Lardibutts
Aged Member
SSBBW (multiple), ~BHM, Explicit ~sex, ~XWG - A fantasy hide-out behind the mirrors of an old established classic European 'Gran Caffe'
CONFERENCE PEARS
by Lardibutts
Sitting at one of the tables of Panciuto’s famous Café Braunzucker under the trees in the centre of the Corso Garibaldi, life could scarcely be more perfect.
I’ve been totally distracted into people-watching while trying to decide whether to tackle the most enormous patisserie (a traditional old fashioned Viennese chocolate pear it says on the menu card on the table) with the help of a bottle of Perrier.
The tables get served from the elegant café across the carriageway. Glorious waitresses in classic black and white uniforms are busily swinging their assets deftly through the traffic, bearing loaded trays stylishly high above their shoulders. They wear skin-tight hip-hugger pants that begin flaring out from somewhere below the knee. Over midriff gaps cracking open in a variety of sensual ways, they wear a sleeveless unbuttoned waistcoat over a sparkling white shirt with bow tie or, alternatively, a cleavage revealing short-sleeved blouse.
They were absolutely right back in the Department when they all joshed me about Pannecotterra, a tiny Italian-speaking island in the southern Med, having the fattest people in the whole EU. The sights are truly amazing.
That is why I’ve stalled at page 7 of Lampedusa’s classic novel about Sicilian life. It is the “themetic text” for a conference hosted here on the island by “Indiana South Central University” at the Mediterranean campus it maintains on Pannecottera. They have shipped across Professor Amelia Grossenbeine, no less, to be presiding chair. By all accounts she is a formidable lady not given to taking fools lightly.
“Gains and Losses: Cultural Transition in the Autonomous Regions of Italy” is the title of the conference, and I’m the opening speaker. Giving the keynote address, I ought at least to have skim read the book. So far I’ve managed to pretend I’ve read it, after once accidentally catching Visconti’s film version on TV,“The Leopard”, starring Burt Lancaster and Claudia Cardinale.
My name is Rawson Colman, (actually Professor Rawson Colman to you, but it seems pretentious to use this handle about myself). My research specialism is the literature of migration.
Migration from Africa into Europe is a big European Union political hot potato in the twenty-first century. Spain and Italy are pushing for more resources to cope with it. France, Britain, Holland, and Germany, the EU countries of the north, say “This is your baby. Its your turn now; back in the twentieth when migration was to northern Europe, you never helped us.” But to sugar the pill, the EU pours money into splashy talk-shop conferences on the issue; which is why I’m here on lavish expenses. It occurs to me that maybe all the other participants are real academic heavyweights like me - at 345 pounds.
Enough of this academic BS exposition.
Here’s what I’m eyeballing now:
I watch “my” waitress circulate between the tables with straining paunch and protuberant gyrating buttocks battering at the seams of her dress pants. Stretched dangerously with the tension, her uniform is gapping; buttery flesh can be seen escaping everywhere. Bulges of softly swelling breast fat pump up and down over the neckline of her blouse. She’s developed a glorious midriff roll that keeps peeping out at me, and her sleeves cut into the soft flesh of her upper arms. She’s well overdue a new uniform, very arousing for an FA like me.
I’d been noticing how the waitresses spend a lot of time clustered around their work station; now I’ve just sussed what they are up to. They are all urging one another to greedily finish off customers’ leavings.
There are a few “Odd Ones Out," slimmer than the big showy penguins, these waitresses wear uniform bronze sheath dresses. The thinnest looks unsure and hesitant. Her dress, still showing the creases of being folded, hangs loose past her slim hips, no curves at all, no trace of even a young boy’s bottom. But she moves so gracefully, gliding silkily to and fro.
I ask my waitress about her and get her bio. “She is Somalian, so sweet - little Mini we call her. It is her first week working in the café. She is so very nervous about getting things right, even though we’ve spent nearly a month training her. When she arrived she was, like all of us, a bag of bones. We learnt, via one of the girls who speaks her own language, that she grew up surviving as a cigarette vendor on the margins. She is eighteen, so she claims, but with no documentation there’s no way of telling. ”
You have a West African accent I say, after listening to the story.
She brightens. “How you know?”
"Because I was seconded to the University of Takoradi."
“Eh! I was in Takoradi.”
“As a student?” I asked.
“No coming from Liberia, we try for take the boat from there to England.”
“So why are you here?”
“Instead we go for cross the desert - with the lorries to Libya.”
