Disclaimer: Seeing as how I do not expect my audience to know French, I have set all dialogue that should be read as French in italics.  So just imagine, transform, translate the English italics into French words.  

The Eiffel Tower pointed at the sky with all the subtlety of a princess’s tower.  Women like Aureole Baker flocked from millions and millions of miles around to stand under it, gawk, and fantasize.  If they were locked away up there by some disgruntled king, princes would have to come.  Princes would have to scale the tower barehanded, the wind whipping their blond bowl cuts.  The thrill of the challenge facing the princes, stirring up their adrenaline and blood would short circuit their brains, so no matter who they saw when they reached the top they would fall instantly in love.  

That’s what the classic psych experiment says.  Put a man in a life threatening situation, for instance a drawbridge over a thousand mile drop.  Make him meet an attendant, a woman preferably, on the other side.  Have her give him a survey and her number, in case he has any further questions.  Wait for the phones to go ringing off the hooks.  

People delight in danger.  You have to put something on the line to get their attention otherwise you’re just another face in the crowd -- Aureole thought as she rummaged in her backpack for her camera.  Where was it?  Setting the backpack on the pavement, she took a knee to dig deeper.  Her shin-high light brown galoshes wouldn’t quite bend at the toe and her skin-tight jeans impaired her knee bend somewhat, but she got a hold of the strap to her camera bag and pulled.  The camera bag dangled victorious from her wrist.  

She brought her other hand across to unzip the bag when she realized that her student exchange friends that she so desperately needed to take profile pictures of her in front of the Eiffel Tower had disappeared.  Hesitating, she held her hand on the zipper.  Do I know how to get back?  She put her hands in the backpack, the camera bag dangling from her wrist.  A wallet, a sunglass case, a couple of scrunchies she turned over with her hands until she got hold of her map.  Mind at ease, she left the map where it lay.  If I’m going to be put in a situation like this, I might as well take advantage of it.  My French skills need the practice.  And if I have to I can fall back on the map.  Just in case.   

Having unzipped the camera bag, turned on her pink touch screen camera, and risen to her feet, Aureole searched for the best place to snap pictures of her and the Eiffel Tower.  She walked far enough away from the Tower to get all of it in frame.  To take the photo she directed the camera at her and the landmark.  Guesstimating her location relative to the landmark, she shimmied to the side, so everyone could see where she had been.  She smiled and said cheese.  

After she took the photo, she consulted it.  The photo’s gray skies foretold rain.  The resulting moisture in the air was not doing wonders for her long brown hair.  She was giving the camera too much teeth.  Her nose looked too big.  And even her dark blue winter jacket couldn’t hide the fact that she was flat chested.  She adjusted the angle of her shot, so she could only be seen from the neck up.  Through restrained lips, she said cheese.        

Again she checked her photo.  Satisfied, she took a few more before slipping the camera in the bag and dropping the bag in her backpack.  I don’t have to worry about anyone’s schedules.  There is no place that I need to be.  I think I’ll just wander around and window shop until I get hungry.  She passed tres elegante clothing shops, outdoor cafés, and Parisian boys with tender eyes, well-combed hair, and generous biceps.  

Areole had had a boyfriend back in the States.  She had treasured his innocence: it had taken him a month just to ask her if he could hold her hand.  And once he had held it, he wanted to do it again and again.  Not long after, he had turned as clingy as an addict.  Long love letters he had e-mailed her which she hadn’t known how to respond to, so she hadn’t.  When she did break up with him, he had bawled and bawled.  She had remained strong.  

Together they had seemed like an odd couple anyway at six feet and one hundred twenty pounds each.  She had always been trim and fit.  Her parents had pushed her to be a gymnast at an early age.  What she had gained in flexibility and muscle, she had lost in curviness.  Her hips had retained that slight womanly swell.  But the slopes of her breasts and buttocks had atrophied.  

The Parisian boys didn’t look her way.  And she was convinced that even if she back handsprung down the sidewalk, segued into a three hundred and sixty degree corkscrew, landed in a handstand, she wouldn’t get their eyes on her.  

Her boyfriend had been obsessed with weight gain himself.  He had cycled through a diet of raw eggs and Dunkin’ Donuts with no results.  What had he seen in her if he couldn’t stomach his own lack of weight?  Companionship?  A mirror image?  Neither had dared to suggest sex.  Areole had broken her hymen not with him but a gym mat.    

All the talk about gaining weight had never sunk into Areole.  It was an annoyance that she stowed away and, if necessary, sidestepped.  She dressed fashionable and judged others by the same criterion.  It didn’t matter if a Parisian boy had a six pack or a pair of burgeoning pecs.  If the Parisian boy couldn’t bother to sculpt his hair, shave, and wear a collared shirt, she wouldn’t look their way either.  She especially didn’t take a glance at whatever they were packing in their pants.    

