Chapter 5 - playing at power (1/2)

Scarlett, glutted as ever on scheming, had time at last to digest. No more media stunts. No more paparazzi. No more vying for relevance in an apathetic world. That was the ultimate debasement for a Chapman: begging for crumbs of attention. She wondered how people could be so indifferent to human suffering, as Mia hauled and heaved wave after wave of luggage into Scarlett’s suite. She had only been able to bring so much on the initial helicopter commute, but her father had kindly (begrudgingly) arranged the rest of Scarlett’s possessions to be packed and shipped over throughout the following week.

And so, for the first few days, Scarlett serenely sipped her complimentary wine as she watched Mia sweat and soak through her already immodest bikini. The drink was a delicious consolation, she conceded, but putting Mia in her place was an unparalleled ecstasy. The hapless clerk would not speak unless spoken to, and could hardly bring herself to meet Scarlett’s gaze.

While Mia’s (now transparent) uniform was reason enough to keep an eye on her, Scarlett had a more enticing ambition behind her leering. She had quickly developed a kind of game out of picking apart Mia’s every action and decision, pouncing on the pettiest opportunity to degrade her de facto servant. The wine, which had become a daily indulgence despite Scarlett’s initial dismissal, only further fueled her belligerence. The quietest cough or sigh or most subtle sideways glance was an excuse to launch into lecturing Mia on however she might be falling short of Master Chapman’s lofty standards of service. The grievous mistake of momentary hesitation to fulfill Scarlett’s every whim was both an insult to a valued guest and to Chapman himself, who so kindly tolerated Mia’s presence on HIS island and allowed her the privilege of employment.

If Scarlett had been the least bit aware that Mia was not, in fact, getting paid at all, then it would have mattered little to her. She would have stooped fathoms further, slung the vilest of epithets, if it meant getting her hands on another bottle of apology wine. Fortunately, for Mia’s sanity, the wine flowed freely as a result of Scarlett’s constant criticism, so her tormentor felt no need to escalate things. Mia diligently filled Scarlett’s glass to the brim nearly every half hour, and even provided new refills within minutes if the boozing beauty wanted more than a pleasant buzz. At the rate Scarlett was drinking, though, she would need to drastically increase her consumption just to feel tipsy.

She could, perhaps, maintain her tolerance if she were careful, but the careless winds of Bacchanalia carried away her caution. Mia was thankful, though, as she would be freed from the tedious refilling and pouring and wine fetching whenever Scarlett found herself inclined to forgo her glasses and nurse straight from the bottle.

Lifting that damned heavy jug was probably the most exertion Scarlett had experienced in half a week, and the only time Mia had seen her exhibit any form of self-sufficiency.

Wine alone would not have been able to sate Scarlett’s lust for luxury, but the kitchen staff had finished their training just in time to start sending a steady stream of hors d’oeuvres and decadent dishes right into Scarlett’s room. She had almost hoped for a delay in the staffing, anything for another reason to bestow a verbal thrashing upon Mia, but the wine sent tingles through her lips and a rumble through her stomach with every sip. No matter how much she sucked down, her stomach felt empty and her jaws itched for action. Yes, only food could have completed the island experience.

It was Mia, predictably, who now had the extra task of running each plate to and from the suite, head bowed as she offered up the next meal and spirited away the remains of the last. Scarlett felt like royalty, drinking and feasting as she watched her pathetic concubine flit across her chambers in a desperate bid to please and appease her.

She would be almost sad when the last batch of her luggage was unpacked and put away. She had a while, yet, depending on how hard she worked Mia. Her suite alone was about the size of a bungalow, and Scarlett was determined to squeeze every possession possible into the space. Nothing chilled her more than a closet left empty or a dresser without clothes. Before her acclimation was complete, Scarlett was already dead set on pulling a few strings and prying Mia permanently away from her role as the front desk clerk, other guests be damned. Chapman could find another expendable bimbo to jiggle and giggle and smile vacantly at the incoming tourists.

Mia was hers, now.

Scarlett might have become a little addicted to Mia’s complete submission — the way she shamefully lowered her head and shrunk under Scarlett’s gaze. Ogling Mia’s bouncing baby fat as she scrambled about the suite wasn’t too bad, either! The image forced Scarlett’s thighs to clamp together as she writhed on her bed. She considered she was doing the fatty a favor by forcing her to run off a few pounds. Mia could use some discipline to temper her attitude and taper her figure.

