The lady wot lunched a little too much - Chapter 8 Preview)

Hello there!

Promised an update on TLWL, so here it is. An apology through - it's really just the opening scene from the start of the next chapter. Every time I think I've got the rest of this chapter cracked, I notice some sort of hole or problem!

I almost cut the first part of this scene altogether, on the basis that it's feels like bit like a side-quest rather than a sub-plot (I need to stop watching YouTube videos about storytelling😂). What I mean is that it barely advances the main plotline or relationship between the main characters. There is, in fact, a purpose to it that will tie in, but it won't become clear until slightly later.

Apologies for the abrupt finish. Aiming to post every week has worked quite well with pictures, so I'm going to apply it to writing, too. Continuation next weekend! I may well tweak this part a little over the week too. I'll send an email notification if I make any significant changes.

Sorry to ramble - hope you enjoy! 😄

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The lady wot lunched a little too much - Chapter 8

'Two more lava cakes for the ladies - and another round of old fashioneds!'

The blond quiff bashed his palms together like cymbals at the end of a symphony, his voice booming over the clink and chatter of the banquet hall. It was so loud that Aimi wondered if there was any point in relaying the order to the kitchens. The cooks had almost certainly heard it, even from all the way across the room - and through six inches of wall.

Just one more hour to go, she sighed, reminding herself how much she needed this job. Besides, loud and brash though he was, the blond quiff was a gold mine. He'd already bribed Aimi to switch the seating arrangements, and he'd paid her even more to make sure the constant stream of cocktails he was ordering to the table were all double-strength.

All except his own, which were completely alcohol free.

A twinge of guilt fluttered in Aimi's chest. But helping someone secretly stay sober wasn't a crime, was it? And it wasn't as if the blond man was forcing alcoholic drinks on the women at the table. The pair of them were gulping down negronis and old fashioneds like they were... well, going out of fashion. They were adults, weren't they? They had to take responsibility for themselves. A hundred pounds was a lot of money to a waitress.

Still the guilt lingered - a tiny moth in the bedroom of Aimi's mind. She glanced around the table. The two expensively dressed women were visibly sozzled, almost swaying in their seats, and the rugged dark-haired man seemed fairly tipsy too. Yet anyone passing would have said that the blond guy was by far the drunkest of all.

And he was stone-cold sober.

When I bring this round back, I'll say this the last one I can serve them, Aimi decided. And if he doesn't like it, I'll give him his money back the next time he goes to the toilet.

She'd started for bar, when a voice from behind stopped her in her tracks.

'We're out of -huc- champagne,' it slurred pompously.

Aimi was glad she'd turned away. It hid the scowl that automatically tugged down the corners of her mouth. With great effort she hoisted them back up into her pleasant waitress smile and turned back to the table.

Even in a room full of haughty, overdressed beauties, the woman who'd spoken stood out. Hair as dark and glossy as oil floated around a perfectly contoured face. Dark green eyes lazed beneath lashes designed for sweeping hearts, and her shiny lips - made even shinier by a sheen of cream from the rich dessert that had just passed between them - were set in an expression of smug disdain. Abby Prescott, the place card at her table announced in elaborate curly writing. But from the diva-like way she'd been behaving all evening you'd have thought it said Kim Kardashian.

The annoying thing was that she probably could have passed as a Kardashian - a distant cousin perhaps, from a branch of the family that were built on a larger scale.

A much larger scale, Aimi thought, as Abby leaned forward drunkenly, her tits almost wiping the smears of chocolate and cream from her plate as they passed over it like low-flying zeppelins. Resting a plump ivory elbow on the table, she waggled her empty champagne flute.

'Well hurry up,' she slurred, bugging her eyes at Aimi sarcastically, as if she was dealing with a particularly slow child, 'we're -huic!- thirsty.'

The words stamped on Aimi's moth of guilt like a twelve-inch stiletto. Fine, she thought, you asked for it, literally. Drink yourself into a stupor...

