Story: The Cleaner Returns. Chapters 36-37.

by BigBird74

Dahlia kept one eye on her former room over the next few days to see if and when the new patient would arrive. Meanwhile her daily routine continued: up at 6.30am; breakfast at 7.30; cleaning until 11.30, when she stopped to eat lunch; cleaning until 4.30pm; and free time till 6.00, when she had her evening meal. The routine was so entrenched that deviating from it, even for a few minutes, proved unsettling for her. Dahlia’s rigid nature went hand-in-hand with her iron will, which in turn explained how she had maintained her low calorie diet and exercise regime for so long. Now her focus had changed and she was instead sticking diligently to her timetable of cleaning while looking forward to her three large meals.

It felt good eating, repeatedly filling herself to the brim and achieving a forbidden sense of fullness. This was not without cost. As her appetite expanded, Dahlia found she had to eat more to gain the same satisfaction. While heavier, more calorific foods sated her growing hunger more than others, she only felt truly happy when her belly pressed outwards, tight against her cheap polyester dress. Only in this bloated state did she feel like she feel ‘right’, sensing that she was investing herself fully into her role as Petra and making the most of her treatment.

Still, for the past few days, her overeating had stepped up a level. The fact that a new guest would see her – albeit dressed as Petra – worried Dahlia. Voicing her fears to Ms Nechita, Dahlia was reassured by the mature housekeeper that the new guest would never recognise her in her wig, glasses and uniform. Naturally Ms Nechita was careful not to mention the substantial layer of fat now surrounding her body, which was threatening to burst at the seams and render her utterly unrecognisable whether she wore her disguise or not.

Over the past few days, Dahlia had noticed how her relationship with Ms Nechita had changed. Perhaps the older woman was accepting the former model as an equal, a co-worker. Maybe she no longer felt threatened by the vastly more beautiful Dahlia Western, now that she was an increasingly fat and unadventurous non-entity called Petra. Whatever it was, Dahlia was struck by a warming in their relations and a growing sense of camaraderie. The last person Dahlia would have characterised as a close female friend was back in high school, in the years before she was discovered and thrust into the limelight. After that point, she found maintaining friendships a challenge. Sure, a steady flow of male admirers always seemed available but, in terms of female friends, nothing. There had been colleagues and contemporaries, but no-one she felt she could truly unburden her thoughts to.

Other than the odd, distorted reflection in a window she passed, Dahlia had not seen herself for weeks and still thought of herself as that supermodel that had won ‘figure of the year’ four years running. The model that was the face of Anonymous perfume. The model used to being congratulated for her natural beauty. It had all been so easy, come so naturally, but the cost to her mental health had been high. The pressures of stardom had long weighed down on Dahlia, but her experiences at the clinic were revealing just how lonely she had been too.

Perhaps the fear of being recognised explained why, in the days leading up to the new guest’s admission, Dahlia suddenly started to eat more. Was she now conditioned to find too much comfort in her food? Was she trying to hide her identity further, convinced she had put on only a little weight and thinking that a touch more would help her disguise? Surely she could sense how heavy she was now getting, how it was proving more difficult to ascend the stairs? The power we all possess to delude ourselves was abundantly clear in her behaviour at that moment and signalled to those watching just how deeply Dahlia’s subconscious had embraced her new role. But more than that, it also presented a shocking display of how her isolation was fuelling her cravings for degradation and humiliation. How she would react later, once everything was in its final place, was still an open question. But she showed few signs of resisting her decline.

As she cleaned what had been her former room, she found herself daydreaming about the symbolism of what she was doing. She imagined herself as a plain and ordinary cleaner busily tidying the room of a famous celebrity. No-one would imagine she herself could ever have been famous, a beauty known the world over for her captivating looks. As she reached under the bed and found herself crawling on all fours trying to reach underneath, the pulsing between her thighs made her stop. She paused for a while and then sat with her back against the far side of the bed, her thighs parted wide and her hand slipped under the cheap polyester material. Silently, she fingered herself, imagining she was cleaning for a famous supermodel like herself. She remembered how invisible the staff around her had been and how she was now just one of those minions, utterly unremarkable, her uniform robbing her of her identity as anything other than a simple cleaner.

