Story: The Cleaner Returns. Chapters 49-50.

by BigBird74

In the modern world, time is becoming an increasingly rare commodity and not just for those sitting atop society’s pyramid. Think of those among us who simply never have time for themselves, for example the small army of cleaners and manual workers whose days breeze by in a blur of simple tasks that keep them constantly busy. Even so, you may say, surely it would be possible to devote even half of one’s attention to something as important as literally handing one’s life to another? The gravity of situation facing Dahlia would no doubt have commanded the attention of most people. But, from the moment she walked out of her sister’s room that fateful day to when she started packing her ‘luggage’ for the trip back to the outside world, Dahlia seemed unable or unwilling to contemplate just what was about to happen.

As per usual in this sordid tale, initial appearances can be deceiving. You see, Dahlia had spent months training herself not to think much at all. After all one of the reasons she found herself in this mess was because she thought too much. Her imagination, always vivid and colourful, went hand-in-hand with an intense sensitivity that had sparked those early doubts about her self-worth. Unable to let go of her worries, Dahlia’s anxieties had grown and she found herself fuelling a debilitating cycle that had led all the way to the psychologist’s couch.

Breaking that spiral was why she had found herself in this clinic in the first place. Her menial work had provided a great amount of solace, as she learned to enjoy the peace of mind those moments gave her, so far removed from the usually hectic pace she lived at. In those first days at the clinic, she had literally trained herself to empty her mind, developing her ability to still her thoughts and bring on the inner peace she craved so badly. Once her steely self-discipline was deployed to the task, she found herself going minutes without an unwanted thought entering her head. With time, she perfected the technique of using diversionary thoughts – simple things like listing the foods she liked to eat or how dreamy the doctor was – to occupy her increasingly sluggish mind.

Given the time and space to train, she found that her concerns simply melted away. It went a long way to explaining why she found herself unwilling, or perhaps unable, to react when she started bulking up. As her thighs, hips and belly rounded out and then dropped, along with her fattening breasts, she simply used her training to shelve her worries. After all, she would tell herself, she was going to meet the doctor soon and he seemed to adore her this way. There was no concern. She had been here a month already and she had all the time in the world. There was no need to worry. I wonder what is for dinner? I must clean this floor. I want to do this right – and so on.

And so it went on for all these months until her ability to cast aside unwelcome thoughts had become the norm and not a choice. Whenever a stray idea cast a ripple of fear through her, Dahlia would distract herself. Increasingly this took the form of excessive eating and Dahlia was rarely to be found without something to snack on. Indeed in those two days, she found herself eating more than ever, taking comfort from the positive feelings it gave her. The irony of the situation eluded her: at the very moment she needed to be reducing her weight, she was heading in exactly the opposite direction.

When she was unable to eat and found herself alone, she resorted to another, increasingly favoured trick. In the hours after that shocking revelation with her sister, she had found solace and comfort in pleasuring herself, as the resulting waves of euphoria, like a drug, had gradually eased her fears. Her body frequently felt on fire from the pulses of shame and degradation that would surge within her. And it felt so good as she spread her thighs and released all those pent-up emotions in a moment of ecstatic release. Yes! The doctor did know her. He was right! She did need this. Why be scared all the time? Why live life fearing what tomorrow brings? As Dahlia she had never let herself live freely. But now. Now as Petra she could.

And so it went for the next two days, until suddenly Ms Nechita informed the fat, gluttonous cleaner that she was heading back to Hilltop. It took Dahlia a few moments to understand what this entailed. She was a little like a programmed robot now when it came to Ms Nechita’s orders. Typically she only needed to say something like “Toilets, second floor, now” and Dahlia knew everything she needed to complete the task to perfection. So, when the mature housekeeper found it necessary to repeat herself and Dahlia realised she had run out of time, she was left dumbstruck. What should she say? Nothing came to mind. Her mind, so sharp just a few months ago, was left hanging, unable to muster a worthwhile thought. After a moment’s pause, she chose merely to curtsy and nod. “Yes Miss Nechita”.

