Lardibutts
Aged Member
~BBW, SSBBW, Nautical Fantasy, Abduction
Author's note:There is a post here about how this little fantasy came about.
Id been assigned the punishment beat on the wrong side of town. Behind the train station my patch was a defeated area of crumbling old warehouses along the canal, and an ugly spotty rash of new tin sheds in a wasteland of weeds and scrub on the sites of former factory buildings.
It was a hot afternoon and I was wishing I hadnt had that extra baguette and Stella beer on the house after all the shit over copping the crappy Peugeot reps car abandoned on the cluster of yellow lines on the busy junction at the side of Antons bar.
Id already turned a blind eye, leaving it till late morning to slap a ticket on, but just as I was starting the guy pitched up. He spun me such a sob story! His wife didnt understand him; shed left him to go back to mum; shed taken his little girl with her blah blah... Hed been in the bar drowning his sorrows until late last night. Then a nice mature lady had taken pity on him. Shed picked him up and after a few more drinks took him off back home with her.
But he hadnt gone off into a rant at me as they all do, and I heard myself starting to go soft on him. Maybe also for the reason that had nice dark eyes. Anyway he bought me lunch in the bar, he was so grateful Id let him off.
We were just sitting there with me listening to more of the sob stuff when his missus pitched up in a taxi. Now who was telling the truth? Ive no idea. But she immediately assumed I was his bit on the side and the feathers flew.
These days Im quite a big lady so when it seemed like she was about to tear my uniform shirt, I had no alternative but knock her over and sit on her. Like she couldnt do no harm squashed flat under my big fat backside. Blow me if hubby didnt now start beating me about the head with her bloody handbag. It was Anton that threw them both out.
Anton knows I bend the rules about customers parking around his place its the only way he can get custom out where he is. So he set me right with the Stella Artois and a ham baguette oh! and with a few extra frites on the side.
He made me see the funny side. He said Id got the right build for marriage counseling; with my big backside Id saved their marriage he reckoned.
Now, patrolling along the canal-side after all that effing beer, my olive green uniform trousers felt so tight. Everything had gone straight onto that big bum of mine. Merde, merde! Bum, belly, everything was blowing up with the gas.
I slipped behind a bank of self-seeded buddleia bushes, side-stepped several dumped tyres and a twisted baby buggy and ducked into a secret little hidden world.
I leant back against the wall and undid my belt. Relief! Out surged my belly rolls and I felt my buttocks flopping free. I tugged out an uncomfortable wedgie then waggled my hips to release the rest.
It was good to feel it all hang loose: including uniform shirt tails, silk chemise and matching panties - in plum today with champagne lace trimming.
Aaaah that really was a whole load better!
I lay down and stretched out on a chunk of demolished concrete floor slab cradling my poor belly still blown out with all that fizzy beer. I turned my face upwards and enjoyed soaking in the afternoon sun and the sound of the cicadas.
How I missed the sun. As a little girl in the Ivory Coast I used to take the sun for granted, never imagining you might have to endure weeks without it in a cold grey hostile world. In fact in Abidjan it was wet days that were fun, you could stay indoors and flirt. You didnt have to head load 150 lbs of heavy fruit and a cutlass around the market in an enamel basin vending pineapple slices.
Ive been a traffic warden here in north eastern France for the past couple of years. I was really lucky to land the job after my boyfriend had fucked off with some lippy Belgian semi-prostitute leaving me with a months rent outstanding on a lousy concrete high rise HLM more a prison cell than an apartment.
The first year and a half in the parking job had been OK, Id been in the centre of town: put on the best streets, flirting with the tourists, being part of the smart image of the elegant town. Then my supervisor switched me to the outer parts of town.
My bitchy co-workers all said what else could I expect when Id gone up three uniform pants sizes since starting.
At least today Ive not been attacked. Ive been hospitalised twice; usually its women that take a slug at you. I get strings of abuse most days. Maybe thats why Ive blown myself up bigger: I look like Im a force to be reckoned with nowadays; Big is always Better where I come from!
