This story is inspired by the scenario in this art piece: https://www.furaffinity.net/view/26084070/ (by  iaido)
You may wish to take a look at it before/while you read! I have changed the panther's proportions a little in the story to fit with my current vision of the character (cheeks for days), but it should give you a good sense of what I'm trying to describe.

This story is written in the second person with one of the characters being "you." Note that I am going to tell you what "you" think at times -- you're really in the head of a nameless character who does have some explicit traits (chubby, bashful), so think about it however you like. In the story, the panther isn't expressly given a name, but he's certainly supposed to be my character, Cephy.

Anyway, a sweet, extremely fat boy is taking you on a date at a fancy restaurant. He's the type who's willing to take the lead! Have fun.

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Your phone buzzes a reminder at you. It's seven o'clock! Time to get ready for your date at eight. Grinning, you quit out of your computer game, walk across your room and throw open the closet. What to wear? You thought about it earlier, but never quite decided. You don't often go to fancy restaurants, but you definitely have to dress up a bit for this. You spend a few minutes dithering before deciding to stop worrying so much. That's what your date would say, right? Bravely, you choose the summery turquoise blazer you never think it's the right time to wear, along with khakis, a white shirt and a bowtie that matches your eyes. It will do. He won't expect you to have turned into a fashion fiend overnight, surely.

As usual, you decide not to wear cologne. After all, if anyone's really interested in you, someday they're going to have to get used to smelling you without it. Why did you buy this stuff, anyway? A fit of loneliness, most likely, or a passing whim.

You step over to your full-length mirror, sizing yourself up. You look pretty good. This is working for you. You fix your fur in a couple of places. It looks like you've put on a few pounds since your first date a few weeks ago. Apparently your date has rubbed off on you a bit, but it's not a bad change for your look at all. You give the mirror your best winning smile. You've got this.

With everything squared away, you leave the house and head out to the bus stop. For whatever reason, the bus is ahead of schedule and you’re the only passenger. On your ride over to the place, you have plenty of time alone with your thoughts to get nervous excitement flowing. As you step onto the street, you remind yourself that you just need to relax and have a good time. No freezing up! Your date seems to like you, and you're quite sure you like him. Be yourself, you repeat to yourself.

All the same, you feel a twinge of hesitation at the gilded doors of Le Maison Copieux. You force yourself to enter, pulling the heavy door open and stepping into a warm sea of smells. A short, smartly dressed host-deer approaches you, and you inform him of your reservation.

"Ah, of course," he says with a light French accent. "Right this way. Your... boyfriend? is already here." He smiles genially.

"Well, we're not-- well, not yet--" Your cheeks flush at the thought of being able to call him that.

The deer is already in motion, not hearing your sputtering. You follow him up a flight of stairs while looking around at the restaurant. Everyone is well-dressed and a menagerie of waiters carry around a variety of dishes. The decor is warm, formal but not stiff, and quite romantic. Hues of gold and brown are prevalent in the drapery, which extends up to high ceilings, and the windows look out to the cute shopfronts of Main Street.

The second floor looks much the same, save for a couple of doors leading onto private balconies. To your surprise, the host leads you to one of these doors. Outside, it is getting dark, with the last vestiges of a sunset still visible in the right direction. The deer opens the door for you and retreats.

The small balcony contains a lone table. Like the others, it is adorned with a frilled white tablecloth and a lit candle. The candle has a much greater effect in the dimmer light. Unlike at the other tables, there is a red rose in a small vase on the table, and the fancy chair at the far side has been replaced with an extra-wide reinforced seat.

To the side of the table, a well and truly supersized figure stands by the railing, back to you and looking out at the lights of the town. He is wearing a white suit, stretched across his wide shoulders, bulging beneath the arms and taut at the waist and hips. A thick, black feline tail protrudes from his very ample behind, swishing idly between the two plump and clearly defined globes.

The colossal panther turns to face you as he hears the door close behind you. He smiles warmly and greets you, his voice low and sweet like a dark honey. You do your best not to be overwhelmed by the sight of him.

