Story: The Cleaner Returns. Chapters 34-35.

by BigBird74

Everyone that is fat was thin at some point. Dahlia had often wondered what exactly ran through their minds as they got progressively bigger. Did they see it happening? Did they not panic when their bodies started changing shape? Now she was gaining weight, Dahlia could understand a little better, though not completely. For the mind plays tricks on us all.

Those who successfully undertake a strict diet usually regress at some point as the body uses a variety of tricks to restore those suppressed habits, pulling away at a person’s subconscious. As Dahlia had long known, it takes an iron will to remain on top of things and keep one’s bad habits bottled up. Soften that up and one thing is certain, a person’s other desires will take hold.

Weight gain also tends to creep up on its victims. All is fine till one day you find a favourite dress is tight around the waist or hips. These were the thoughts running inside Dahlia’s head the morning we re-join her, as she prepared for the long day ahead. When we last encountered Dahlia, she was spending her days as Petra busy in the clinic, cleaning and attending to her duties around the large, converted country house. At the end of the day, she would return to her room where she would undress and reclaim her identity as Dahlia. A couple of days into this routine things were shaken up when it was suggested that she change rooms and go and stay instead in the servant’s quarters on the top floor. Despite some misgivings, Dahlia agreed, convinced that it would speed her ‘recovery’ by embedding herself deeper in what she imagined was the reality of being Petra.

While Dahlia’s room had been basic, it was large, bright and airy, with a private bathroom. Petra’s room, meanwhile, was small, barely furnished with a tiny window that overlooked the courtyard. It also had no washing facilities of its own, a shared bathroom at the end of the corridor deemed good enough for cleaning staff. Situated in the roof, the lack of windows robbed the room of nearly all daylight. Not that this was a problem as Petra spent her days busily consumed with her growing list of duties. While feeling particularly tired in her first weeks at the clinic, she had now grown used to the physical demands of her new role and had learnt how to manage all that bending over, carrying and crawling about, so that she did not over exert herself.

Perhaps it was the fact that her new room had no mirror in it, but Dahlia paid less and less attention to her appearance. On top of being too exhausted to bother looking after herself, the difficulties entailed in using a shared bathroom also proved off-putting. Like the rest of the servants’ quarters, it too was small, pokey and uninviting with worn-out fixtures and fittings. All the while, Ms Nechita was encouraging her to not worry, reminding her that no-one here was judging her for her looks and that her old beauty regime had been wildly excessive. Besides, she convinced herself, it would come as a relief to drop the tiresome routine - this experience would not last forever and she needed to make the most of it, living as one of the faceless masses. A little like hiding in plain sight, Dahlia obsessed about letting her Petra persona eclipse her completely, obscuring her ‘normal’ self. The weight gain was a part of this, but also other little changes in her beauty regime.

Despite a slight lingering sense of anxiety, the dropping her morning and evening routine was confusing and arousing in equal part. Deprived of all cosmetics, clippers and razors, she could literally feel herself changing. The sight of fine hairs growing on her legs, groin and under her armpits was oddly thrilling, as though she was losing her identity as Dahlia that little more. Her life as a supermodel was one dedicated to beauty and fitness. Petra represented a 180-degree turnaround in everything that identified her. She found herself not washing her hair for several days at a time, bunching her greasy locks in a tight, functional bun that fitted under her wig. Dahlia comforted herself that none of this was permanent, that it was all reversible and transitory. The same could not be said of her weight gain.

Though she could tell that her belly was fuller and more rounded, she really had no way of gauging by how much. Deprived of mirrors and her old clothing, she was unsure how much damage she had inflicted on her perfect figure. She sought comfort in telling herself it could not be that much that, it was all reversible and she would get a grip on it later. Also, her working dress seemed only a little tighter than the day she first tried it on. All the while she kept in mind why she was there, finding a great deal of peace and comfort in the routine that had been established around her. Eating what she wanted was a big part of that. The unusual pleasure she felt fluttering within her as she overate helped her ignore the warning signs gathering at her door, like when she bent over and felt her belly like a round, heavy pudding or her breasts hang down more fully than before. Her face was definitely rounding out now and she saw a small double chin form whenever she pressed her jaw to her neck. Still the pangs of anxiety she felt when thinking of her growing bulk were never enough to make her stop. She wanted to feel good and her life of routine normality – as she imagined it – gave her that. The fact that the doctor’s amorous advances seemed only to be getting stronger also helped. She trusted him and knew he was acting in her best interests. He made it plain that she needed to ‘get better’ and if she left here early, people would likely judge it a ‘failure’ potentially ruining her career.