And eat your way into a food coma while you're at it, her subconscious added, as Abby leaned back with a toss of her silky locks to allow her plate to be replaced with one bearing a fresh lava cake.

Aimi blinked. Apparently the chefs had heard the blond quiff all the way in the kitchens. But her astonishment soon faded, as a far more likely explanation occurred.

James... The spotty young waiter who was sliding Abby's second dessert under her great shelf of a bosom, bowing so low that his slimy camel lips came within an inch of nuzzling her tits. No doubt he'd been hovering nearby and overheard the order, and had leapt at the chance to slobber over them at even closer range.

The sleazy little shit's even brought more champagne too. Aimi cringed as James presented the bottle with a flourish, doing a feeble imitation of a suave French sommelier.

Still, he got his reward. As he leaned forward to refill Abby's champagne flute, a sudden enormous hiccup jolted through her glossy bulk, causing her vast bosom to ripple like an ocean.

There was an expensive smash as a bottle of vintage Boerl & Kroff bounced off the edge of the table and shattered against the floor.

James blinked dumbly at the froth lapping against his shoes, gradually emerging from his tit-trance.

'Shit ... Er.. I mean, my apologies, madam.. I'll.... let me clear that up.'

He bent down, only to shoot up again with a dry squeal as he felt something clamp firmly around his left buttock.

'Bring another bottle first,' a new voice growled. And releasing her grip, Fatima Marceau issued a smack to the waiter's scrawny backside that send him scuttling off with a yelp.

Aimi sighed, but not out of sympathy for James. It was just her luck, wasn't it, to get the table with not just one, but the two most obnoxious and demanding bitches at the entire ceremony. From the moment they'd plonked their pompous bottoms onto their seats, the bossy Indian diva in the silver dress and the bloated Kardashian clone in gold had run Aimi absolutely ragged. More wine. More cocktails. More bread. More dips. More shots. More champagne. More, more, more, more, more... In her three years of waiting tables, Aimi didn't think she'd ever heard two people make so many demands.

She'd certainly never seen two people eat so much. Aimi watched with mixture of disgust and awe as the glamorous pair dug into their second desserts. By rights, neither of them should have been able to do more than nibble on their starters, after the way they'd stuffed down the hors d'oeuvres earlier on. Yet here they were, still eating after ...Aimi did some quick mental arithmetic... seven plates of food each! Not to mention all the hefty chunks of oil-saturated bread they'd snacked on between courses.

No wonder their bums are too big for their chairs, Aimi thought, eyeing Abby the cake-inhaling Kardashian. There was a kind of stretched-out yet squeezed-in look about her golden bulges that suggested some seriously heavy duty shapewear beneath that Versace, and giving the overall impression of multiple giant straining water balloons all strapped together. The strain was clear on Abby's face too. Each time her neck convulsed with another swallow of cake, a wince passed over her haughty features, as more food landed in her already overloaded stomach.

The realisation struck Aimi: this, what she was witnessing right here, was real gluttony; someone who kept eating and eating even when it hurt and her body looked ready to burst.

If Abby was on the verge of exploding, then the Indian woman, Fatima, looked like she already had. Her backless silver dress was still squeezing her plump body like cling film, emphasising every puffy bulge, but it had long ago given up the task of holding her in. Plush rolls of pudge spilled out everywhere, overflowing her dress like dough bubbling over the edges of a pan, and jiggling as she leaned into every forkful of cake. Aimi watched a long droplet of sweat trickle down the squishy troughs between her pads of back fat before finally disappearing into her arse crack.

Fatima squirmed, her fat rippling.

'Where's that champagne?' she snapped.

The blond quiff leaned back easily. 'We'll take another round of shots with those old fashioneds too,' he said, grinning around the table and making eye-contact with Aimi for the briefest moment. 'Now then,' he said, pushing himself up, and swaying theatrically. 'Just going to pay a visit.'

The moth of guilt twitched a broken wing. Aimi gulped. This was her chance. She could intercept him when he came out of the toilet. Give him his money back and wash her hands of any the whole thing. She glanced again at the table.