While ruefully reviewing my growing career as a meter maid, Id been watching a boat glide by and line up to enter the canal locks along to my left. Three lush looking bikini clad girls were draped around the top of the boat, sunning themselves, chit-chatting. The one with the best figure was black, flaunting her curves in a bright emerald green bikini. She was one hell of a lucky bitch; how I envied her. I fantasised about being on there with them laughing and joking. Gliding off and away out of all this shit.
I must have dozed off for a bit because next thing I knew, Id a mouth like a dried cow pat, and the boat was through the first lock.
It was then that I spotted a small car parked on the yellow lines opposite the lock. Aha! Easy pickings I thought. For (what with my extended lunchtime break and afternoon snooze) I still needed to bag quite a few cars to get close to my daily target.
Hauling myself up, I struggled to squash all my extravagant bottom end back into my over-tight uniform pants. Finally I buckled up my belt, gave myself a last wriggle of my hips to consolidate the uniform (only to suffer the return of that painful wedgie) and scrambled out of my hidey hole.
Once Id worked my mightily bulbous buttocks, heaving heavily behind me, up into a swinging marching rhythm, I was confident I looked my imposing best. I checked my shadow now and then as I proceeded up along the lockside to book the little vehicle.
It was a sexy little retro job done out as a tiny jeep with a candy striped awning rigged over the top. It had a foreign number which didnt bother me it still counted for my booking tally for the day - but the problem was to discover what make to write on my form. I peered around, no badge or name anywhere.
As usual a woman pitched up demanding to know what I was doing with her car. I told her I was booking the vehicle and was looking for the make to put on my form. She said it was a 2CV Citroen and pointed to the boat in the lock. It belonged on the boat she said, once it was clear of the lock theyd load it back on board. Shed been ashore doing errands, now she was helping the lock keeper.
I continued with laboriously entering all the details onto the form in my machine (difficult because my sausage fingers are way too big for the piddling little keys). The young woman, seeing how I was determined to book her, volunteered more information in the hope I would relent. The boat was the Roosje Jelle and they were working their way down to the Med. She told me shed joined as the ships cook a few weeks back in Dusseldorf.
I looked the extrovert young German plumper up and down. She was blonde with peeling sunburn, but I was a head taller in my boots. And boy, was she overflowing that itsy bitsy bikini? (he he!) Realising what I was thinking, she joked about the way shed been making everyone onboard outgrow their bikinis. The boat owner was a Dutchman she told me; apparently the guy had the knack of recruiting young women to crew for him wherever he went on his travels.
I was nearly through inputting the details into my machine; now I had to formally notify her of the choice: pay cash now or twice the amount by post within 30 days.
You have to talk to Koenraad she said, hes got all the money. Between you and me hes rolling in it!
She pointed to a guy in a yachting cap whod appeared on deck shouting orders to the bikinied boat women. Fiftyish, he looked like a retired tall basket ball player: about 7 foot tall and sporting a big pot.
She led me across the road and as she was about to pass me across to one of the women on the boat she said in an undertone: and Ill tell you something else for nichts Koen is a total sucker for big juicy girls like you, especially in tight uniforms.
The ships cook proved dead right about Koenraad. He received me very courteously (it is almost unknown for a traffic warden to get two victims refraining from abuse in one day). He pointed out the way along to the wheelhouse and gestured for me to go before him. He followed on closely behind, so close that several times he got to brushing the cheeks of my backside.
Indeed he was virtually grabbing at my buttock fat as he eased the door shut past my right side back pocket flap saying:
Oops careful! We mustnt damage your uniform .Miss um..
Yvette I said, Traffic officer Yvette Abusanje. I started fumbling with the button of my left breast pocket to fish out my identity. I couldnt manage it my grey green uniform blouse was stretched far too tight across my massive boobs.
No matter Yvette! Please, it is a privilege to welcome aboard such a beautifully turned out representative of this famous towns bureaucracy. Let me introduce myself I am Koenraad and this is Grieta, captain of my little ship.
Grieta perhaps you might pour Yvette some iced lemonade to help us resolve our little problem with the car.
The iced cordial did wonders to revive me and I willingly accepted a second glass.
