Becoming poor and menial

The descent of a fashion-conscious middle-class woman into shabby poverty, all at the behest of another woman, fifteen years her junior.

Sunday, March 19, 2006


Yesterday, I had to go to a party. Before getting dressed for it, I took a shower, and then, for the first time since I started being fattened, dared to weigh myself. I was surprised and relieved. I seemed only to have put on a pound. But goodness, I feel so much fatter! It’s as though I don’t recognise my own body, as though I’m trapped in an alien mass of flesh – and yet, only one pound! It gave me a bit of a reality check, to be honest – maybe I’m not in as deep as I had th ought.

But then, this is all such a roller-coaster. Because immediately after weighing myself, I went to get dressed – and of course, that was when it really, REALLY struck me that my two favourite dresses were gone. I looked in the cabinet: it was as though the absence of the dresses was more visible than all the clothes that were still there; as though what was gone was more present than what was not. I moaned; I laid my head against the door; then I rolled onto the bed, clutching myself, clutching at my belly, and then – pathetically – covering my breasts. Even as I did this, I wondered WHY I was doing it: and I realised that it was because I felt that a veil had been torn away from me, as though the absent dresses had served to conceal what I was, and that I was now feeling my desolating nakedness truly for the first time. THE DRESSES WERE GONE! Even if I stepped away from all this, that would never change. THEY ARE GONE. Their absence prickled through like a profoundly unnpleasant but deeply arousing electrical erotic charge. I wanted to touch myself, in fact more than touch myself, to frig myself violently; but I couldn’t; I am not allowed; and of course that made me want to frig myself even more.

And then I had to get dressed; and I knew I wasn’t looking as nice as I would have done if I weren’t my Mistress’s slave; and so all evening I was thinking of her, and worrying that I looked dowdy, and worrying that I looked fat. And then as the evening went on, and it was getting near 11, I suddenly felt like Cinderella – because 11 is the bedtime, as set for me my by Mistress. And so I began to nag my husband, begging him to let us go home – feeling stupid, stupid, STUPID as I did so. We finally made it back by 11.30 – and I made the mistake of logging on, and running straight into my Mistress. She told me off for being out after my bedtime – which made me feel so juvenile and humiliated – and so off I went, feeling VERY sexually charged and frustrated, to bed.


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