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The Death of Venus


Maverick

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The Death of Venus

by Maverick

 

My name is Sylvia Brennan.  You may have read about me or seen me on the news.  Brad and I were in it quite a bit. 

Before Brad, I could’ve had any guy I wanted.  It’s not bragging if it’s true.  If anything, I downplayed my looks and shrugged off any compliments on my beauty I received. 

You don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone.

I met Brad at the beginning of my Senior year in High School.  He was a shaggy-haired, string-beaned art student who sat near the back of the art class I was taking to boost my GPA in anticipation of college application season.  He was dark and brooding.  I was pert and chipper.  He was deep and philosophical.  I was hip and trendy.  We couldn’t have been more different, and yet each of us had an interest in dipping a toe in the other’s world.  When I complemented his painting of a rotten apple teeming with maggots--rendered from a cheery apple bowl still-life set-up by our art teacher—he pushed his hair from his face and gave me a shy smile.  I was immediately smitten.

“What’s she doing with him?”

I heard variations of that statement whispered in the school halls as word of our relationship spread.  If it ever bothered Brad, he never let on.  That’s part of what drew me to him.  Nothing ever seemed to faze him, and being cool was the furthest thing from his mind.  Other guys I dated treated me like a trophy—displaying me proudly at every dance, football game and party.  Brad was the complete opposite.  I was his center of attention and he seemed reticent to share me, or my beauty, with anyone.  

Our dates were usually private affairs.  He lived in his parents’ basement, which could be accessed directly from a back alley.  It was like his own apartment and most of our time was spent there.  He introduced me to a bohemian world full of art, film, and music.  I introduced him to a world of sexuality.         

Contrary to popular opinion, I wasn’t a slut.  I’d been with a few guys, but nowhere near as many as the locker room gossip and graffiti suggested.  Brad was an inexperienced, but attentive lover.  I’m certain I was his first, but rather than rushing through to climax he diligently explored each and every inch of me…as if searching for something that wasn’t there. 

He began incorporating me into his artwork.  At first, it was quick pencil sketches from his notebook which he’d slip me as we’d pass in the hall, but after a few weeks he was composing full oil portraits.  He referred to my beauty as “timeless” and seamlessly incorporated my visage into everything from Impressionism to Cubism, but it was his realistic depictions (he called them “Neoclassical”)--in which he accentuated my full lips, peaches-and-cream complexion, and curly auburn hair with opulent period attire and sophisticated hairstyles--that I liked best.  I looked like a princess.

One warm October day, Brad stammered out a request I knew had been building for weeks: “Will you pose for me?”

I kissed him and gave the knot of fabric behind my neck a gentle tug.  It gave way, sending the loose sundress to the floor past my naked curves.  While he stood there, mouth agape, I posed on his couch like Kate Winslet in Titanic—a film Brad had once chided me for referencing when he asked if I liked classic films.   

Although his couch was stained and smelled of mildew, lying there in his basement was the sexiest I had felt in my life.  Brad studied me the way Leonardo studied Kate, and the way I’m sure that other Leonardo studied Mona Lisa.  He was “the artiste” and I was his muse, inspiring him with my beauty.  For the next two hours, I was in another world. 

Until he spun the canvas around to show me the final result—and I crashed back to earth with a thud.   

The painting was beautiful, but it wasn’t of me—at least not the “me” I saw in the mirror everyday.  Brad had turned his purple pull-out into a plush Victorian style cameo sofa, and the girl atop it into someone our art teacher would call “Rubenesque.” 

 My pert breasts were round and full—the right rested lazily on the sofa’s velvet fabric, while the left sagged towards it.  A deep crease extended from the bend in my waist towards my navel, dividing my over-ripened breasts from the dramatic flare of my hips (which ran congruous to the curves of the ornate furniture).   My flat stomach was now plump--it arched out beneath my breasts and disappeared into the velvet cushions, which puckered under its weight, only to reappear below the reddish patch of my unkempt pubic hair.  My face was softer.  My upper arms meatier.  And my entire body was rendered in an opaque ivory that belied the tan I had cultivated over the summer. 

 It looked like I had spent the last six-months trapped in Brad’s basement eating donuts.

I’m not that fat!”

Y-You’re not fat at all,” Brad corrected.  I just took some artistic liberties.  I wanted it to look like a Titian or a Botti--” 

I slammed the back door so hard that the painting toppled from its easel. 

I walked home with my head down and my arms folded, lost in my thoughts.  One, in particular, I couldn’t escape—why did I react the way I did?  Days earlier, Brad had painted me like Picasso with three eyes and half a face.  That was no big deal.  But paint me with a few extra pounds?  Watch out!