Grieta was a big mature blonde with an even plushier bottom than mine. An unwieldy blubbery sunburned spare tyre bulged out over her low waisted white duck officer style pants. On top, over a rather dirty white bra, she wore a loosely buttoned see-through white linen shirt with breast pockets like mine plus epaulettes. As she bent over to pour me a further glass, I saw Koenraad trace his fingers around Grietas backside appreciatively.
We finalised everything about the parking fine then Koenraad said Now Yvette, while the girls load aboard that naughty deux chevaux thats been the cause of all this, Grieta and me would like to invite you to view our little ship.
There was a stairway down from inside the wheelhouse and Grieta went first leading the way down with Koenraad, into frottage as usual, very close behind me bringing up the rear. At the foot of the stair we leant over a balcony rail to look down on a beautiful little paradise under an open sliding glass roof just above our heads.
Grieta explained it was originally a small Dutch freighter that Koenraad had converted into a pleasure boat and we were looking into the old cargo hold. I could see a grand piano on a beautiful wood floor at the bottom of the hold with a big potted palm and some comfortable seating around, plus a big dining table. Thats where we have all our meals Grieta pointed out.
With genuine delight I exclaimed, Wow what a place for parties!
Thats right! Weve had some good nights down there. Now you should come and see where we sleep Grieta squeezed her big butt past me to jiggle around onto one of the low white painted galleries running along the sides of the hold. There were beautifully appointed built in couches along the walls with cushions and curtains you could screen yourself off with.
You should lie down and try one Koenraad suggested. Ooh how wonderfully comfortable you look Yvette, lying there! No! Please dont mind about your great big boots on the coverlet.
Its true, I did feel wonderfully luxurious, and a bit sinful (I enjoyed that bit).
Then I looked up. MON DIEU! Trees were passing by overhead. The ship was moving!
Koenraad said dont worry, come upstairs and well drop you off when we get to the lower end of the town.
Back up in the wheelhouse it was time for tea. Laid out were half a dozen great gateaux the ships cook Vilhelmina had fetched in from Patisserie Charles, the best (and the most expensive) place in town on the corner of the Place Lafayette.
The black girl Id seen earlier was now steering and Grieta introduced her as Corrie. The other bikini girls were Nina and Jenna.
Corrie, standing at the wheel appetisingly voluptuous in her emerald green bikini, looked me up and down very carefully, quizzing me about my uniform, what I did and why I was here in France. In return I learnt she was from Suriname in South America and had grown up in Amsterdam.
Koenraad leaned past me to push tangerine cream gateaux into Corries mouth, joking boisterously that Vilhelminas gross taste in patisserie was having a disastrous effect on all the ships companys waistlines.
He winked at me as he fondled Corries bottom. She plays the piano divinely he said to me, but in a stage whisper he told her she had a long way to go before she would be able to fill a pair of uniform trousers as positively as Mademoiselle Yvette here.
I thought cheeky bugger! So I said, its a good thing us Africans cant understand irony!
Captain Grieta cut across our banter, objecting loudly that Koenraad was the real villain of the piece. Not for nothing was he known the length and breadth of the waterways of Europe as the Frying Dutchman.
Look what five years on this boat eating his all lardy bloody fried food has done for me! she said, grabbing hold of her flabby midriff for effect. Then she reached across and grabbed a second enormous piece of chocolate gateaux.
I felt I was being feted as some kind of guest of honour; they seemed to be putting on a show, wisecracking for my benefit. So I made rather a pig of myself by eating almost the whole of the delicious pineapple gateaux.
I went on and cleared the plate entirely after Vilhelmina pressed me into finishing off the last few slices. Actually she ended up feeding them to me with her fingers.
Why dont you call me Vilma? she murmured, undoing the buckle of my heavy belt.
Ooh! La la! What naughty underwear. was the last thing I heard her saying.
I must have passed out by the time we got to the lower end of town, because four years later .. well Im still here on the Frying Dutchmans ship.
Koenraad never ever seems to stop and get off the ship and so, yes, with all our traveling, Ive seen a lot more of the world.
Im also a lot bigger now, though Im happy to report Ive made that catty bitch Corrie really massive. Shes so big she cant reach the piano keys any more.
Koenraad has asked us to look out for a new pianist we might entice on board and abduct.
We are due in Casablanca next week; a good place for pianists so Im told.
