Story: The Cleaner Returns. Chapters 38-39.

by BigBird74

One week into the new guest’s stay in the clinic and Dahlia was feeling a sense of anti-climax. Her fantasies had revolved around the mystery guest turning out to be a woman of great beauty, someone surrounded by an air of superiority, dripping class and refinement. Instead she looked more like an Egyptian mummy, heavily bandaged all over her body. Dahlia speculated what could have happened to her: could it have been the result of a serious accident? The doctor said nothing and her one attempt to get information from Ms. Nechita had ended in her being scolded for her unprofessional conduct.

Still, as the days passed, further clues emerged as some of the bandages were lifted. Though no expert on the matter, Dahlia recognised some of what she saw. For a few years now, she had been considering whether or not to go under the surgeon’s knife. As the ravages of time slowly caught up with her, she had begun to look into what would have been involved had she chosen that route. Ageing is a cruel process. For those worried about what others may think - and Dahlia clearly did - it became increasingly difficult to reconcile themselves with the ageing image presented in the mirror. The slow creeping process seemed to stop some months, only for a new line, crease or blemish to present itself the following one. Dahlia’s obsessing over it did not help of course, spending too long looking for new problems to try and counter. No-one around her appreciated the turmoil inside her head. To them she was a very lucky woman, who barely looked her age.

Was it any wonder that plastic surgery was an increasingly popular escape, at least temporarily, from such fears? Of course Dahlia knew the limits of what could be achieved. Too much work and a woman can end up resembling a chipmunk, her face filled to the brim with fillers and her cheeks raised out of all natural proportion, her skin pulled tight over it all, like a drum.

The mere thought of it made her wince. So, being a bit of a coward when it came to matters of health, she had shied away from surgery, unlike many of her contemporaries. As time had passed, the ‘competition’ in her age group had thinned out. Some simply gave up the fight. Others endured a botched surgery. Meanwhile Dahlia’s natural beauty shone more brightly as those around her paled in comparison, more distorted and fake looking.

“Oh god!” She blushed, as an inkling of what she was doing to herself and, more importantly, what she was losing, flashed across her mind: ‘her unparalleled natural beauty’ as one magazine had termed it. She took a deep breath and returned to dusting the shelving in the storage room, stacked from floor to ceiling with medicines, bandages and various liquids, none of which she recognised. Clearing her mind, she felt better, the satisfying feelings she gained from cleaning and serving calming her and again fuelling that odd sense of eroticism.

Her thoughts returned to the mystery woman and the extent of the surgery she had endured. As well as her face, nose and breasts, she was also heavily bandaged around her hips, thighs and butt. Perhaps she had had a round of liposuction? That idea made Dahlia quiver. It was almost as though she was putting on the weight the other woman was losing. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath as her stomach and groin rushed with butterflies. That perverted thrill from becoming somehow ‘less’, of losing her looks and hiding in her fat disguise never seemed to diminish. Her fantasies, of course, had limits. Blissfully unaware of the extent of her weight gain, she had no intention of doing any permanent damage, at least not purposefully.

Over the following days, as the bandages were slowly removed, other things became apparent. As well as the liposuction, the woman had had her jaw re-aligned and some major work done to her chin. A protective splint left her unable to speak, so Dahlia found herself engaged in one-way conversations with the guest whenever she went in to attend to her, the guest’s eyes following her around the room. Early on in her stay the guest was clearly on heavy medication, her drooping eyelids betraying how tired she was. Dahlia joked to herself that she might have been able to convince her she was the Queen of the Sheba given her level of drowsiness. But in the days that followed a greater alertness returned and the guest seemed to pay increasingly close attention to Dahlia.  Naturally Dahlia herself put that down to the sheer boredom involved in being a patient who could barely move, all her intimate needs taken care of by Ms Nechita, while Dahlia would clean and ferry things back and forth.

