Chapter 2

He began to rummage through the intimidating stack of receipts and invoices that had accumulated on his desk over the weekend. The tedious bookkeeping and paperwork was the only downside of being self-employed. Thankfully, his sister happened to be an accountant, so he had guidance readily available when he needed it. As he sorted through the sales slips and pink and yellow invoice carbon copies, he separated each into a neat pile that would expedite their eventual entry into the computer so that they could be documented properly.

Although he attempted to work diligently so that he would be able to enter the data before his baked goods were ready to come out of the oven, he couldn’t help but become occasionally distracted by the sight of a glass enclosed plate of éclairs that he could see across the kitchen in the front portion of the store, sitting on the counter next to the cash register. He could just barely make out the small holes in each one that were overflowing with the crème pâtissière and custard he had filled them with underneath a dense layer of rich chocolate icing that had been liberally applied.

He had taken home a dozen last night to keep him company, and they were gone within a half an hour. With each bite his senses were overtaken by an insurmountable pleasure that emanated through him. He truly was a gifted chef, especially when it came to baking. Without fail, he always found the right chemistry in his ingredients to create something that was an intensely enjoyable experience for the taste buds. He had no trouble finishing all twelve. He loved moments after he gorged himself like that, to lie in bed with his shirt pulled up over his great big stomach and to know that he had eaten way too much and too feel just wonderfully, totally fat. Now he found himself fighting the urge to eat the remaining dozen. He tried with great effort not to continue looking up periodically from his desk to stare longingly at the éclairs, but he could sense himself losing the internal battle that his mind was waging against his seemingly insatiable appetite.

He paused for a moment, contemplating his conundrum while shifting his weight in the chair and enjoying the undulating sensation of his body rippling in response to the minor movement. He tore his gaze away from the enticing view of the éclairs and stared down at his plentiful gut which lay upon his lap. He began to rub it absentmindedly, his hands greedily palpating across flabby mounds of fattened flesh.

Touching his own plumped physique was another of his guilty pleasures, although it was known only to him. He could not fathom why he enjoyed it so much. An intense growl resounded from deep within his cavernous stomach. Some mornings he awoke in his bed amidst the disarray of his white cotton sheets to find himself burdened with a ferocious pain in his belly. Hunger pains, he mused silently to himself, smiling devilishly as he entertained the thought. Although he had made himself an ample breakfast of bacon, sausage, eggs and pancakes, he was still haunted by that twinge of appetence now. Peter hesitated a moment longer before hoisting himself out of the chair. He wanted an éclair. He could not ignore the powerful craving any longer. He removed the glass covering from the tray and took it back to his desk to finish his paperwork.

He had only intended to have one or two, but by the time he entered the last receipt into the keyboard he was surprised to find that he had devoured them all. He had been so engrossed in his typing that he barely noticed how much he had eaten. He licked the remaining chocolate from his lips and walked back into the kitchen, noticing that his shirt and his apron felt more closefitting than before. He was tremendously full, and it became infinitely more noticeable as he walked. His midsection felt heavy and cumbersome. Oddly enough, it turned him on, but he focused on his work in lieu of the sexual urges that he really hadn’t much of an outlet for.

The bread was about ready to come out, and the rest would be done soon after that. There wasn’t much time left to mix up the icing that he needed to drizzle onto the cinnamon buns. The icing was fairly simple to make, but it was always better to make it fresh each day because it hardened over night whether or not it was kept out or refrigerated. It just didn’t retain the same flavor when he heated it up again to melt it back to the right consistency.

He was welcomed by the hollow, vacuum sound of the refrigeration unit as he pulled open the shiny metal door to the walk-in refrigerator. His ability to squeeze easily through the tiny opening had ceased quite some time ago. He forced his way through it anyway, wriggling his colossal body back and forth until he was released into the interior of the refrigerator. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep that up.

Similar to his worries about the retractable counter in the front of the shop, he knew that the day would come when his body would grow so corpulent that he would no longer fit through at all. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, because the feeling of dreading and being excited by the same thing was extremely confusing. He searched for the ingredients he required, grabbing a carton of whole milk and several sticks of butter before cramming himself back through the small doorway just as the first timer on the oven began to blare.

He smacked the red button to end the irritating sound and took out the loaves of bread to cool. Next he began to mix together the milk and butter in his industrial size mixer, slowly adding in a good amount of confectioner’s sugar and several heaping tablespoons of vanilla extract. He blended it methodically, spinning the aluminum bowl gradually to ensure that the mixing action was evenly distributed. He picked up a spatula and skirted it around the outer edges of the bowl to push down any remaining patches of sugar or butter. When he removed it from the bowl, he wanted to lick it very badly. The sweet, gooey frosting was dripping seductively from the end of the utensil, reminding him of how wonderful it would taste either on its own or in concert with the fluffy cinnamon rolls that it was intended for. The almost uncontrollable longing caused his mouth to water.

Suddenly, his frosting fantasy was cut short by a repeated buzzing of the oven. The rest of the morning’s goods were done. He took them out to cool, setting the cinnamon rolls in front of him where he could apply the icing and putting the rest of the trays on racks which already contained the bread. He picked up the spatula and began carefully tracing symmetrical lines of the white mixture over the buns. The icing began to melt as soon as it made contact with the warm surface of the freshly baked pastries, and it omitted an intoxicating scent.

When he was finished, he noticed an errant smudge of the white substance that had managed a temporary reprieve on his thumb. He eyed it pensively before wiping it on his apron in an effort to abate his swelling desire to eat even more. The strain on his belly had subsided slightly since he had feasted earlier in his office and he knew that he could force down a few of the cinnamon buns if he had enough time. If any customers saw him eating in such a way, he knew it wouldn’t be good. It might even be a health code violation. He wasn’t one-hundred percent sure.

He checked the clock that hung over the hallway. He had ten minutes. That was plenty of time. He shoved a cinnamon bun into his mouth with voracious rapidity, followed by another. They were nice and warm from the oven still. His stop-off in paradise was halted by the front door chiming to signify the entrance of a customer. He had forgotten to lock it behind him. He inhaled the remainder of his third cinnamon bun before rushing to greet them.