's about all I can handle."

"How was your meal?"

"Exquisite. As--(hrk)--as always."

Beau sighed warmly. "Wonderful."

Carmelita found her feet on the floor, then pushed herself backwards. Her calves were accustomed to her gargantuan weight, and the couch was on wheels, making the process easy. Less easy was the task of standing up. She reached her hands past her bloated waist and beyond her voluminous hips to the couch beside her. Once she found cushioning--couch cushioning, not her own fat--she pressed down with her arms and her legs. She couldn't bend her waist, though, for all the riches jammed within it. Without that, she couldn't push her weight forward onto her feet. "I... (huhfff)... I need some help here."