Author's note:There is a post here about how this little fantasy came about.
"THE FRYING DUTCHMAN"
Lardibutts
Lardibutts
Id been assigned the punishment beat on the wrong side of town. Behind the train station my patch was a defeated area of crumbling old warehouses along the canal, and an ugly spotty rash of new tin sheds in a wasteland of weeds and scrub on the sites of former factory buildings.
It was a hot afternoon and I was wishing I hadnt had that extra baguette and Stella beer on the house after all the shit over copping the crappy Peugeot reps car abandoned on the cluster of yellow lines on the busy junction at the side of Antons bar.
Id already turned a blind eye, leaving it till late morning to slap a ticket on, but just as I was starting the guy pitched up. He spun me such a sob story! His wife didnt understand him; shed left him to go back to mum; shed taken his little girl with her blah blah... Hed been in the bar drowning his sorrows until late last night. Then a nice mature lady had taken pity on him. Shed picked him up and after a few more drinks took him off back home with her.
But he hadnt gone off into a rant at me as they all do, and I heard myself starting to go soft on him. Maybe also for the reason that had nice dark eyes. Anyway he bought me lunch in the bar, he was so grateful Id let him off.
We were just sitting there with me listening to more of the sob stuff when his missus pitched up in a taxi. Now who was telling the truth? Ive no idea. But she immediately assumed I was his bit on the side and the feathers flew.
These days Im quite a big lady so when it seemed like she was about to tear my uniform shirt, I had no alternative but knock her over and sit on her. Like she couldnt do no harm squashed flat under my big fat backside. Blow me if hubby didnt now start beating me about the head with her bloody handbag. It was Anton that threw them both out.
Anton knows I bend the rules about customers parking around his place its the only way he can get custom out where he is. So he set me right with the Stella Artois and a ham baguette oh! and with a few extra frites on the side.
He made me see the funny side. He said Id got the right build for marriage counseling; with my big backside Id saved their marriage he reckoned.
Now, patrolling along the canal-side after all that effing beer, my olive green uniform trousers felt so tight. Everything had gone straight onto that big bum of mine. Merde, merde! Bum, belly, everything was blowing up with the gas.
I slipped behind a bank of self-seeded buddleia bushes, side-stepped several dumped tyres and a twisted baby buggy and ducked into a secret little hidden world.
I leant back against the wall and undid my belt. Relief! Out surged my belly rolls and I felt my buttocks flopping free. I tugged out an uncomfortable wedgie then waggled my hips to release the rest.
It was good to feel it all hang loose: including uniform shirt tails, silk chemise and matching panties - in plum today with champagne lace trimming.
Aaaah that really was a whole load better!
I lay down and stretched out on a chunk of demolished concrete floor slab cradling my poor belly still blown out with all that fizzy beer. I turned my face upwards and enjoyed soaking in the afternoon sun and the sound of the cicadas.
How I missed the sun. As a little girl in the Ivory Coast I used to take the sun for granted, never imagining you might have to endure weeks without it in a cold grey hostile world. In fact in Abidjan it was wet days that were fun, you could stay indoors and flirt. You didnt have to head load 150 lbs of heavy fruit and a cutlass around the market in an enamel basin vending pineapple slices.
Ive been a traffic warden here in north eastern France for the past couple of years. I was really lucky to land the job after my boyfriend had fucked off with some lippy Belgian semi-prostitute leaving me with a months rent outstanding on a lousy concrete high rise HLM more a prison cell than an apartment.
The first year and a half in the parking job had been OK, Id been in the centre of town: put on the best streets, flirting with the tourists, being part of the smart image of the elegant town. Then my supervisor switched me to the outer parts of town.
My bitchy co-workers all said what else could I expect when Id gone up three uniform pants sizes since starting.
At least today Ive not been attacked. Ive been hospitalised twice; usually its women that take a slug at you. I get strings of abuse most days. Maybe thats why Ive blown myself up bigger: I look like Im a force to be reckoned with nowadays; Big is always Better where I come from!
