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The Private Exhibition


AdiposeAdorer

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My stomach screams for food, but I can’t move -- not yet, not until he tells me to. My hand rests on my lower belly. My thick, sausage-like fingers sit there, sinking ever so slightly into my plush, yielding flesh. He stops a moment to look at them. Stroking his sharp, black beard as, through the lenses of his concave glasses, he studies the way the golden light of the morning sun plays upon the smooth skin of my swollen digits. Then he returns to his work, the veins and muscles of his forearm shifting as, subtly, with great care, he moves his brush across a tiny patch of his vast canvas.

I haven’t eaten for nearly an hour, every cell in my body yearns for sugar and fat, for a rich feast to fill the yawning chasm within me. But I know it’ll be a while yet before I can, finally, dig my teeth into my first post-breakfast snack for the day. And so, as I lie here, reclined in bed, contained within vast, weighty cushions of my own flesh, I do my best to distract myself from my gnawing hunger, my unrelenting urge to eat.

The wall before me is covered in sketches and paintings. His past depictions of me, displayed in chronological order. Furthest to the left, by the narrow door leading to the steep basement steps, hang a great number of his pieces from when the two of us had just met. As I look at them, those old creations still seem so very beautiful, so evocative and arresting. As I study them, I find I can hardly remember the girl that they depict.

Was I ever that thin? Was my body ever as sleek and shapely as his sketches would suggest? Were my eyes ever so startling as those in his portraits? Was my gaze ever so confident, so playful and alluring? Could I really strike and hold all those graceful poses with such ease?

Even back then -- when I was thin and pretty and only too aware of it -- I found it hard to believe that I could really be as beautiful as the girl in his drawings. From the moment we first met, from the moment I first learned how his eyes saw me, I couldn’t stop thinking about him, about the beautiful goddess I’d seen on the pages of his sketchbook. As silly as it may seem, I couldn’t help but to feel as though he’d seen right through me, as though his gaze had pierced through all my put-ons and pretensions to capture something buried deep beneath. Some hidden potential, perhaps, that even I, myself, could not see.

Little did I know then how right I was.

Back then, he seemed like such a kind man. He was so charming and sweet, a relaxed romantic with a sharp sense of humour. When he asked me out, only a few weeks after we’d first met, I was only too happy to say yes. Before long, I had fallen hopelessly in love with him.

All these old drawings, these hauntingly beautiful depictions of my former self, are ordered around one, huge centrepiece. A vast painting that shows me, reclined in bed, my naked body on display in all its past glory. As I look at it, I can’t help but to marvel at its beauty, at the beauty of the woman depicted there.

Her hair is dark and luscious, it flows like silk down her shoulders. Her eyes, framed by long lashes, are a sparkling green; her body is lean and limber, a collection of solid, subtle curves. As I look at her, at her tapered waist and her flat stomach, at her firm, round breasts and her tight, callipygous butt, at her sleek, slender thighs, and the negative space that divides them, I can’t help but to feel just a little wistful. Did I really use look like that?

As the girl in the painting stares back at me with her coy, come hither smile, I can’t help but to wonder what she would think if she could see me now. If she could see what fate has in store for her. What the man she loves has made of her. These days, her smile, which once struck me as confident and knowing, seems so hopelessly innocent and naïve.

A little further to the right on that wall, the changes start. Slowly, my perfect frame starts to soften, my boobs lose their former firmness and start, ever so slightly, to sag. I watch as my belly starts to bulge, as my wasp waist is lost under a pair of wobbling love-handles, as my buttocks turn juicy and soft, losing their solid shape, as the space separating my thighs is filled in with layers of loose dough.

I turn my eye to his portraits and watch as my goddess-like face grows rounder, turning soft and cherubic, with a pair of chubby cheeks and a slight second chin. As they sit amidst my new layers of plush flab, my eyes no longer seem quite as large and startling as they once were. My smile has lost a smidge of its old, easy confidence.

At first, my gain was slow. A couple of pounds here, a couple of inches there. It all happened so gradually that I hardly noticed. But, then again, perhaps I didn’t want to notice. He made it so easy for me to stay mired in denial, to ignore what he was doing to me.

Once the two of us had moved in together, only a few months after we had first started dating, he started, swiftly, to spoil and pamper me like no one ever had before. He treated me like his precious little princess, and I was only too happy to go along with it, only too happy to sit on my well-padded posterior, browsing the internet and watching TV as he brought me one sugary snack after another, as he stuffed me with rich meals and creamy desserts.