The panther's most obvious feature is his enormous gut, which jostles and bounces heavily as he shifts it off its resting place on the railing to face you. It extends for feet in front of where a merely round belly would end, and sloppily hangs out the bottom of his straining, surely many-X-L waistcoat. On him, what would be a tent for two becomes a snug affair that can barely get around an enormous quantity of panther girth. He has unbuttoned his suit jacket, though whether from the heat or being unable to button it you couldn't say. A suffering belt strains around his hips, its clasp not visible under that marvelously extended gut. Despite the way his fat mass impacted the outfit and doesn’t quite fit in it, he looks dignified and dapper in the white suit, an excellent match for his predominantly black fur.

As you hear a waiter entering behind you, the seriously overfed panther gestures towards your seat. Even though his seat is a few feet out, his belly is pressed uncomfortably up against the table and he winds up pushing it towards you. He is quite handsome, possessing clear, attractively masculine (if thick with blubber) features and a charming smile between two super-full cheeks that speak of a happy, hungry guy. Once you are seated, he gently settles himself in his plus-sized seat. It accommodates him well enough, though he more than fills the space, rolls of plush panther pudge extending beyond either side of the seat and stretching his waistcoat.

The waiter, not missing a beat, asks if you're ready to order, and whether you'll be having the 3-, 5-, 7- or luxurious 10-course meal. You haven't been able to look at the menu, but your date assures you you'll have time while he orders. Of course, the big guy orders ten courses. The waiter starts to turn to you, but is interrupted.

"And," the panther adds, giving you a conspiratorial look, "I'll have another 10-courser, with..."

Oh, that's why you have enough time. While the svelte blue heron waiter gracefully apologizes, you decide you'll see if you can handle 5 courses, in the spirit of the evening. As you finish deciding on the details, the waiter is finally ready for you. You list off what you want, but when you're done, you find there's still more to be done, as your feline counterpart opens his short muzzle again, showing his tongue and wickedly sharp set of teeth.

"Get a couple more!" he insists. "C'mon, enjoy yourself! It's a special occasion."

You're hungry, but you don't think you're prepared for that. Apparently, you look like the kind of guy who could normally eat five courses… are you? Still, you don't want to say no to such a lovely guy. You can always take some home, after all, or if you're lucky, maybe you can get him to "help." Not likely, with the surely impossible order he’s already made, but it’s a nice fantasy. You pick out a couple more tasty-sounding options, and the waiter departs.

"So how'd you manage to get us up here?" you ask. "I've heard it's basically impossible to get these! I'm blown away." Your date reaches the wine with some effort and smoothly pours some for each of you. Red.

"A magician never reveals his secrets," he replies cheekily, waggling his fingers. "You're looking quite well this evening."

"I guess I'm a little healthier than the last time I saw you," you say sheepishly, looking down at your stomach.

"Hah! I didn't mean it like that, but you're right, I think you've filled out a little. Good work!" You’re well aware of the panther’s preference for s preference for larger guys, and he’s entirely self-assured and confident about it.

You feel yourself blushing, but don't censor yourself. "Still not too impressive compared to you, tubby," you say, blushing harder. He won't mind that, right? He makes no secret that he’s proud of his size.

He looks pleased at the compliment, meaningfully patting his ludicrously huge belly. Its soft surface jiggles at the slightest touch, and the effect on you is hypnotic, though the tight waistcoat constrains what might have been a minute-long affair of wobbling. "Hey, there's always going to be someone better than you, or me, at almost anything," he says soothingly. "If you compare yourself to the best all the time, you'll just end up feeling bad." He says it with just a hint of smug pride, and you find yourself nodding.

"I'll just do my best," you say.

Hors d'oeuvres are served first, but the portion size is sufficient to make them substantial. You're too hungry not to go to town on your mini cheese pastries, while your dinner partner munches on one small plate of vegetable tarts and another filled with tiny sandwiches.

"Those sandwich things look really good," you say. "Can I try?"

"Of course," he says. "I'm glad you're interested. They're called croque-monsieur."

"I don't have to pronounce that to get one, do I?" you ask playfully. “My French is pretty rusty, but you’re smooth as silk.” You very much don’t mind the effect of your plus-sized dinner companion’s French.