Puffy Pastry Shop, the sign, on the window beside her, read.  Rows and rows of croissants, cinnamon rolls, eclairs, and creme puffs filled the window’s shelves.  The door to the shop opened, and a woman in a low cut peasant dress and a red-faced man passed in front of Areole.  

Large milk white cleavage pressed against the woman’s top.  There dark spots were starting to form.  A hint of brown nipple was becoming visible.  As Areole was noticing this, the man raised his hand, Areole thought, to cover the top’s growing transparency.  

But instead he began to fondle.  He continued, increasing his speed and force, even bringing his other hand in to help, until the breasts flopped out.  Without the top’s support, the breasts, buoyant and proud, surged from her chest.  The woman was lost in the pleasure as the man leaned in to kiss and suckle the milking nipple.  The woman’s hand were heading for the bottom of her dress when, cheeks blushing and ears red with embarrassment, Areole put a hand over her eyes.  

She spread her fingers enough to find the door to the shop.  I’ve seen Americans with more modesty than those Europeans.  Woman’s clothes in New York may be scandalous but, at least, no one is having sex in the streets.   An antique bell rang as she entered the shop.  Once inside, she glanced back out the window to find that the man and woman had disappeared.  I guess they got a room like they should have in the first place.  

“Can I help you, mademoiselle?” the server asked.  Areole turned to the voice and discovered it belonged to a plain teenage girl with black hair and glasses.  Areole walked to the front counter, set her backpack down, and read the chalkboard where all the special items were written in:

Double Stuffed Eclair (neon pink chalk) - for those who like to have a mouth full

Chocolate Creme Puff (neon yellow chalk) - for those who like sweet surprises  

See Yourself Cinnamon Roll (neon blue chalk) - for those who like to be flexible

Criss Cross Croissant (neon orange chalk) - for those who like a little of both

Staring at the chalkboard, Areole pondered.  What’s with these names and descriptions?  Did I walk into a cafe of New York hipsters or better yet one of mystical wizards?  Someone had a lot of fun trying to write a poetic spell book.  I should play along, get something special.  When in Rome.  No, when in Paris.  The Double Stuffed and the Deep Fried I can rule out since I want to be able to walk afterwards.  And I’m already flexible enough, so I’ll go with the Chocolate Creme Puff.  

Areole parted her chapped lips, “Excuse moi, could I have one Chocolate Creme Puff?”  

“Yes, of course, right away.”  The server rang up the purchase.  Areole handed her the cash and the server passed Areole a massive white plate.  The Chocolate Creme Puff took up an eighth of it.  Areole carried it to a wooden table.  The wood creaked as she pulled out the chair.  

She set the plate on the table.  She sat.  Three fans lazily twirled the shop’s air.  

“They didn’t give me a fork,” she mumbled to herself.  I guess it’s small enough that it won’t be impolite to eat with my hands.  She shifted out of her jacket’s sleeves and shed the jacket on the chair’s back.  In her purple turtleneck, baby blue scarf wound round her neck, Areole leaned forward in her seat, took hold of the pastry, and lifted it to her lips.  

She took a small bite.  But when she bit into it, it leaked chocolate creme from its sides.    

To prevent any of the chocolate creme from spilling, she inhaled more of the pastry.  Who wanted to return a messy chocolate plate?  The whole action reminded her of her boyfriend’s voracious donut consumption.  He would knock back half a dozen in a sitting without a care as to what he was doing to his blood pressure, to his ability to get his penis hard. 

Did I just think that?  She gulped.  What do I care about his ability to procreate?  If I feel the need, I can just do the splits in my gymnastic spandex.  Spreading my vaginal lips to the cool mat...that is my anatomy.  Stuffed in these jeans...is it getting stuffy in here?  

By this time, she had leaned in so far that her buttocks was no longer in the chair and she was unconsciously sucking out the creme from the pastry just as the red-faced man sucked out the milk from the tits of the woman in the low cut peasant dress. 

It did not take long for Areole’s skin-tight jeans to tear.  They tore down her pant leg as her thighs and calfs swelled to stripper size.  She would need them to support her expanding ass.  

The back of her skin-tight jeans split at the ass crease, revealing her frilly pink boyshorts and exposing her vagina and asshole to the pastry shop’s air conditioning.

As her ass swelled into a teardrop shape, the tear at the ass of the skin-tight jeans grew larger until most of the jeans no longer had any attachment to Areole and everything below her waist simply fell away.  The only clue that they had ever been on her was a snug ring of jean material sitting atop her ass.  It couldn’t slide down her now prominent and curvaceous ass.  But then her hip bones widened, and the button holding this ring of jean to her shot off, and nothing remained except the boyshorts which were digging into her ass.  

One hand holding the pastry to her lips, Areole sent the other to remedy the discomfort downstairs.  With one strong pull, she ripped away the boyshorts and politely rubbed at her pussy to the thoughts of the giant phallus that the Eiffel Tower represented.  She rocked into her hand with a rocking horse’s knack for poise and predictability.  