“So by boat you . . . . “ But she realised she’d told me too much.
Afraid I might be some kind of immigration sniffer dog she vanished into the cafe, not to re-appear.
While speculating about the gaps in what she had told me, I realized I’d switched now to ogling her co-worker. This woman is a whole lot bigger, with a real belly and a lot more movement in her bottom half. As she has piled on weight, her posture has become an exaggerated ‘S’ shape. And the all that fattening food seems to have manifested itself on the cheeks of her bottom. She’s proud, I note, of her great double bubble bum sticking out impossibly far. As she moves, she’s perfected an extravagant wiggle, being obliged to swing her hips more as her legs rub together. As she barges past me back to the workstation she looks me straight in the eye in a thoroughly wanton way.
“Why you watch me? . . . . . Because you looking to send me back to Sierra Leone?”
“No! Not at all. You move through all the traffic so beautifully.“
“You lie! All men here, they prefer the big blond Russians. Even you big black man!”
Ouch! That really hit home. (I have a blond European wife. And she’s big; she’s grown heavier than me by about 50 pounds. I met her when in West Africa, the plumpish daughter of a rich Italian timber contractor; which is why I am here in Italy at Politechnico di Bergamo).
I grinned and said, “Wrong, young lady. I prefer just Big. Period!”
She snorted.
“Now will you please bring me an expresso with one of these.” I showed her the menu card.
As she turned to head back to her workstation for an overdue snack, the wiggle went berserk. I knew it was for my benefit.
While waiting for my new order I crossed the road into the café to use the loo. To find it I had to walk the length of the Café Braunzucker right down to the back.
The interior was show stopping!
I’ll get to the décor in a moment; it was the people who took my breath away. The great ladies of Panciuto were on show here, done up in their finery, sitting gossiping. Some were fussing over plump beautiful children. Stuffing patisseries, they were mostly enormous. They looked like they’d need trolleying off home afterwards.
And the staff serving them were sized to match. These really big girls wore the bronze dresses too, quivering and gapping along the seams as they waddled. Cafe staff were obviously graded and allotted jobs by size.
Now I realised it was just the slimmer ones who served across the road! Outside, under the trees was for the tourists.
The interior was done out in Austrian rococo, gilt and white, lined with mirrors and hung with the finest Venetian chandeliers. Standing tall on the platform behind the long stainless steel stand-up bar working the coffee machines were four barristas - each one a mindblowingly huge young woman. Majestic in their black and white penguin uniforms, these four evidently qualified for their jobs by being no longer capable of waddling around serving the tables.
But largest of all was an enormous roly poly sphere of a woman who emerged for a split second from the kitchen. Covered from head to toe in white flour, she placed a special order on the end of the bar and withdrew.
Serious looking dark-suited groups of business men stood around the bar deep in conspiratorial business discussion. Clearly this was the epi-centre of life in Panciuto, the place where all the big deals were struck. Every prosperous kind of activity was on display: the business men thrust their drooping, sagging bellies up against one another; the contractors wore macho style paunches pitched high on their torsos; lawyers had tiers of Michelin rings, while the politicians looked like blown-up gas bags with tiny blisters for heads and painted on dark suiting.
Down at the back opposite the kitchen an extraordinary figure - like a heaped up pile of pale lard wearing thick black braces - presided behind a table strewn with delivery notes and invoices. He had the pink Corriere dell sport paper laid out neatly atop his belly which rose high out of his tall black trousers like some great egg, soft boiled and shelled. He was bald headed to match his belly, his skin, pallid and yellowing, covered with the liver spots that mark the really ancient. I couldn’t see to where his belly hung down between his legs, but that old man certainly would not have been capable of rising from that table unaided.
I saw a couple vacating a table just inside the front doors from which I could survey the action – both in and out. Quickly I bagged it and set out my stall: Blackberry, pen, papers and book on the table. I caught the eye of one of my outdoor (slim line) girls as she re-entered and indicated I wished to receive my order inside.
Watching everything, it struck me that so far as the conference theme went, Pannecotterra was all “Gain” with absolutely no sign of any “Loss”. And so, sitting here for the next hour, I sketched out my keynote address developing this optimistic proposition. I left the book unread, dismissed with scarcely a mention.
My motto has always been “Just do the unexpected” - that’s how I’ve managed to become a professor.
As I continued to watch the great cafe, a darker fantasy began taking shape in my mind. I have decided to record it here as if the writer is growing increasingly confused between what is reality and what is fantasy inside him.
