Chapter 6 - playing at power (2/2)

Only well into Scarlett’s first few weeks on Bacchanalia (not that she had been sober enough to keep track of the days) did it occur to her, in her wine-marinated brain, to have an actual conversation with Mia. Stifling a burp, she clumsily dragged her booze-bloated body upright and cried out for Mia’s presence. While there was a service buzzer niftily built into her headboard, she hoped the sound of her voice had begun to instill dread in the clerk, even as a distant echo. It was all about adding that personal touch!

Scarlett may have wanted nothing more than to pick Mia’s brain, but that would never supersede an easy opportunity to put her in her place.

Two birds, one drunken bellow.

She was wearing the same green velvet swimsuit from a couple days back, but now the bandeau top had also taken up the effort of constricting Scarlett’s body. Ever since her new eating habits had turned chronic, her ribs had slowly sunk beneath a fleshy knoll of chub that shyly swelled below her tits and distended her midriff. The bone was still just under the surface, albeit invisible, but the damage was more profound further down.

Newborn rolls budded from her waist, sabotaging the cinched hourglass figure she had been working towards. Her ass had widened to compensate for her dwindling hip-to-waist ratio, and the expansion had subsequently sprouted supple love handles on her frame, expediting the strain on her bikini bottom’s strings. The rest of the weight settled in the base of her backside and spread her cheeks across the bed, like ice cream dropped on hot concrete, in those first fleeting moments when it has yet to truly liquify. Her thighs had risen like fresh dough to meet the round paunch pushing out toward her lap, the belly fat collapsing in on itself as Scarlett settled into a slouch. Had she been standing, her fledgling gut would have only managed to push weakly against her bikini, as it was still many meals away from making unconditional contact with her lap.

Sitting upright, however, allowed thighs and belly to mold together in a brief kiss, a lover’s promise to reunite someday.

Permanently.

So far, most of her belly’s volume was merely bloating from her dizzying wine consumption. Still, with Scarlett’s developing appetite, it made a fine foundation for further growth.

Presently, she had become pleasantly shapely, just a little green around the gills from grazing. A cheat week (or three) wasn’t enough to warrant cellulite so early on, but her gym-honed musculature could not hold out indefinitely. Seven days had already been ample time to soften her curves, and seven more and seven more since made for a rather plump heiress. The few times Scarlett bothered to slide out of bed and roam about her suite, she felt the impact of each step send tremors through the adipose she had unintentionally (yet so, so eagerly) added to her frame.

As long as she kept the wine flowing into her belly, though, all she ever felt was that warm, loving tingle she had started to pursue so relentlessly.

Mia was taking her time, evidently. Probably busying herself with inconsequential errands, no doubt. Scarlett nursed her bottle impatiently, having permanently abandoned wine glasses and gone straight to the source. She tried to count the seconds until Mia’s arrival while she picked at the fruit salad on her bedside table, but lost herself in her inebriation before she reached half a minute. Scarlett preferred to focus on finishing her fruit and sucking the syrupy topping off her fingers. It wasn’t maple or agave or any kind of honey, but god, she would have drowned herself in it, and gladly.

Now that she got to thinking, most food she had eaten was similarly saccharine and every bit as delicious. She couldn’t remember the last time she had turned down a meal or even skipped a snack. How many times had she made Mia refill her fruit salad today? How many times in the past hour? How was she still hungry? How much was she eat—

Mia had arrived, at long last, and Scarlett’s train of thought rocketed off its tracks and plunged back into a sea of wine.

Was that a fresh bottle, just for her? More importantly, though: more food! The glistening roast nestled atop buttery puffs of mashed potato sent her salivary glands into overdrive, and Scarlett lifted her bottle to her lips to stem the flow of drool.

Empty.

Damn, had she drained the thing already? But these were meant to be massive! Now way could she have downed its entire volume in under a day, right? She had probably failed to finish it off the night before, and simply polished off the leftover stock. Back in the day, Scarlett had attained an almost impressive tier of alcoholism when she blew the first several Chapman checks on her party phase, but her daily consumption wouldn’t have filled one of Bacchanalia’s towering decanters, even at the height of her addiction. Now, however, notion was all the more baffling. Most mind altering substances bored her (more due to the tolerance she had built rather than any actual self-control), so why was she choking down booze like it was water?

Nonplused at the possibility of a relapse, she remembered the reason she had summoned Mia in the first place. The food could wait, for a little bit.