Her milk white tower of childhood fantasies held strong to her mind.  The princes, climbing the Eiffel Tower, were trying to keep their cartoonish, red hot, ready to blow cocks from brushing the railing.  They couldn’t, however, stop the pre cum from leaking.  The princesses, tits squashed on the Eiffel Tower’s railing, looked down and worked their manicured nails between their pussy lips.  Pussy juice trailed down their thighs, soaked their dresses, and pooled on the floor.  

Shoving the chair back, Areole stood and bent at the hips, sticking her ass in the air and placing her face closer to the plate.  Her masturbating hand was beginning to get plain rude, putting fingers in her ass and pussy where clearly they did belong.  And her ass must have picked up some multicultural language as it wobbled with a mind of its own.  She would feel the ass fat fly up and fall so light.  Tight ass muscles.    

The turtleneck was getting constricting.  There was a weight on her chest that she had not known before.  She thrust herself a few times at the table to see if she could get rid of it, each time driving her hand farther and farther in her holes.  The weight swayed with her, sliding her erect nipples up and down, side to side on the fabric of the turtleneck.  She couldn’t take the agitation any longer and she came.

The orgasm presented her with a moment of clarity.  Tilting her head toward her breasts, she watched in erotic fascination as her tits ripped away the turtleneck.  From this angle, she could see her hair had turned jet black, both on her head and on a small triangle above her pussy.        

She unsnapped her bra.  She put her fingers on her as large as Hershey kisses nipples and twisted the knobs.  Two streams of milk leaked on the table.  The nipples were draining but she could see her tits were still growing.  They did not stop until each one matched the circumference of the plate and her nipples were the size of cookies.  

Still recovering, she placed her tits on the table and breathed.  That was one hell of a creme puff.  I’ve left gymnastics forever and I passed Disney Princess territory somewhere in the last five minutes.  Rappers are going to be looking for me to shake my ass in their next video.  One of those video vixens.  With her tits and face planted on the table, she gave her ass a jiggle.  My adventure’s just taken an explosive turn.  

“Did you enjoy our services, mademoiselle?”  Areole looked up, through the tangle of her black hair, to see the mousy server standing over her.  She was popping a serious boner.  Areole could see it through the server’s apron.  I guess that explains the Criss Cross Croissant.  

“Yes, won’t you have other attendants to serve?”  The words flowed effortlessly out of Areole’s mouth.  She had never spoke French with such confidence.  

The server withdrew a set of keys from her apron then pocketed them.  “Your transformation got me so excited.  I had to lock up.”  She started to stroke her erect cock through the apron.  “If you don’t mind working off my steam I won’t get you pregnant.  You can see for yourself.”

“I trust you.  A ball less cock can’t be any weirder than the ghetto booty I’m sporting.”  Areole’s ass jiggled confirmation.  

Lifting the apron over her head, the server said, “So this is ok with you?”

“It will be my first time.  But I am in Paris.  Aren’t I?  And this may be all the adrenaline speaking but I can’t imagine any one better to break me in.”

Having shuffled out of her pants, shirt, and underwear, the server revealed a seven inch long cock.  There were no balls.  She worked her hand up and down the shaft as she replied, “I can’t tell you this is my first time.  But I am honored to be your first one.  My name is Marléne.  Might I know who I have the pleasure of fucking?”

“Areole.”

“An interesting name.  It seems to fit you better now.”

“Very funny.”

Marléne positioned herself at Areole’s backside.  She warned, “Alright, get ready.  This may get a little rocky.”  Areole took hold of either side of the table and tensed for entry.  Marléne slid her cock into Areole’s vagina.  She began pushing into Areole, but Areole didn’t push back.  “You may want to loosen up a little.”

Areole lifted her hands from the table.  She didn’t know where to put them, so she placed them on her tits.  The sensations overtook her, and she massaged her tits while Marléne picked up speed.  Her ass started talking to the dick, setting everything in motion.  Areole’s leaking milk on the table.  Marléne’s moaning in ecstasy.  Areole’s twisting her head to make eye contact with Marléne.  The connection drove both of them over the edge.  They came in joy.  

Leaning on Areole’s back, Marléne breathed to the beat of her lover’s breath.  Areole burped.  A small string of chocolate goo stuck itself out of Areole’s mouth, looked around, and then slipped back in.  What the fuck?  How much more can I dream?  

You’re not dreaming.  

Well, of course, I didn’t need to be reminded of that.  

I am your Chocolate Creme Puff.  I will be here to give you anything you need.

All my clothes are gone.  How about some of those?

As you say.  

Black latex spread across Areole’s tits.  Once her tits were drawn tight to her, the latex covered her stomach and ass, but it left room for Marléne’s cock.  The latex also left open a pattern of diamond sized holes on either of Areole’s sides.  

Thank you.  

It’s the best I can do for you, the one who gave me life.  

Ok, I’ll talk to you when I wake up.  

Where will Paris take Areole next?  What are the chocolate creme puff’s powers?  Does Marléne know anything at all?  

Find out next time on Creme Puff.