For all my bluster, I was just as insecure and superficial as the other teenage bimbos at my school.

That realization stopped me in my tracks—right in front of a Baskin Robins.  I don’t remember purchasing the quart of Strawberry Cheesecake ice cream, or the walk back to Brad’s basement, but I remember what I said when he opened the door to find me biting my lip and holding the container pressed against my bosom.

Feed me.”

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I guess I should point out that this is "part one" :).  I expect this will end up being 4-5 parts.

Maverick

EDIT: I should also point out that my stories are decidedly "non-PC" and rarely have consensual gains and/or happy endings.  That said, if you're into that kind of thing I hope you enjoy my perverse little tale...you sicko! 

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2 hours ago, Maverick said:

I guess I should point out that this is "part one" :).  I expect this will end up being 4-5 parts.

Maverick

EDIT: I should also point out that my stories are decidedly "non-PC" and rarely have consensual gains and/or happy endings.  That said, if you're into that kind of thing I hope you enjoy my perverse little tale...you sicko! 

If what I've previously heard about this work-in-progress is true, we're in for a bumpy ride along the road of avant garde noir feedist perversion B)

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It was the feeding, not the sex, that consummated our relationship.  From that point on we were inseparable.  We would spend hour upon hour in his basement eating pizza, watching foreign films, and listening to Industrial rock. 

I didn’t always enjoy it.  Some of the films made no sense and the music was tedious.  Brad would make me feel stupid for not knowing who Akira Kurosawa was, or shallow for wanting to be a cheerleader.  However, rather than resent him for it, I decided he was right. 

He became my mentor and I became his muse.  I quit cheerleading.  I went to museum and gallery openings for artists I’d never heard of.   I went to concerts in areas of the city that terrified me.  I dressed darker.  I smoked pot. 

I gained weight.

My new grunge wardrobe concealed my initial gain to most people, but Brad noticed every new pound. His hand would ply the soft flesh around my waist as we walked arm in arm through the school’s corridors.  At lunch, he would run his hand up my leg and kneed the softness forming on my inner thighs.  Tilting my head back to give me a goodbye kiss allowed him access to the virgin flesh emerging beneath my chin.

Our lovemaking sessions became lengthier and more passionate.  Food became a regular accessory.  He started with “romantic foods”: strawberries smothered with cream, milk chocolate, etc., but soon anything fattening and messy would do.  As he fed me with one hand, he would run the fingers of the other over my body, trying to detect where the latest slice of pizza or hamburger was taking up residence.  If a dollop of ice cream dribbled from my mouth, he would gently massage it into my skin as if it would process directly into fat.  

All the while, Brad documented my progress in his art.  He would sketch me as I lounged on his pull-out surrounded by candy wrappers, take photos of me eating, or video me as I pinched the fresh folds of flesh around my waist.  We considered it foreplay, and I enjoyed teasing him.  It wasn’t uncommon for me to bring him to climax without us even touching--like when I demonstrated my pert breasts had grown to the point that I could lick whipped cream off them.         

This inspired him to take even more “artistic liberties” imagining me dozens, even hundreds of pounds heavier.  The way he drew me at these weights startled me.  I wasn’t big and beautiful--like when I had posed for him months before--but grotesque and slovenly, with a jowly halo of fat swaddling my chin and cheekbones, and vast expanses of blubber burying any semblance of femininity.  One drawing had me eating from a trough, its dark sludge dripping down my chins and chest, filling the fleshy folds where my waist should be.  Another had me seated in a small dining chair, my hips and ass cascading over the edge of the seat and wedging between its armrests, as back fat oozed between its wood slat backing like clay pushed through a comb.       

He laughed at my objections, reminding me that, as an artist, he was compelled to explore beauty and ugliness equally--just like the rosy red apple he had depicted as rotten and maggoty in art class.  It made sense to me. 

Over winter break we spent every day together.  Brad had the nude painting I’d originally posed for framed and presented it to me as a Christmas gift which I proudly displayed on my bedroom wall (much to my parents’ consternation).  To me, it not only symbolized our growth as a couple, but my growth as an individual.  Although I mean that largely in the psychological sense, I wasn’t oblivious to the fact that I was much closer, physically, to the version of me in the painting than I was when we’d first met.  

At the end of the Fall Semester people were referring to Brad and I as the school’s “Hipster Couple” (a label he detested), but after Christmas break we were more burnouts than hipsters.  We initially skipped classes for matinee showings of art films, but soon were skipping them for virtually any reason.  On the rare occasion we did attend class, every break was spent smoking weed in Brad’s car or making-out in the darker recesses of our school’s corridors. 