"I was thinking about making you, but I'll take a couple pastries instead if you'd rather." He laughs, you hope with you. “And I’d expect it is, I’m a native speaker.” Finding this delightful, you make the exchange for him and he pops a pastry into his muzzle. "Ah,” he says, chewing with a thoughtful look, “I fear I should've gotten these instead of the tarts."

"You want to trade?" you ask, thinking it to be polite but hoping he won't inflict the tarts on you.

"No, no, I want you to enjoy your food," he says cheerfully. His bites are long gone by the time you finish savoring yours.

The soup course arrives in short order, presumably not needing to be made special. It's hot, savory and comforting, and you make quick work of it. The big panther has a hungry look, as though he'd like to just hold each bowl up to his muzzle and chug, but he paces himself, prim and polished.

The third course is whitefish in some sort of heavy lemon butter sauce. This is one of the courses you won’t be getting, so you spend the time conversing with and admiring your dining companion. It's not a huge portion, but it's not a super small and overly artsy presentation either. If more than a couple courses are basically a normal dinner size, you don't see how a fur could hope to get through them all without a serious gluttonous streak, and yet, the immense panther across from you attacks his double helping with glee.

You notice as he gulps the meal down that the wide load of a cat is so large as to take up the entirety of his side of the table. Even considering his size, the big cat’s face seems particularly plump. And you certainly have some experience looking at extra-large furs. His plush, jet-black cheeks look stuffed full –- like they belong on a morbidly obese chipmunk puffing them out on purpose -- even at the rare moments when his maw isn't filled with food. They’re really just that swollen with fat. You can’t help but imagine giving them a playful squeeze or even a kiss, your muzzle sinking into all that soft flesh. You wonder at his thick, prominent extra chins. Where some fat furs’ jowls might sag with softness, his are thick and plump, giving the sense that they’re the fullest and thickest they’ve ever been – this is him at his heaviest so far. As he chows through each morsel with a speed that seems to defy his slow, ponderous movements, he maintains his composure, ever the gentleman.

Courses come and go in much the same way. The whitefish is followed by a salad with exotic fruits, a good cut of steak with a sweet glaze, a light pasta dish with more of an Italian feel, a palate cleansing mushroom dish – surprisingly, so good you push your limits to get more of it down -- and a tangy and savory chicken dish. Though you sit out on the pasta and chicken courses as well, you still feel as though you might explode. No doubt the glutton-panther isn’t the only one who’ll be a few pounds heavier tomorrow, but looking at the majestic creature across from you, you don’t mind one bit if it makes this moment a little more perfect. His eyes always shimmer with pleasure each time the waiter removes the lid from another dish. Though his displays of gluttony are quite astonishing, he remains ever neat and entirely dignified, save for the occasional burp. Of course, he always excuses himself.

Finally, the dessert course comes. It’s a thick slice of sweet, perfectly balanced strawberry cake. You manage a few bites while your blimp of a companion, though finally admitting to feeling full after his eighteen plates plus a few bites from yours, gracefully but eagerly devours both his servings.

Feeling bold, you slide some of your dessert onto your fork and offer it to him, your cheeks warm from the candlelight and a blush.

“A bit closer,” he says, beckoning. You end up having to get up from your seat and walk around the table, your arm not long enough to reach across the entire table and most of his grand gut to where his muzzle can reach. He looks content to let you feed him, purring sweetly all the while. You feel content, even blissful, and you feed him a few bites to prolong the moment. From this angle, you can see black-furred belly fat peeking out from the bottom of his enormous jacket, but you resist the temptation to feel it between your paws. The gentleman panther likely doesn’t wish to be reminded that his waistcoat is too small, for propriety’s sake. Still, once he finishes your cake and you return to your seat, your mind prickles with a question that’s been burning in your mind for the better part of an hour.

“If you, um, don’t mind my asking,” you say out of habit though you know by now that he won’t, “...how did you get so fat?”

He is not taken aback by the question at all, unsurprisingly given your obvious interest in his immense size. "Well, you see," he begins, flourishing like a showman, "I once boarded a gravy train. I accidentally fell asleep and missed my stop, and by the time I got off I'd swelled up to a 700-pound fat cat!" He laughs with gusto, huge, soft rolls of flab bumping against the table.

"Wow," you say, feeling a bit stunned.

"You know there's no such thing as a gravy train, right? It's a joke!" He chuckles jovially.