I knew that I was putting on weight, of course. I could feel only too well as my body turned heavier and softer, as my flesh started to jiggle and sag, as my chubby thighs started to rub. But it took me a long time to realise just how bad things had gotten. After all, he was always there to reassure me, to tell me how gorgeous I was. And on his canvas, I still looked so very pretty.

Though his paintings showed perfectly well how my figure had swelled, he made all my excess flesh look so alluring, so tempting and luxurious. He still made me feel like the most special girl in all the world.

Rather than as a wildcat, as a haughty, challenging sex goddess, his art gradually started to depict me as a sleepy little princess. A tame, contented housecat whose once perfect body had been softened by indolence and indulgence.

Looking at all those old pieces now, I can see, clearly, in a way I couldn’t quite then, the pleasure he took in what he was doing to me, the passion with which he depicted my changing body. His fascination with the way my once firm flesh was starting to ripen, with the way in which my sleek and solid curves were starting to sag and lose their shape.

Looking at the girl in those old paintings, at her plump frame and her drowsy, blissful gaze, I wonder what she would do if only she knew where her lazy lifestyle would lead her.

As happy as I was in my cocoon of denial, I couldn’t ignore my growing body forever. But, by the time the true extent of my gain finally dawned on me, I was already too far gone, too huge and hungry to turn back.

My gaze drifts further to the right. The girl depicted in the many drawings on that wall is no longer simply chubby, no longer pleasantly plump. Her love of food has turned her into an obese ball of a woman. Her belly is a shapeless, sagging mass that droops down to cover most of her pelvic area, her pert buttocks have turned into a pair of loose cushions that spread under her as she sits. Her face is full and flabby, her features framed by round cheeks, puffy jowls, and a wobbling second chin. Her once vivid eyes are drowsy and tired. Her gaze has turned timid and meek.

As I look at those old sketches and paintings, at the self-conscious manatee of a woman that they depict, I remember only too well what it was like to be her. I remember my discomfort as my tree-trunk-thighs started to chafe, as my fat started to shift and shake with each step I took. I remember my embarrassment as my dangling belly started to brush against tables and countertops, as, from time to time, my wide, wobbly shelf-butt would knock things over when I turned. I remember as my once carefree life came to be filled with a cornucopia of tiny humiliations. I remember how dejected I was when all those people who had once admired me stopped paying attention, when they started to treat me like the unassuming fat girl I was rather than the beauty I’d once been. I remember what it felt like to no longer see myself in my own reflection, and, worse yet, to wish that I didn’t see myself in the shy, slovenly girl in his drawings.

As my body continued to swell, his life studies, once dedicated to capturing the sleek lines of my sensuous figure, took great pleasure in exploring the sagging, shifting rolls that had buried them, in depicting every blubbery inch of my 230-pound body. His croquis’ no longer showed me as nimble and full of energy, but as clumsy and out of shape, weighed down by my flab and impeded by my vast layers of excess flesh. In his portraits, I would gaze shyly out at the viewer, as though wishing that they wouldn’t look at me, my eyes robbed of their former power by the fat that had gathered on my face.

Though these drawings are still filled with a great deal of love and affection, the worshipful quality of his earlier work is long since gone. These pieces depict neither a goddess nor a gorgeous princess, but, simply, an unremarkable, obese glutton. A weak young woman whose appetite has buried her former beauty under a thick, formless coat of inert flesh, a mass of flab that has robbed her of her confidence and replaced it with a healthy heaping of self-consciousness and shame.

Once, his art had used to make me feel like the most beautiful woman in all the world, now it just made me feel like a hopeless, fat failure. Looking at his creations, I could no longer see any hint there of the timeless beauty that I’d once so admired, of the gorgeous goddess that I’d so badly wanted to be.

In the end, it all proved too much. In a rare moment of determination, I decided that, no matter what, I was going to get my old self back.

When I told him that I wanted to lose weight, he simply smiled and shook his head. He told me that there was no need for me to trouble myself, that he liked me perfectly well the way I was.

“You don’t have to do this, you know that, right?” he said, giving my bulging belly a patronizing pat. “I know how you like your little treats. There’s no need for you to deprive yourself or to wear yourself out if you don’t want to.”

Even so, I persisted. At first, as my diet got off the ground, he seemed supportive. He even painted me in my exercise gear. That painting is one of the many pieces that hang on the wall before me. It shows me with my feet firmly on the ground, a determined look on my face as my belly oozes out over my waistband. At the time, I found it inspiring; as I look at it now, I can’t help but to feel as though it’s mocking me.

Needless to say, my diet didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. Over the last few years, I’d grown far too sedentary to adhere to any exercise regimen and far too hungry to stick to any diet. The whole thing was doomed from the start. My failure is depicted only too well in a series of drawings that hang on the wall before me, right beside the painting of me in my workout gear.