Scarlett, on the other hand, had spent so much of the past few days drinking and devouring and lustfully plunging her fingers between her legs — she scarcely noticed her thigh gap slipping away. The only time she spread them open, in fact, was when she had finished with Mia and then locked the door to finish herself.

So to speak.

In those moments, however, Scarlett was so lost in visions of Mia grinding atop her that she hardly felt her fingers brush against the pooling flab of her upper thighs as she worked herself.

And it was exactly that: flab, loose and yielding. A thin layer clung to the muscle at first, before gradually inflating her legs with every day of disuse. It had begun to creep up to cover her hips bones, bloating the flesh beneath her belly button as the adipose expanded its conquest. Scarlett had but a pooch of a tummy to show for all her excess, her ribs still proudly outlined beneath her bust, but continued inactivity would be less forgiving. The potential consequences of her sloth were far from Scarlett’s mind, however, as the well-stocked suite and Mia’s fervent service gave her no reason yet to stretch her legs and leave.

She would have a lifetime to explore the island.

Instead, she simply completed her skin care and hygiene ritual each morning, glass of wine already in hand, before returning to her bed to be served breakfast and heckle Mia as she toiled. She had an in-suite pool all to herself and a private patio to maintain her tan, so traveling miles down to the actual beach seemed superfluous. Besides, the bulk of the island would technically be “under construction” for some time, so the majority of its facilities were closed and shuttered. Scarlett would have her chance to explore once Bacchanalia’s excesses were open and operational, which she hoped would be before the first shipment of yuppie tourists was dumped onto the island. Until then, though, why not enjoy the wonders at her fingertips?

Why not embrace the indulgences available to her without stepping foot outside her bed?

By noon of her seventh day on the island, Scarlett was a quarter bottle deep, had deftly devoured her breakfast and lunch, and was already thinking about sending Mia to fetch an appetizer from the kitchen to hold her over. As she sucked straight from the bottle, the masticated food brewing in her belly melted away, and the idea of a snack seemed ever more appealing.

She was usually up at dawn and a third through her wine by lunchtime, but her energy had been waning recently. Rising at 9 AM wasn’t so bad — still plenty of the day to be had — but by the time she had completed her morning routine and finished breakfast, lunch was only an hour or so away. This left her stuffed and lethargic through half the day, but hungry well before dinner, so she’d taken to squeezing in a small snack to keep herself sane until supper.

Scarlett had planned on reintroducing her yoga and cardio sets into her morning itinerary, but the trip to the island left her exhausted, the wine left her hungover, and Mia left her distracted and daydreaming. Now that her mornings were mostly eating, and she was too drunk to do much by the afternoon, Scarlett had forgotten about exercise altogether. Although she had essentially set up permanent residence in Bacchanalia, she still treated her stay like a vacation and felt no guilt in letting loose. Maybe she’d get back on track by the end of the week.

Maybe.

She tugged passively at the green velvet strings of her bikini bottom as they hugged her hips. After another gulp of wine, though, the tightness transformed into a pleasant, full-bodied tingle. Her hand resumed stroking the modest crest of her full belly.

Scarlett had intended to cool off in her pool after her back-to-back meals, but felt stuck to her bed after demolishing a three-egg omelette and then, an hour later, a honey chicken salad sandwich. The latter had been overpoweringly sweet, but that hadn’t stopped her from sucking the scraps from her plate after she finished. Scarlett hadn’t even considered refusing the dish, not once she smelled it, despite already being stuffed. The meal’s aroma and Mia’s sheepish servitude summoned drool to Scarlett’s lips, and all ideas of “no” were wiped from her mind.

Every time Mia scampered into her chambers like a beaten dog, Scarlett felt obligated to make a show of her meal, moaning and sucking and slurping, daring Mia to raise her head and behold her food-full cheeks and sneering grin.

But however much she teased and taunted her, Mia never had the spine to face her. Or that had been Scarlett’s assumption, at least. Behind Mia’s tangle of curls, her eyes were transfixed completely on Scarlett’s plump thighs and budding belly, each sparkling iris dancing with malice. With every slight and insult Mia suffered, she trained her focus on the Chapman girl’s slowly widening waist, numb to the abuse that Scarlett thought so effective.

A hollow apology, more wine, and Scarlett was none the wiser. Let her feel powerful, so long as it kept her skunk drunk and rooted in bed, fattening herself on the fruits of the island.