Chapter 1: Picking the Pig

Léa liked her mornings quiet. Flour on her her apron, dough beneath her fingernails, and the smell of rising brioche thick in the air. The countryside bakery was small, but known. Villagers came daily for their croissants, their baguettes, their buttery fougasses with rosemary and cheese.

But they didn’t know her secret.

They never did.

Léa wasn’t just baking for the village. She was hunting. Always watching. Always choosing.

Each day, just after dawn, she opened the shutters and rolled up the wooden door, letting the scent of sugar and yeast drift into the still village air. Behind the counter, in a flour-dusted apron and long braid, she looked like any other country baker. But her eyes were sharp—predatory. She watched the men who came in not for who they were, but for what they carried: heaviness, softness, weakness.

Her gaze settled on bellies. On tight shirts stretched across gut. On cheeks slightly puffed. On thighs that brushed when they walked. And above all, on hunger. The kind that gnawed quietly, the kind that made men lonely and greedy and slow.

That morning, she spotted him.

Late twenties or early thirties. Already flushed just from walking across the square. His T-shirt hugged a round belly that bounced softly with each step. Sweat clung beneath his chest. He stopped at the door, wiping his forehead and glancing through the glass at the pastries.

Léa’s lips parted slightly.
This one... was ripe.

He stepped inside. The little bell jingled as the door shut behind him. Léa didn’t move right away. She let the tension linger in the air, the scent of baked sugar wrapping around them like a fog. She watched him breathe in, saw his shoulders relax, his belly rise as he exhaled.

He waddled — yes, waddled — toward the display case like it called to him. His walk was unsteady, thick thighs rubbing audibly, his belly tugging at his waistband. She could hear the faint rustle of fabric straining to contain his bulk.

He pressed both palms to the glass and leaned forward, his gut resting against the edge. The way the softness pooled, bulged — Léa had to fight to keep her hands still.

“Mmm,” he muttered. “I want all of it.”

“You should,” she said, voice slow and warm like melted butter. “You deserve it.”

He blinked, startled. Then laughed, shy and breathy. “Everything smells amazing.”

“I made most of it this morning,” she replied, stepping forward. “And I can always tell when someone truly appreciates good food.”

“You can tell that just by looking at me, huh?”

“Oh, I could tell before you even walked in.”

That made him blush. He looked away, down at his feet, one hand unconsciously rubbing the heavy swell of his gut. “I’ve gained a little lately. Working from home…”

Léa tilted her head. “A little?”

She let the silence do the rest. His cheeks reddened further.

“Okay, maybe a lot,” he said.

Léa leaned on the counter, gaze direct. “Good.”

The word landed between them with weight.

He looked up, startled again. She smiled — not kindly, but knowingly. Like a spider who knew the fly had already tangled itself.

He ordered three éclairs, two cream tarts, a slice of flan, and a warm fougasse — then, sheepishly, added a second fougasse “for later.” She boxed them with care, tying the string gently.

“Want to eat here?” she asked. “I have a little room in the back. Quiet. Private. You’ll be more… comfortable.”

He hesitated, just a second.

Then nodded.


---

The back room was dim and cool. Stone walls, no windows, one table, one padded bench. A small fan hummed lazily above. The scent of baked goods was thicker here — less refined. More animal.

Léa set the box down on the table and gestured.

He sat with a huff, gut rising under his shirt as he adjusted. It jiggled as he shifted, settling with a soft slosh. She brought him a chilled bottle of milk and a small bowl of crème fraîche, then vanished behind the curtain.

But she watched.
She always watched.

He devoured the first éclair in two bites, cream sticking to the corners of his mouth. Then the second, slower. He licked his fingers, then dipped a corner of the tart in the crème like it was a ritual. His stomach swelled visibly. He let out a quiet belch, then unbuttoned his pants halfway through the flan.

Léa returned with a napkin and a smile.

“Too much?”

He laughed weakly. “I think I might explode.”

“Not yet,” she purred. “But you will. If you’re lucky.”

He blinked, unsure what to say. She sat beside him, closer than necessary, her hand brushing his thigh — firm and doughy.

“You’ve got a good body,” she said softly. “You carry it well. The belly, the thickness. All that softness. It suits you.”

He flushed, visibly aroused despite himself. “You think so?”

“I know so,” she said. Her fingers grazed the side of his gut — gently, reverently. “You were made to grow.”

He didn’t pull away.

She leaned in, her breath hot against his ear. “Come back tomorrow. Skip breakfast. I’ll have something… special ready for you.”

He nodded slowly.

And with that, she left him there — sweating, dazed, stuffed and half-hardened beneath the strain of his overfilled belly.


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He would be back.
They always came back.

But this one…
This one, she would keep.