Dahlia spent the next half an hour collecting together the few items she now possessed. For a world-famous supermodel, it really was a massive comedown. Other than the millions in the bank and the luxury lifestyle it afforded, all of which technically belonged to Dahlia Western, ‘Petra’ possessed nothing more than two cheap polyester dresses (one of which she had on), a pair of flat black working shoes, her thick-rimmed glasses, an old watch given to her by Ms Nechita, a few pairs of very large granny pants and parachute bras and, finally, a toothbrush and hairbrush.

Waddling to the front door and clutching a plastic bag containing her ‘luggage’, Dahlia was surprised when Ms Nechita abruptly said her goodbyes to her.

“Remember all you have learned here, Petra. I do wish we had more time together, to properly finish what we began, but Ms Western knows better,” she said somewhat coolly. Dahlia’s sister was already in the limousine about to whisk them back to Hilltop and ‘real’ life. For the first and only time Dahlia could recall, Ms Nechita reached out and stroked her arm in a friendly, caring fashion. “I will be returning to Romania. I have no need to stay here now,” her mind already faraway, somewhere closer to home, no doubt distracted by the payout promised upon completion of this ‘project’.

Dahlia felt confused by the contrasting emotions this news had brought out in her. Ms Nechita was one of only three people that knew who she really was and what had happened. If she was to leave the country now, that would leave only the doctor and her sister who knew the ‘truth’. That made her pause for a moment. Fear and shame once again engulfed her, leaving her unable to think straight and divine just how serious a development this was. For, despite all that had happened, she still did not truly feel trapped inside Petra. Instead of a healthy dose of fear that might have aroused her to action, she once again pushed the fearful consequences from her mind, choosing instead to focus on her arousal, flushing brightly as she caught a reflection of herself in the doorway and saw once more a reminder of her new body and status.

This explains how Dahlia found herself running out of time that morning, as she stepped into the limousine that was to return her and her sister back to real life, leaving this fairy tale behind. For the first time in a long time, Dahlia found herself alone with her sister. Seated next to one another, the pair found themselves unable to spark up a conversation, opting instead to alternatively looking inside the car and out of the window, desperately avoiding eye contact.

For Dahlia, this constituted a mild form of torture. She wanted to stare long and hard at her sister. She was desperate to identify some way that she was less perfect than she had been. Could it be that Melissa had truly surpassed her? Was she just as beautiful as Dahlia had ever been? From her furtive glimpses, she was able to see that she was dressed expensively, as one would expect from a model of Dahlia’s status. Her knee-length silk dress and high heeled pumps elongated her smooth legs and exaggerated the perfect curvature of her Athena-like body to display everything she now had and that Dahlia had lost. The symbolism was not lost on Dahlia. In the privacy of the limousine, partitioned safely away from the driver, they were each lost in their own worlds. One very much on the rise, the other following a mirror image downwards. Melissa did not seem interested in her sister. And why would she? She could not understand what peculiar sexual impetus drove her sister, nor why she had been so keen to surrender everything in the way she had. All she kept thinking was that her sister had better not try to ruin things for her. Now was her time to shine! Her place in the sun, while Dahlia could slink off to the shadows, where she had once been trapped. Still, she remained on edge, unable to relax or enjoy her triumph. So much hinged on the events of the next few days and completing Dahlia’s transformation into Petra was most prominent among them.

It was only as the car neared the dreary outskirts of Barton that Melissa deigned to speak to her sister. “You will be getting out at the end of the High Street. You have an appointment at Durrand’s”.

It took a moment for Dahlia to catch what her sister had said. She had been deep in thought. The name Durrand was familiar to her and she had to wrack her brains to recall when she had heard it before. “Your… hairdresser?” Dahlia asked cautiously.

“Be careful Petra,” Melissa scowled at her. “You do ANYTHING to give the game away and I will reveal the truth about what you have become.” Her beautiful face twisted into an unattractive scowl. That shook Dahlia: partly because of the threat implicit in what she said, but also because, for a moment, she stopped seeing a reflection of herself in Melissa and saw only her sister’s bitterness. It provided another layer of doubt forming at the back of her mind. She meekly nodded and lowered her head.

“They are expecting you. You will introduce yourself as Petra and say that Miss Western sent you.” She paused for effect before reiterating her threat. “You mess this up for me and I swear you will be so sorry.” With that she reached inside her clutch purse and pulled out a fifty Euro note. “This will cover it all.” 

 

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