For it is a state of mind that I too very often experience.
Story continued in post 3
CONFERENCE PEARS
by Lardibutts
Sitting at one of the tables of Panciuto’s famous Café Braunzucker under the trees in the centre of the Corso Garibaldi, life could scarcely be more perfect.
I’ve been totally distracted into people-watching while trying to decide whether to tackle the most enormous patisserie (a traditional old fashioned Viennese chocolate pear it says on the menu card on the table) with the help of a bottle of Perrier.
The tables get served from the elegant café across the carriageway. Glorious waitresses in classic black and white uniforms are busily swinging their assets deftly through the traffic, bearing loaded trays stylishly high above their shoulders. They wear skin-tight hip-hugger pants that begin flaring out from somewhere below the knee. Over midriff gaps cracking open in a variety of sensual ways, they wear a sleeveless unbuttoned waistcoat over a sparkling white shirt with bow tie or, alternatively, a cleavage revealing short-sleeved blouse.
They were absolutely right back in the Department when they all joshed me about Pannecotterra, a tiny Italian-speaking island in the southern Med, having the fattest people in the whole EU. The sights are truly amazing.
That is why I’ve stalled at page 7 of Lampedusa’s classic novel about Sicilian life. It is the “themetic text” for a conference hosted here on the island by “Indiana South Central University” at the Mediterranean campus it maintains on Pannecottera. They have shipped across Professor Amelia Grossenbeine, no less, to be presiding chair. By all accounts she is a formidable lady not given to taking fools lightly.
“Gains and Losses: Cultural Transition in the Autonomous Regions of Italy” is the title of the conference, and I’m the opening speaker. Giving the keynote address, I ought at least to have skim read the book. So far I’ve managed to pretend I’ve read it, after once accidentally catching Visconti’s film version on TV,“The Leopard”, starring Burt Lancaster and Claudia Cardinale.
My name is Rawson Colman, (actually Professor Rawson Colman to you, but it seems pretentious to use this handle about myself). My research specialism is the literature of migration.
Migration from Africa into Europe is a big European Union political hot potato in the twenty-first century. Spain and Italy are pushing for more resources to cope with it. France, Britain, Holland, and Germany, the EU countries of the north, say “This is your baby. Its your turn now; back in the twentieth when migration was to northern Europe, you never helped us.” But to sugar the pill, the EU pours money into splashy talk-shop conferences on the issue; which is why I’m here on lavish expenses. It occurs to me that maybe all the other participants are real academic heavyweights like me - at 345 pounds.
Enough of this academic BS exposition.
Here’s what I’m eyeballing now:
I watch “my” waitress circulate between the tables with straining paunch and protuberant gyrating buttocks battering at the seams of her dress pants. Stretched dangerously with the tension, her uniform is gapping; buttery flesh can be seen escaping everywhere. Bulges of softly swelling breast fat pump up and down over the neckline of her blouse. She’s developed a glorious midriff roll that keeps peeping out at me, and her sleeves cut into the soft flesh of her upper arms. She’s well overdue a new uniform, very arousing for an FA like me.
I’d been noticing how the waitresses spend a lot of time clustered around their work station; now I’ve just sussed what they are up to. They are all urging one another to greedily finish off customers’ leavings.
There are a few “Odd Ones Out," slimmer than the big showy penguins, these waitresses wear uniform bronze sheath dresses. The thinnest looks unsure and hesitant. Her dress, still showing the creases of being folded, hangs loose past her slim hips, no curves at all, no trace of even a young boy’s bottom. But she moves so gracefully, gliding silkily to and fro.
I ask my waitress about her and get her bio. “She is Somalian, so sweet - little Mini we call her. It is her first week working in the café. She is so very nervous about getting things right, even though we’ve spent nearly a month training her. When she arrived she was, like all of us, a bag of bones. We learnt, via one of the girls who speaks her own language, that she grew up surviving as a cigarette vendor on the margins. She is eighteen, so she claims, but with no documentation there’s no way of telling. ”
You have a West African accent I say, after listening to the story.
She brightens. “How you know?”
"Because I was seconded to the University of Takoradi."
“Eh! I was in Takoradi.”
“As a student?” I asked.
“No coming from Liberia, we try for take the boat from there to England.”
“So why are you here?”
“Instead we go for cross the desert - with the lorries to Libya.”
“So by boat you . . . . “ But she realised she’d told me too much.
Afraid I might be some kind of immigration sniffer dog she vanished into the cafe, not to re-appear.