And found two champagne flutes being waggled impatiently in her face.

'So,' Aimi said, her smile not even flickering, 'that's one bottle of Boerl & Kroff, four old fashioneds and four shots of tequila.' And with a small bow, she turned away from the table.

A hundred pounds was a lot of money to a waitress.

---

Blinking groggily, Abby peered down at the last lump of lava cake like a goddess assessing an offering. Unseen beneath the table, she pressed two fingertips against her stomach. Ugh, the sooner she could get out of this stupid overpriced girdle the better. It was squeezing her like a python.

In some far corner, deep beneath the sloshing ocean of alcohol in Abby's brain, a half-drowned Angel of Restraint fought her way to the surface.

Is finishing that cake really such a good idea? The angel spluttered. We've had a lot to eat already. An awful lot. And the woman who gave us the shapewear did say-

It's too -urrp- good to waste, snarled a rather green-cheeked Demon of Gluttony from atop her rocking pleasure barge. Besides -huc- we're celebrating!

The last word was accompanied by a vicious kick that sent the Angel gurgling back down into the depths.

Celebrating...

The reminder was enough to distract Abby from the strained pressure around her middle. Tossing her silky hair, she let her fingers stray to the glass trophy that stood tall and proud beside her champagne flute. She twisted its base, rubbing her thumb along the gleaming plaque. Most Innovative use of Social Media.

And that wasn't even the best part. For nestled in the top of that trophy were two tickets for an all-expenses paid trip to St Lucia. A prize within a prize! Abby hadn't been expecting that. A cream-greased smile curved her smug lips. She really hoped Gemma and Holly had been checking Instagram.

'So, who are you going to take?'

So soaked with booze were Abby's braincells that it was several moments before she realised that Ryan's words formed a question, and several more before she realised that question was directed at her. She looked at him blankly.

'To St Lucia,' he said, nodding patiently at the trophy. 'Are you going to take Gemma or Holly?'

Ryan fought to keep his own face blank while Abby's darkened like a lunar eclipse.

'Why would I take -hic- either of them?' she slurred, the alcohol making her voice more petulant than she'd intended. Sullenly she scooped up a huge spoonful of lava cake.

Ryan smiled, but only to himself. He knew, of course, that Abby had no intention of sharing her prize with Gemma or Holly. He doubted she'd ever shared anything with anyone in her entire life. But he had a plan... If he could wind Abby up a bit - not too much, but just enough - then with any luck she'd head off to bed in a huff. Leaving him free to find someone else to sleep with.

Someone in much better shape.

For although Ryan had been tempted at first, if only to see just how huge those tits really were once released, as the evening had worn on his desire for his bulging branch manager had dwindled with every drink he'd drunk and every mouthful of food she'd eaten.

And there had been a lot of drinks... and even more food.

Not that Ryan was surprised. Abby had always been greedy. He'd taken her on enough dinner dates over the years to know that. But in the past, when she'd been slim, she'd had a way of making her greed seductive: lowering those thickly curled lashes as she squeezed blood-oozing slabs of meat between her juicy lips; moaning with pleasure as she closed her eyes and sucked down mouthfuls of creamy dessert; casting sultry glances - like the one she was giving him now, as she licked rich dark lava cake from the back of her shining fork with that long, slow, slick tongue.

Ryan shuddered. Back in the day that move had been particularly sinful and sexy. Now it just made Abby's bingo wings quiver and drew attention to the plump droop of her second chin.

'Ryannn,' Abby drew the word out into a husky purr, completing her transition from petulance to seduction. 'You don't seriously want me to take one of those -huc- two... do you?'

For added effect she tried another trademark move: the slow, tit-swelling lean forward to reach for her glass of champagne. The problem was that her belly swelled even more her tits, expanding like a great golden tic that had sucked half the blood out of an elephant. It got so big that Ryan instinctively leaned back slightly, lest it explode.

...to be continued