While ruefully reviewing my growing career as a meter maid, Id been watching a boat glide by and line up to enter the canal locks along to my left. Three lush looking bikini clad girls were draped around the top of the boat, sunning themselves, chit-chatting. The one with the best figure was black, flaunting her curves in a bright emerald green bikini. She was one hell of a lucky bitch; how I envied her. I fantasised about being on there with them laughing and joking. Gliding off and away out of all this shit.
I must have dozed off for a bit because next thing I knew, Id a mouth like a dried cow pat, and the boat was through the first lock.
It was then that I spotted a small car parked on the yellow lines opposite the lock. Aha! Easy pickings I thought. For (what with my extended lunchtime break and afternoon snooze) I still needed to bag quite a few cars to get close to my daily target.
Hauling myself up, I struggled to squash all my extravagant bottom end back into my over-tight uniform pants. Finally I buckled up my belt, gave myself a last wriggle of my hips to consolidate the uniform (only to suffer the return of that painful wedgie) and scrambled out of my hidey hole.
Once Id worked my mightily bulbous buttocks, heaving heavily behind me, up into a swinging marching rhythm, I was confident I looked my imposing best. I checked my shadow now and then as I proceeded up along the lockside to book the little vehicle.
It was a sexy little retro job done out as a tiny jeep with a candy striped awning rigged over the top. It had a foreign number which didnt bother me it still counted for my booking tally for the day - but the problem was to discover what make to write on my form. I peered around, no badge or name anywhere.
As usual a woman pitched up demanding to know what I was doing with her car. I told her I was booking the vehicle and was looking for the make to put on my form. She said it was a 2CV Citroen and pointed to the boat in the lock. It belonged on the boat she said, once it was clear of the lock theyd load it back on board. Shed been ashore doing errands, now she was helping the lock keeper.
I continued with laboriously entering all the details onto the form in my machine (difficult because my sausage fingers are way too big for the piddling little keys). The young woman, seeing how I was determined to book her, volunteered more information in the hope I would relent. The boat was the Roosje Jelle and they were working their way down to the Med. She told me shed joined as the ships cook a few weeks back in Dusseldorf.
I looked the extrovert young German plumper up and down. She was blonde with peeling sunburn, but I was a head taller in my boots. And boy, was she overflowing that itsy bitsy bikini? (he he!) Realising what I was thinking, she joked about the way shed been making everyone onboard outgrow their bikinis. The boat owner was a Dutchman she told me; apparently the guy had the knack of recruiting young women to crew for him wherever he went on his travels.
I was nearly through inputting the details into my machine; now I had to formally notify her of the choice: pay cash now or twice the amount by post within 30 days.
You have to talk to Koenraad she said, hes got all the money. Between you and me hes rolling in it!
She pointed to a guy in a yachting cap whod appeared on deck shouting orders to the bikinied boat women. Fiftyish, he looked like a retired tall basket ball player: about 7 foot tall and sporting a big pot.
She led me across the road and as she was about to pass me across to one of the women on the boat she said in an undertone: and Ill tell you something else for nichts Koen is a total sucker for big juicy girls like you, especially in tight uniforms.
The ships cook proved dead right about Koenraad. He received me very courteously (it is almost unknown for a traffic warden to get two victims refraining from abuse in one day). He pointed out the way along to the wheelhouse and gestured for me to go before him. He followed on closely behind, so close that several times he got to brushing the cheeks of my backside.
Indeed he was virtually grabbing at my buttock fat as he eased the door shut past my right side back pocket flap saying:
Oops careful! We mustnt damage your uniform .Miss um..
Yvette I said, Traffic officer Yvette Abusanje. I started fumbling with the button of my left breast pocket to fish out my identity. I couldnt manage it my grey green uniform blouse was stretched far too tight across my massive boobs.
No matter Yvette! Please, it is a privilege to welcome aboard such a beautifully turned out representative of this famous towns bureaucracy. Let me introduce myself I am Koenraad and this is Grieta, captain of my little ship.
Grieta perhaps you might pour Yvette some iced lemonade to help us resolve our little problem with the car.
The iced cordial did wonders to revive me and I willingly accepted a second glass.