The effect of being closely watched was acutely arousing for Dahlia. She found trivial reasons to pop by and be casually watched playing the cleaner in her alter ego. Maybe it was the model in her? A bout of exhibitionism fuelled by the memory of showing her body off to millions of people over the years? Initially of course, her fears of being recognised had meant that, in the first days here, she had only entered the guest’s room reluctantly, taking great care to hide her face. But each time she entered the room, the more her desire to be identified as ‘Petra’ grew. She was sure that the woman could not recognise her and that thought alone was hugely significant for Dahlia. The idea that she could be seen as nothing more than a dowdy, ordinary cleaner was a revelation to her after all those years in the media spotlight.

It was only a couple of months ago, at her last, disastrous show that Dahlia was meant to wear that expensive diamond-encrusted lingerie, her hair and makeup done to embody total perfection. Now she was bowing and scraping as simple member of the cleaning staff, an anonymous drone in her cheap polyester dress. She gripped at her belly and felt it hanging there, a key part of the ‘disguise’ that rendered her anything but perfect and how she was sinking into a new normal.

She swallowed at the memory of that awful show and the sense of terror that accompanied it. She had not felt that fear for some weeks now and it made her realise just how far she had come in pushing the fears and anxieties of her career to one side. The doctor was right. She was not cut out for modelling. Her sojourn here at the clinic had opened her eyes to that. As her time here drew to a close and normality once again beckoned, she would need to discover her inner resolve again or …. She paused…. Or she would need to stay anonymous.

To say this was the first time that Dahlia had considered such a drastic route was not correct. Her subconscious had been driving her that way for at least a week now. The sexual awakening that her relationship with the doctor had heralded and the erotic taste she had developed for the degradation implicit in the life she currently lived had been pushing her further and further in that direction. The peace of mind she enjoyed as a ‘nothing’, as a ‘nobody’, was chipping away at her desire to go back to her old life. Dahlia had found herself wondering if she had to? So much depended on her returning home and she hoped, deep down and in spite of the negative new coverage, that she could pick it up somehow. The thought of actively giving up the career she had built for herself was too terrifying a notion to entertain for long.

And yet, again, she had found herself imagining it, developing it into part of her wild fantasy: to stay as a cleaner, as a maid. But even as her heart rate quickened, the realities of her situation muddied the waters. For all the idea made Dahlia cringe and burn with its erotic potency, she worried that the money would not last. She had to return to her job or she would lose everything. Dahlia still had things to accomplish, a legacy to pursue. Her stomach tightened with fear.

Fear and arousal. Which would win out? For now she sunk herself deeper and deeper into her work to forget it. Though, when alone and at rest, the image of being this way permanently kept rebounding into her mind. She savoured it there in the privacy of her own room, a seedy explosion of her desires that only a sexual release could control. All these years of being put on a pedestal, of being referred to as a great beauty and she never truly wanted it. It was not her at all. She craved degradation and humiliation. The cleaner act had opened her eyes to it all. But an act is one thing, an everyday experience another.   

So it was that, just by being there in Dahlia Western’s old room, the guest was unwittingly fuelling the flames inside of ‘Petra’. Each day, she ate more in a seemingly desperate hurry to become everything the old Dahlia would have struggled to relate to. Weight had always been a sin to Dahlia, as was wanton sexuality and sloth. But here she was rushing towards all three. A race was underway. To see if Dahlia could truly become Petra before the guest recovered and left and that game would end.

On the face of it, it was a race she was winning handily. For Dahlia Western – the supermodel we first met – had pushed things so far now, one would struggle to imagine her ever being what she was. She was getting truly fat now, her body showing the strains of all that abuse and an almost complete lack of exercise. The bulk, for so long held in place by her toned figure had spilled out into rolls of fat that hung on her body in an unbalanced way, most of it around her middle: her stomach, thighs and butt. Her breasts were much larger, one might say pendulous. But the biggest difference was reserved for her perfectly proportioned face. Her delicate features now lost in a ball of fat that seemed to create a bloated mask that hid her perfectly. Was she obese? Not yet. But, were you to see her in a crowd, you might characterise her as ‘fat’. If she did not slow down her eating soon, she would be obese in weeks. And then what? At what point would she stop?

 

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