While speculating about the gaps in what she had told me, I realized I’d switched now to ogling her co-worker. This woman is a whole lot bigger, with a real belly and a lot more movement in her bottom half. As she has piled on weight, her posture has become an exaggerated ‘S’ shape. And the all that fattening food seems to have manifested itself on the cheeks of her bottom. She’s proud, I note, of her great double bubble bum sticking out impossibly far. As she moves, she’s perfected an extravagant wiggle, being obliged to swing her hips more as her legs rub together. As she barges past me back to the workstation she looks me straight in the eye in a thoroughly wanton way.
“Why you watch me? . . . . . Because you looking to send me back to Sierra Leone?”
“No! Not at all. You move through all the traffic so beautifully.“
“You lie! All men here, they prefer the big blond Russians. Even you big black man!”
Ouch! That really hit home. (I have a blond European wife. And she’s big; she’s grown heavier than me by about 50 pounds. I met her when in West Africa, the plumpish daughter of a rich Italian timber contractor; which is why I am here in Italy at Politechnico di Bergamo).
I grinned and said, “Wrong, young lady. I prefer just Big. Period!”
She snorted.
“Now will you please bring me an expresso with one of these.” I showed her the menu card.
As she turned to head back to her workstation for an overdue snack, the wiggle went berserk. I knew it was for my benefit.
+ +
While waiting for my new order I crossed the road into the café to use the loo. To find it I had to walk the length of the Café Braunzucker right down to the back.
The interior was show stopping!
I’ll get to the décor in a moment; it was the people who took my breath away. The great ladies of Panciuto were on show here, done up in their finery, sitting gossiping. Some were fussing over plump beautiful children. Stuffing patisseries, they were mostly enormous. They looked like they’d need trolleying off home afterwards.
And the staff serving them were sized to match. These really big girls wore the bronze dresses too, quivering and gapping along the seams as they waddled. Cafe staff were obviously graded and allotted jobs by size.
Now I realised it was just the slimmer ones who served across the road! Outside, under the trees was for the tourists.
The interior was done out in Austrian rococo, gilt and white, lined with mirrors and hung with the finest Venetian chandeliers. Standing tall on the platform behind the long stainless steel stand-up bar working the coffee machines were four barristas - each one a mindblowingly huge young woman. Majestic in their black and white penguin uniforms, these four evidently qualified for their jobs by being no longer capable of waddling around serving the tables.
But largest of all was an enormous roly poly sphere of a woman who emerged for a split second from the kitchen. Covered from head to toe in white flour, she placed a special order on the end of the bar and withdrew.
Serious looking dark-suited groups of business men stood around the bar deep in conspiratorial business discussion. Clearly this was the epi-centre of life in Panciuto, the place where all the big deals were struck. Every prosperous kind of activity was on display: the business men thrust their drooping, sagging bellies up against one another; the contractors wore macho style paunches pitched high on their torsos; lawyers had tiers of Michelin rings, while the politicians looked like blown-up gas bags with tiny blisters for heads and painted on dark suiting.
Down at the back opposite the kitchen an extraordinary figure - like a heaped up pile of pale lard wearing thick black braces - presided behind a table strewn with delivery notes and invoices. He had the pink Corriere dell sport paper laid out neatly atop his belly which rose high out of his tall black trousers like some great egg, soft boiled and shelled. He was bald headed to match his belly, his skin, pallid and yellowing, covered with the liver spots that mark the really ancient. I couldn’t see to where his belly hung down between his legs, but that old man certainly would not have been capable of rising from that table unaided.
+ +
I saw a couple vacating a table just inside the front doors from which I could survey the action – both in and out. Quickly I bagged it and set out my stall: Blackberry, pen, papers and book on the table. I caught the eye of one of my outdoor (slim line) girls as she re-entered and indicated I wished to receive my order inside.
Watching everything, it struck me that so far as the conference theme went, Pannecotterra was all “Gain” with absolutely no sign of any “Loss”. And so, sitting here for the next hour, I sketched out my keynote address developing this optimistic proposition. I left the book unread, dismissed with scarcely a mention.
My motto has always been “Just do the unexpected” - that’s how I’ve managed to become a professor.
As I continued to watch the great cafe, a darker fantasy began taking shape in my mind. I have decided to record it here as if the writer is growing increasingly confused between what is reality and what is fantasy inside him.
For it is a state of mind that I too very often experience.
Story continued in post 3