The first of these pieces shows me huffing and puffing, worn out after a short jog, my belly hangs out of my shirt and beads of sweat run down my brow as, desperately, I try to catch my breath. The second shows me gazing like a miserable puppy at a slice of cake that I know I can’t have. In the third, my blubbery bottom sticks out behind me as I lean into the fridge, my eyes are closed in a look of pure bliss as I stuff one slice of cake after another into my fat face. In the fourth, and final piece, I find myself struggling to squeeze my fat, cellulite-riddled ass into my hopelessly tight workout pants. Looking at it now, I can’t help but to admire the effort he has put into capturing the gooey softness of my lard-laden backside, not to mention the impotent frustration on my face as I’m forced to realise just how far I’ve let myself go.

Together, these pieces paint an all too accurate picture of how helpless I was in the face of my own appetite.

After all my failures, I soon got dejected with my diet. As my body continued to grow, what little willpower I had soon began to wane. Knowing that he had me just where he wanted, he started to feed me more than ever. He found it only too easy to tempt me with sweet treats and meals laden with calories and carbs. Then, when, inevitably, I gave in to my gluttonous urges, he would stroke my soft flesh and gently tease me -- reminding me, in a tone so soothing and hypnotic, of all my failures, of how far I’d let myself go. He made me feel so safe and cared for, so hopeless and weak. Soon, I’d given up any thought of losing weight.

As my figure continued to expand, I started to avoid his old drawings. When I did look at them, I couldn’t shake the sense that the woman portrayed there was laughing at me, ridiculing me with her self-assured smile and her winsome eyes. Still, if I couldn’t look like her, then I could, at least, eat to my heart’s content.

From now on, as my eyes travel further to the right, every piece on that wall seems to depict me as just a little fatter. As I look from one to another, my body balloons at an alarming rate. My once graceful neck has been lost under a roll of soft flesh. My shoulders have turned to plush pillows and my boobs to flat, sagging sacks of fat. My once taught tummy has grown ever wider and heavier -- it hangs ever lower until, soon enough, it has completely hidden my nethers from view. My once pleasantly rounded buttocks have turned to vast, square slabs, my thighs to pillars of rippling flesh. With every new sketch, the fat further infests and reshapes my body.

These drawings portray a woman who has given up on herself, who has turned her life over to her appetite, who has given her body over to food. She is, quite simply, a hopeless pig.

As I look at all these pieces of his, the pleasure he took in depicting my sorry state is only too clear to see. His portraits put an astonishing attention to detail into depicting as my features sink into my fat, as my once lean countenance grows wider and rounder. My eyes, now so small as they sit in the middle of my full, flushed moon of a face, have long since lost any hint of the gleam they once had. Now, they’re placid and dull, the eyes of a woman who cares for nothing but food.

His figure drawings, meanwhile, capture with loving care the way in which all my drooping rolls and folds have come to impede my mobility, how they fill my hopelessly tight clothes and ooze out of them. At this point, his art has come to focus entirely on my fat, on capturing the way it sits on my body, the way it shifts and changes with every laboured move I make. Now, to him, my obesity is all that defines me.

As I continue to grow, his art starts to focus, more than ever, on my eating. From here on, the wall is crowded with swift sketches of me as I stuff my face, a dozen studies that seek to capture every aspect of my overconsumption. All these small pieces soon lead up to a far larger one. A huge painting titled, simply: ‘Gluttony’.

It is, I must admit, one of his most awe-inspiring creations. It shows me, completely naked, with all my flab hanging out for the world to see, right in the middle of a binge. My chin is smeared with food; my eyes are closed as I sit there, lost in a piggish haze. My expression demonstrates only too well the overwhelming extasy of overindulgence, while my body, covered in cellulite and stretchmarks, offers a sobering reminder of its consequences.

The piece captures me exactly as I am. It shows, all too well, just what he has turned me into.

My stomach lets out a rumble and I return to the present, to my unbearable hunger.

“Please, sweetie,” I say, looking towards the canvas behind which my husband is hidden. “can’t this be enough for today? I’m so hungry.”

He doesn’t look out from behind his painting, his arm continues to move, his brush continues to make its subtle strokes.

“Just a little while longer,” he says. “I’ve almost got this down.”

I frown but say nothing. I know there’s no point in arguing. I’ll get my food in good time. Until then, there’s nothing I can do.