Grieta was a big mature blonde with an even plushier bottom than mine. An unwieldy blubbery sunburned spare tyre bulged out over her low waisted white duck officer style pants. On top, over a rather dirty white bra, she wore a loosely buttoned see-through white linen shirt with breast pockets like mine plus epaulettes. As she bent over to pour me a further glass, I saw Koenraad trace his fingers around Grietas backside appreciatively.
We finalised everything about the parking fine then Koenraad said Now Yvette, while the girls load aboard that naughty deux chevaux thats been the cause of all this, Grieta and me would like to invite you to view our little ship.
There was a stairway down from inside the wheelhouse and Grieta went first leading the way down with Koenraad, into frottage as usual, very close behind me bringing up the rear. At the foot of the stair we leant over a balcony rail to look down on a beautiful little paradise under an open sliding glass roof just above our heads.
Grieta explained it was originally a small Dutch freighter that Koenraad had converted into a pleasure boat and we were looking into the old cargo hold. I could see a grand piano on a beautiful wood floor at the bottom of the hold with a big potted palm and some comfortable seating around, plus a big dining table. Thats where we have all our meals Grieta pointed out.
With genuine delight I exclaimed, Wow what a place for parties!
Thats right! Weve had some good nights down there. Now you should come and see where we sleep Grieta squeezed her big butt past me to jiggle around onto one of the low white painted galleries running along the sides of the hold. There were beautifully appointed built in couches along the walls with cushions and curtains you could screen yourself off with.
You should lie down and try one Koenraad suggested. Ooh how wonderfully comfortable you look Yvette, lying there! No! Please dont mind about your great big boots on the coverlet.
Its true, I did feel wonderfully luxurious, and a bit sinful (I enjoyed that bit).
Then I looked up. MON DIEU! Trees were passing by overhead. The ship was moving!
Koenraad said dont worry, come upstairs and well drop you off when we get to the lower end of the town.
Back up in the wheelhouse it was time for tea. Laid out were half a dozen great gateaux the ships cook Vilhelmina had fetched in from Patisserie Charles, the best (and the most expensive) place in town on the corner of the Place Lafayette.
The black girl Id seen earlier was now steering and Grieta introduced her as Corrie. The other bikini girls were Nina and Jenna.
Corrie, standing at the wheel appetisingly voluptuous in her emerald green bikini, looked me up and down very carefully, quizzing me about my uniform, what I did and why I was here in France. In return I learnt she was from Suriname in South America and had grown up in Amsterdam.
Koenraad leaned past me to push tangerine cream gateaux into Corries mouth, joking boisterously that Vilhelminas gross taste in patisserie was having a disastrous effect on all the ships companys waistlines.
He winked at me as he fondled Corries bottom. She plays the piano divinely he said to me, but in a stage whisper he told her she had a long way to go before she would be able to fill a pair of uniform trousers as positively as Mademoiselle Yvette here.
I thought cheeky bugger! So I said, its a good thing us Africans cant understand irony!
Captain Grieta cut across our banter, objecting loudly that Koenraad was the real villain of the piece. Not for nothing was he known the length and breadth of the waterways of Europe as the Frying Dutchman.
Look what five years on this boat eating his all lardy bloody fried food has done for me! she said, grabbing hold of her flabby midriff for effect. Then she reached across and grabbed a second enormous piece of chocolate gateaux.
I felt I was being feted as some kind of guest of honour; they seemed to be putting on a show, wisecracking for my benefit. So I made rather a pig of myself by eating almost the whole of the delicious pineapple gateaux.
I went on and cleared the plate entirely after Vilhelmina pressed me into finishing off the last few slices. Actually she ended up feeding them to me with her fingers.
Why dont you call me Vilma? she murmured, undoing the buckle of my heavy belt.
Ooh! La la! What naughty underwear. was the last thing I heard her saying.
I must have passed out by the time we got to the lower end of town, because four years later .. well Im still here on the Frying Dutchmans ship.
Koenraad never ever seems to stop and get off the ship and so, yes, with all our traveling, Ive seen a lot more of the world.
Im also a lot bigger now, though Im happy to report Ive made that catty bitch Corrie really massive. Shes so big she cant reach the piano keys any more.
Koenraad has asked us to look out for a new pianist we might entice on board and abduct.
We are due in Casablanca next week; a good place for pianists so Im told.