A couple minutes, maybe.

Scarlett felt her stomach gurgle as she opened her mouth to speak, drool still teasing the edges of her lips.

“So, uh, what’s in this wine anyway?”

A ridiculous question, given that the liquid was on its way to replacing the very blood in her veins, but better late than never!

“There is a reason that we reserve this wine as a consolation for our, ah, slighted guests. This wine cannot be made anywhere else in the world, you see. It is fermented with the lifeblood of our island: Dapsaelia.”

That word… Scarlett had heard it before in the states while she had been tracking down Bacchanalia. At the time, she’d brushed it off as some health food fad, having no idea that Chapman had orchestrated its production and distribution. Once the FDA had signed off on it, influencers swooped in to represent the brand, but she had tired of those petty pursuits at that point.

Who would have thought it had all been connected from the start?

“It is a bit more, ah, potent than what you will find in America. Additionally, it acts as…”

Mia’s breathy spiel trailed off as she grasped for the word.

“As an aphrodisiac,” she enunciated carefully, suppressing her contempt for the colonizer’s tongue. They had cared little for her language or her knowledge, obsessed only with Dapsaelia’s taste and the money to be made. Her people’s traditions of distillation were forgotten and, more often, buried with the bodies of the fallen. The original process was gradual, unsustainable for generating capital, but it removed the less savory side effects of the plant, leaving primarily its nutrient rich essence. What distillation could not catch, an active, agricultural lifestyle and years of generational immunity worked together to suppress.

The settlers had neither of these protections, of course, and had forsaken the sage advice of the indigenous population. Heartless, senseless, American pigs. They would soon learn their place. Yes, they would know the true nature of Dapsaelia, unadulterated. They had refused to listen, so they would see with their own eyes, feel with their own flesh.

“Fun fact,” Mia continued, her tour guide routine propping up her dwindling composure, “most of our meals here are made with Dapsaelia, one way or the other. Our team has thoroughly researched its usage, and the health benefits are undeniable…”

Mia launched into a practiced lecture of whatever bogus research Chapman had commissioned. She hit all the talking points that had been hammered into her, even as her eyes passed over Scarlett’s glazed gaze and rested on her pudgy midsection. Mia only half heard herself as she reveled in the Chapman girl’s promising starter belly, but its rumbling growl was unmistakable in origin and in intent.

“Shut, urp, your mouth for once, ‘kay? You’re gonna bore me t’death if I don’t starve from starin’ at th’food first,” Scarlett slurred, struggling onto her knees.

The poor thing had not left her bed since she’d gotten out of the shower earlier in the day, and her equilibrium was shot to shit after finishing the rest of her wine. Scarlett hadn’t felt the least bit nauseous all week, miraculously, although she was unsure if that was to the credit of her own tenacity or some obscure health benefit that Mia had been droning on about.

Whatever. She was hungry.

“Open th’wine n’ get th’fuck out,” Scarlett mumbled, cruel enough to get in a final barb but too famished to inject any venom in it.

Mia didn’t mind. Scarlett may have become more hostile as she descended into unabating inebriation, but her newly formed fixation on the Dapsaelia-dosed food meant that her mouth was usually too full to sling insults effectively.

“Yes, Miss Chapman,” Mia whispered as she uncorked Scarlett’s second bottle of wine for the day, “If you so desire a dessert menu, I will be on standby.”

Without another word, she turned on her heels and left Scarlett to her dinner. Famished as she was, she hardly waited for the door to close before dragging the meal cart toward her bed and wetting her lips with more wine.

“Th’aphrodeezy shit’s no joke,” Scarlett gasped, booze spilling down her breasts as she ineptly plucked the bottle from her mouth. The food, the wine, the sight of Mia’s ass swaying as she ambled through the doorway — god! It was too much. She had abandoned her empty sexual endeavors years back, but desire had inexplicably been made new on Bacchanalia. Scarlett felt like she had discovered sex for the first time, but without any of the shame or inexperience.

Ah, concupiscence sublime!

While one knuckle-white hand gripped the meal cart, her other hand dove greedily into her center. Utensils cast aside, Scarlett gave herself over completely to the sweet sins of Dapsaelia, bucking her hips as if in heat and ravaging her dinner like a mannerless beast.

Like a heartless, senseless, American pig.

As Scarlett ate with absolute abandon, she set about working up an appetite for dessert.