I went from dressing trendily grungy to lazily sloppy.  Wearing Brad’s vintage Nine Inch Nails T-shirt was cute in October, but by February it puckered tight across my chest, cut-off circulation to my upper arms, and I constantly had to pull it down over my nascent pot belly and love-handles lest I be sent to the office.   

It didn’t help that I often wore the same outfit days at a time.  Our overnight trysts were typically clandestine which meant no shower or washing machine access.  My morning routine became a few squirts of perfume from my purse and the use of Brad’s palette knife to scrape off food stains.

The Sylvia that began the year would’ve been alarmed and repulsed by this new version of her, but the new Sylvia was oblivious.  Maybe oblivious is too strong.  I knew I was getting fat and my reflection in the mirror—on the rare occasions I failed to avert my gaze—revealed another truth:

I was getting ugly, too. 

My luxurious hair had turned dark and oily; my flawless skin was splotchy and reflective; and even my sparkling smile had yellowed.   

My sudden transformation alarmed everyone except Brad and me.  Teachers and former friends feigned concern, while my parents tried everything from grounding me to an insufferably premeditated intervention at their church.  Brad and I laughed at their efforts to “save me,” and even used them as fuel for my feedings.  I ate in front of them whenever possible, and pushed my stomach out as far as it would go during their frequent lectures.  I may have been “losing my looks,” as my Mom would often say, but I would never let myself be as shallow and superficial as they were. 

By spring my reputation as a campus beauty was gone.  Most days I didn’t care; however, I must admit to a twinge of sadness during Prom season (“a bourgeoisie dog and pony show where the rich, pretty and privileged celebrate themselves,” according to Brad).  At the beginning of the year, it was assumed I would be a shoe-in for Queen.  I didn’t even get nominated.  When Brad got excited that I already had a dress (I had purchased it with my Mother the previous spring) I thought for a second he might actually want to go—until I realized he just wanted me to wear it to see how fat I had gotten.   

Any disappointment I felt was quickly buried under a steady supply of junk food and pot.  Somehow Brad and I attended enough classes and passed enough tests to graduate, though I’m not exactly sure how.       

I’m also not sure how much I weighed at graduation, but it was probably around 200 pounds—a 75 pound gain from the start of the year.  Despite the billowy fit of my graduation gown, it still clung tight around my belly, butt, and hips.  As a result, it stopped several inches higher than any other girl and called attention to my thick calves and nearly-as-thick ankles.  The cap further emphasized my gain; its square edges running a stark contrast to my moonlike face.

As I waited for my name to be called, I suddenly realized something—

I was the fattest girl in my graduating class. 

Eight months ago I was captain of the cheerleading team.  How did this happen?  My pulse began to race.  My throat went dry.  I suddenly wished my last name began with “Z.”

As I dutifully crossed the stage to a smattering of polite applause, a male voice within the senior class shouted “Mooooooooo!  Amused giggles erupted from a number of the students and, though I couldn’t tell who had uttered the original insult, I easily found Brad, his hand cupped over his mouth to stifle his laughter. 

I was humiliated.  When I confronted Brad, he accused me of being too sensitive before offering a half-hearted apology that I quickly accepted. 

 

I didn’t know it at the time, but I had literally grown too dependent on him to resist.   

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Happy Valentine's Day!  And if you don't currently have a Valentine, I hope Part Two of my story will tide you over! ;)

Special thanks to my friend, riptoryx, who let me use a deleted snippet from his epic weight-gain tale "The Slowest Champion."   Working with Rip on TSC inspired me to channel my inner "Deviant" at least this one last time, and I wanted to pay him homage.  Although that scene (Kara's HS graduation) needed to be deleted from TSC for narrative purposes, it was too good to simply stay on the cutting room floor.  Glad I could incorporate some of it here!

As always, comments are encouraged and appreciated!  Part III to come in a week or two.

Maverick

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Hey Maverick,

 

Your story is intelligently written and intensely entertaining.   Opposites don't usual attract but I admire how you've produced a realistic arena where the cool / popular chick falls for the nonconformist loner.  Brad chiding Sylvia whenever she leans toward much more conventional norms is a nice touch.  Sylvia's slovenly transformation doesn't seem too out there since many females, especially insecure ones no matter their beauty, will readily act upon the whims of their mate if not only to appease them but to be accepted.  I'm enjoying this story, and by the way, Sylvia's mom criticizing her appearance was spot on!

Cheers, Matt

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  • 2 months later...
Guest high

I've been waiting for updates on this story, got excited there was a new post and then this shitpost. Feb to April. Jeez

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