The feeling was electric as she gently stroked her wet lips. Though she had felt the rush of servitude many times before, it had been unclear how sexual her feelings were. While capable of pulling a smouldering pose and looking the epitome of sexuality, Dahlia had always been rather vanilla in her preferences and tastes. She would never have imagined the thrill she was now getting from imagining herself scraping and bowing in front of her betters. The woman she pictured herself serving had Dahlia’s body from before she came to the clinic. Her arms and thighs were perfectly shaped and hung elegantly aside her honed torso, a slim hourglass with curved hips and a small round bust.

She pictured herself in the future, imagining how she would look if she really let go, oblivious to the fact that she already had. In her mind, Dahlia was just a few sizes off her previous perfection, not the overweight woman currently writhing against the side of the bed, her chunky thighs squeezing her hand as she thrust them into herself, her tight dress pulling against her stomach and hips. Eyes closed, she gasped at the image of herself truly fat and beyond repair, forced to give up her modelling career and enter, full-time, her new career as a cleaner and maid.

The images in her head remained so unclear and blurry. But the emotions were raw and the pleasure now rippling within her built so rapidly that, within seconds, she was climaxing, writhing and trembling on the floor. For a moment she was stuck in place, like nothing could release her from the orgasmic grip that tightly held her in place. Oh god! How wicked she was and how good it felt to let go.

Shocked at herself and at the strength of her feelings, Dahlia slowly corrected herself, regaining a sense of her surroundings as the pink mist had cleared. She felt confused and worried by her behaviour, having never done anything so outlandish before. An acute sense of shame took hold as she contemplated the riskiness of what she had just done and the degree to which she had been emotionally invested in the image she had formed of herself, as well as how much it thrilled her.

The feeling of ‘being replaced,’ of letting go of all she had held dear these past decades, of becoming someone so different, of not caring about her appearance and of just becoming anonymous. All these sensations had driven her climactic rollercoaster, leaving her more confused than ever. Did she want that? Truly? Did she want to step over the line that would see her unable to retain her former life, to truly become fat, ordinary and ….. she paused before saying it….. possibly ugly? Her pussy pulsed. It was all too terrible to be real. As a fantasy held in private, a temporary game, it was fine, but to go that far, to purposefully ruin her looks and body was surely a degree of madness from which she would lose herself entirely.

The turn that her mind had taken along that short journey of realisation made her shudder and determined not to think about it anymore, at least till she found herself back in the privacy of her room. A faint smile creased the corners of her mouth at that thought. She did not have long left here at the clinic and this unexpected turn – how she found herself enjoying the degradation – had to remain a secret.

Most of all she worried that her blossoming affair with the doctor could suffer. He loved her just the way she was or, at least, how she imagined she was. If she really put on weight, really let her body shape deteriorate, surely he would be put off? Conditioned for so long into thinking that female beauty conformed to a narrow stereotype, Dahlia struggled to imagine he could ever find her attractive any other way. She knew she was special and that it was too risky to change so radically. Almost all her adult life had revolved around looking beautiful, being made to feel exceptional and exploiting that natural advantage. It was only recently, under the tutelage of the doctor, that she had ever begun to question whether she deserved that. Perhaps her answer to the question was the need for degradation, a belief that she was a fraud and could be exposed at any moment.

As she returned to cleaning the new guest’s room, Dahlia’s thoughts kept returning to how it would feel to be seen as nothing more than a cleaner. Her breathing tightened as she imagined how they might treat her, how it would feel to finally sink into anonymity. She had always loved dressing up when she was a child and this, in some ways, felt just the same: a cute little game. But events were moving fast around Dahlia and, like a strong storm, were about to upend her world.    

 

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