"I know," you say, wondering if your nose is actually literally bleeding. "It's just, I mean, 700 pounds... I can see you're seriously, um, massive, and I would have even guessed higher than that if I’m being honest, but I didn't know the number, and knowing..." You just exhale, your fierce blush finishing the sentence for you.

"Well, that’s because I’m well over 800 now," the panther says, an adorable grin on his fat face, "I’ve just been telling that joke for a while. And I’m still very much a growing boy. Which shouldn’t be surprising, considering you just saw how much I can put away!” His sly smile shows not a hint of sheepishness.

You pass some more time in conversation. With some cajoling, you’re able to get him to talk about the business he runs for a living. It sounds like interesting enough work; he’s a clever cat and cares about keeping in shape mentally, making the day-to-day interesting, as much as he’s deliberately avoiding being in physical shape. He mentions that he thinks his size is useful at one of his two “projects” because it’s physically intimidating, gives him the biggest presence in any room, and proves he’s quite successful. He seems to enjoy throwing his figurative weight around as a negotiator, and uses his comforting, calm demeanor to help people in the other project.

Finally, the waiter returns with the check, which he delivers to your companion. It’s all handled without you having so much as a chance to discover the cost.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to pay half?” you ask, knowing he’ll refuse. In some regards, he’s exactly the type of gentleman he dresses like.

“Please, don’t worry about it,” he says genuinely. “The whole point of coming here was to treat you to something nice. You deserve it for being so sweet.”

“That’s the whole reason? No ulterior motive at all?”

“Alright, yes, the point was also to glut myself on so much fancy cuisine I’ll go up a belt notch,” he says, and you notice that at some point he’s unbuckled it for comfort, “but I do that all the time. This was special, and I wanted you to be here with me, talk, and watch.”

“...Thank you.”

“Shall we go?”

You take him by the paw and head back into the restaurant, downstairs and out the front. The host bids you a polite good evening before you step out into Main Street.

You exit behind the huge cat and treat yourself to another look at his wide and curvaceous figure. What should be an enormously plump rump is downright proportional as part of the ensemble, his shoulders broader than the biggest jock’s and his massively excessive girth spilling out in all directions to form obvious thick back rolls even under the suit, love handles thicker than your thunder thighs and a soft, blubbery belly that, as you come to stand by his side, you can witness extends feet in front of him and down much of the way to his knees. You tear your eyes away and look up at his face. He’s noticed you looking and is smiling knowingly. His cheeks and chins seem to wobble from any movement at all.

“So you had a good time, right?” you ask, finally breaking the silence.

“Of course. I’d love to go on another date with you.” A black car pulls around the corner and he says, “That’s me.”

You don’t want to part, but begrudgingly let go of his paw.

“Unless you’d like a ride home?”

Your ears perk up. “That would be great!” you exclaim. The driver, a tall, middle-aged wolf, holds the door open for your companion, who is just barely able to get in with grace and no need to squeeze. You go around the other side and get in. The more-than-double-wide panther blimp takes up much of the back seat and you’re not exactly svelte yourself, but you fit and you’re not terribly fussed if you press against his soft flab a little. You tell the driver where to take you, then talk quietly with your date. You feel a drowsy and relaxed, likely the beginning of a serious food coma.

When you arrive, the panther hefts himself out of the car along with you.

“My tailor is busy, but he’s the best,” he’s saying, finishing your conversation. “I have an appointment tomorrow. It seems I need to see him even more often, given how quickly I’ve been bursting seams lately.”

You stand facing one another on the street, a slight drizzle dampening the air and sidewalk. He smiles at you.

“That was lovely, and I’m excited to see you again,” he says. His golden eyes have a tantalizing glimmer to them. Pretty eyes, too! Some guys have all the luck.

“Me too,” you reply. Without overthinking it, you lean in for a kiss, but between his huge gut and your being slightly shorter than him, you can’t easily reach without invading his personal space. The big cat pulls you in against his soft belly and allows you to lock muzzles for a moment – just a proper kiss, but tantalizing all the same. After another meaningful look, you wish each other good night and he returns to the car.

As your boyfriend is driven into the night, you can only think of where you’ll go together next.