I direct my gaze back to the wall before me, to another of his paintings. In this one, I’m sat at a bench in a lush garden. A drowsy, beaming smile on my face as my belly rests in my lap, as my wide backside spreads across the seat beneath me. From a gleaming diadem on my head hangs a sheer, white shroud. All my loose, drooping flesh has been squeezed into a gorgeous, if slightly too tight, white dress, obviously tailored to lend some semblance of shape to my 340-pound body.

The painting puts a great deal of emphasis on how my fat strains against the restricting fabric, as though yearning to break free. A choice that, I think, shows all too clearly what sort of a future my new husband had planned for me. As I look into the eyes of that bulging bride, I can tell that she knows, just as well as I, that she’s never going to be this thin again.

By the time he proposed to me, I’d long since given myself over to a life of mindless gluttony. Bit by bit, I’d come to accept myself for the pampered pig that I was rather than the goddess of femininity I’d once wished to be. Still, when, one evening, after having taken me out for a huge dinner, followed by a sizeable ice cream sundae, he got down on his knees and presented me with a ring, I still found myself taken aback. As I stared at that glittering piece of jewellery, I knew only too well what sort of a life I’d be signing up for if I agreed.

If I accepted his proposal, I would, I knew, spend the rest of my life being stuffed like a pig for market. I’d be his fat, pampered pet. A lazy, pathetic pillow princess with no life outside of food. The thought filled me in equal parts with longing and horror. In the end, I wasn’t slow to say yes.

Once we had married, once I had, fully and truly, sworn myself to him, my beloved’s attitude towards me soon changed. Though still every bit as loving as he always had been, he seemed, all of a sudden, to have gotten harsher, more commanding. He started to feed me like never before. No longer taking no for an answer, he would force me to eat every last crumb he put before me, to stuff my face until my stomach felt just about ready to burst, until it hurt so bad that tears would run down my cheeks.

Having moved me, without much warning, to our new home -- a remote place far from any friends and family -- and left me in this room, on this bed, he turned my life into one long, overwhelming feast. As my appetite grew, he fed me more and more, until, finally, my hunger never seemed to go away.

I suppose, once upon a time, I could’ve tried to resist, or at least to object to what he was doing to me. But by then, I’d already grown so used to obeying his every word, to never bothering to think for myself. And so, as he forced me to eat more than I could ever have dreamed that my stomach could hold, as he poured shakes filled with cream and protein powder down my throat, I simply did as he said. I responded without question as he started to refer to me as his ‘precious pig’ and his ‘well-fed whale’. Since he brought me here, I have done little but to sit on my butt and eat as my body spreads uncontrollably around me.

“So,” he says, smiling slightly as he looks out from behind his canvas, “that should do it for today, I think.”

My eyes widen and my face lights up like the sun.

“You mean…”

“Time for fatty to have her reward,” he nods. “But first,” he grabs his canvas and turns it around, “let’s have a look.”

I stare at the painting before me. It’s a masterpiece, of that there’s no doubt. The pose is the same as the one in the first painting he ever made of me, all those years ago. Or, at least, as close to it as I can get these days. The painting shows me, reclined in bed, staring at the viewer, my naked obesity displayed in all its glory. As I look at it, I can’t help but to marvel at the sheer, impossible size of the woman it depicts.

Her dark, luscious hair flows, like silk down her blubbery shoulders, framing her ripe, spherical face. Her features are afloat in a sea of flab, her regular chin dwarfed by the huge, swollen second one that it rests atop. Her body is a shapeless collection of rolls, any hint of firmness having long since sunk to the bottom of the vast ocean of flesh that has overtaken her once lean frame.

“So,” he asks me, “what do you think?”

Looking into the eyes of that immense whale of a woman, I find myself, quite simply, astonished. Unable to believe that anybody could ever be that fat. At this point, she is simply a blob of unmoving blubber, her natural shape twisted beyond recognition by her own swollen flesh.

Still, as the girl in the painting stares back at me, I find myself perfectly reflected in her docile passivity and her powerless, pleading hunger.

“It’s brilliant,” I say, at last, before pausing a moment. “Now, could you please get me something to eat?”

He smirks and heads off upstairs. Soon, he will return with my next ‘little’ feast.

Once, back when the two of us had only just met, he told me that, to him, art was that which served no purpose other than pleasure, that which existed only to be admired and enjoyed. By that standard, I am his greatest piece. A woman whose body has long since turned to a barely mobile mass of dough, whose once lean limbs have been rendered useless by drooping rolls, so heavy that she can hardly lift them.

This room, where I spend my days, is no ordinary bedroom. It is a private exhibit hall, a museum dedicated to what he has done to me, where my body is the centrepiece, the true artwork on display.

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