That was all that mattered: getting better and following the doctor’s instructions. She felt better with every passing day and wanted more time here, so she had agreed immediately with the doctor’s request to extend her stay for a fortnight and then another month. Not that she took much persuading. Dahlia was head-over-heels in love and was thrilled by the doctor’s attentions. She really had no idea that, in reality, his interest in her was based on a kinky fetish for what he was doing to her. His sense of power and control over the supermodel, an intoxicating and dangerous ride that only got faster and more thrilling as the weeks passed and he watched her changing form.

After a dozen weeks at the clinic, despite a mild sense of disorientation, Dahlia felt safe and cossetted. The near breakdown she had suffered also seemed a faraway memory. Like something in a past life that she no longer needed to contend with. Any recollection of her ‘normal’ life filled Dahlia with dread, a shudder of fear rippling all the way up her spine, prompting her to sink herself deeper into her chores and new persona. In all her time here, her contacts had been limited to only Ms Nechita and the doctor, her world shrinking dramatically to a small, controlled environment that held her in a kind of suspended animation. Little did she know that was about to change.

That morning, as Dahlia made her way to the store room to collect some items for her work, she noticed that the door to her old room was open. Peering cautiously inside, she saw that it had been cleared and tidied of all the debris that had collected there.  

Ms Nechita caught the cleaner dallying. “What are you doing Petra? You have your duties.”

Turning to face Ms Nechita, instinctively she bowed her head. “Sorry Ma’am, I was just curious to see.”

Dismissively, the mature woman carried on her mild rebuke. “We have a new guest arriving in the next week. You will be looking after her during her stay.”

Nodding, Dahlia’s cheeks flushed brightly, “and Ms Western? She has gone?”

“For now, yes. She has not been seen for some weeks and it was thought that the room could be put to better use.” As Ms Nechita spoke of Dahlia missing it made ‘Petra’ throb with shame and sexual tension. The flush in her cheeks obvious to anyone close by.

Ms Nechita proceeded to make it crystal clear the importance of the new guest and that Petra would need to clean her room at a set time every day. The thought of adding another person to the setup at the clinic filled Dahlia with unease. What if she was recognised? What if this person discovered the truth?

Ms Nechita had expected such a reaction to this little test. If Dahlia were to achieve her unsaid goal of being ‘invisible’ or experiencing life as Petra more fully, she would need to get comfortable with everyone seeing her this way. This would be easier than Dahlia initially feared. Though suspecting she had put on a bit of extra weight, Dahlia had no idea of just how much. The removal of all mirrors from her room and the places in which she worked had helped to keep her in the dark. Meanwhile the slow, calculated introduction of appetite stimulants and growing portions had shielded Dahlia from comprehending just how profound the changes in her behaviour had been. She was not just eating a bit too much now, but was gorging on large portions, perhaps three or four times what was needed to retain her lithe model frame. Just as she was losing track of what she should be eating, Dahlia had also been purposefully misled by the fact that her working dress, which seemed a little tight, was in fact a two sizes larger, swapped in the dead of night, as she slept soundly. Deprived of all signposts and markers, Dahlia had totally lost track of her body size and appetite. The reality was obvious to those around her, but Dahlia, confused, disoriented and still within the doctor’s comforting grasp, had no firm idea of the changes underway in her body.

Dahlia’s previous fitness regime still influenced her appearance. It takes some time for a well-trained body to deteriorate. The layers of toned muscle had been holding in the new body mass, retaining some semblance of her former figure. Of course, to Ms Nechita and the doctor, while her weight gain was totally apparent, she still looked like a chubby version of her old self. The coming stages would rob her of her identity as she moved from being slightly overweight to grossly overweight and, finally, obese.

Even now, with her wig and glasses on, no-one would mistake her for Dahlia Western unless they looked at her especially closely. She was bordering on fat and, with her disguise, looked very ordinary. It would be easy to imagine her passing anonymously in public, but with her wig and glasses removed, you could see she retained her beauty. Her face was still perfect, if rounded out. Her glorious mane of hair was greasy and lank, but that could be corrected. For Dahlia to be truly a ‘nobody,’ some more, profound steps needed to be taken that would either make or break the supermodel. 

 

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