Cost of Independence

Chapter 1

She was a glamorous, shining marvel.

A calculated posture leaning over the microphone, smile plastered on her full, glossed lips. A tight dress showing off the way her waist tapered in, and hips curved out from beneath them— and above, a plunging neckline revealing a pair of full, perky breasts, topping off her gorgeous hourglass silhouette. Her face was cute and delicately featured, green eyes bright and expressive and framed by luscious, silky brown hair that flowed down past her chest.

Cheekbones prominent. Jawline sharp.

Arms toned. Skin a golden, healthy tan. It was an unfortunate thing her toned bubble butt of an ass and slender legs weren’t able to be seen from that angle— but she knew they were there.

And then, lower still, the words, in gleaming bold letters: NEW ACT: FRIDAY THIS WEEK

She really did look hot in that poster. A real bombshell— but cute and approachable.

She pulled away from the poster and once again felt the stick of a hot spring’s day lining her forehead and coating her exposed stomach. She rushed to close the curtains, but did so lazily, still leaving them partly open. Finally, she sat down on the end of her bed, springs creaking; the roundness of her new, pale gut spilling out over her thighs. As if still newly shocked by the sight, she could do nothing but lightly trace the rounded outline of her belly with one manicured nail. The last symbol of her former perfection: a neatly trimmed red nail. She remembered when her waist came in, when her stomach was sleek and toned. She stared disappointedly at her breasts, once well-sized and perfect for her hourglass shape, which had now inflated— though not as much as the gut they now rested on lazily.

Like the dress from the promotional poster, that memory had become completely buried.

Her outfit wasn’t flattering, but for sleep clothes, they were the most comfortable for her recently ballooned body: a crop top that, at this point, barely contained her swollen chest, and the bottoms of an old, dark red bikini, stretched to their limits. At least she was matching her nails, right?

Her new apartment was cramped, in a boring part of town, and not at all the type of glamour she first encountered when she stepped into this town.

Serenidad was a small, but old, coastal town in the south of Spain. Despite it being “small,” it was still bigger than her hometown by about 25,000 people (and when your hometown has 4,000 people in it, that kind of jump can make all the difference).

She didn’t want to go to university, at least not too badly. An argument with her mother had her storming out of the house with money she’d saved over the years and getting the first bus to the town of Serenidad. She stepped off into the town center, admiring the open plaza and older buildings; the town felt familiar, but was much bigger and historic, and without the stench of family she was trying to run away from in a desperate bid for independence.

Her saved cash got her first month’s rent at a small apartment near the center of town, and a brisk walk after dinner one evening a week later had her stepping into a local jazz club wearing a size 2 cocktail dress and looking to kill time. During a break in the music, drinking alone, a man asked if she could sing, and she said yes— she’d been singing for years.

A week later, the poster that now adorned her wall was made, and she became the trendy nightspot’s newest hit.

She walked to the front door after remembering the knock she heard earlier, groaning as she stood up from the bed and stretched her arms over her head. Her belly jutted out, wobbling and immensely globular before she finally put her arms at her side again. With the loss of her slim figure, she’d taken to sometimes cradling her belly with one arm to lessen the pressure on her back.

Her beefy thighs rubbed together, and her widened hips bumped into the small closet of clothes that maybe still fit her— the rest of her expensive old wear were in boxes, cast aside near the foot of her bed.

She opened the door and saw a medium-sized box, delightfully wrapped with a pink bow, with a small note on top that read: “New recipe, tell me what you think!

She could already smell the warm sugar wafting from inside.

Crouching down, she felt the girth of her belly fold into two thick rolls as she grabbed the box by both ends and carried it into the apartment, shutting the door with her foot. The walk back was a struggle— making her arms sore within just a few seconds, to the point where she needed to rest the box on the dome of her gut until she unceremoniously dropped it onto her bed with a huff.

She first met Maria after a long day shift— early afternoon to evening performances— and had changed from her sparkling, form-fitting red dress into a comfortable mini skirt and cropped top for a walk around town.

It was only after walking for a few minutes, admiring the sunset, venturing into a part of town that was close but that she hadn’t been to before— that she saw it.

A small bakery, the same smell that now filled her apartment simply dancing through the air, almost begging her to enter.

And she did.

Maria was standing behind the counter, herself a little chubby, in a way that made her seem approachable and non-threatening. She was tired and felt like something sweet, and oh didn’t all her treats just look so delectable?

She picked out a small brownie, which was delicately wrapped in a bag and handed to her— her slim fingers grabbing that sweet first joy as she walked out, hips swaying.

It wasn’t long before she became her favorite and most reliable customer— being so slender and beautiful, she’d never had to worry much about her weight, and a fast metabolism kept off any unwanted pounds for a little while, even as her habits degraded and she became closer and closer with Maria.

Maria began giving her free goodies, and later, as they became closer, even delivered new recipes to her house. Sometimes, after a long show, she’d go up to her apartment— above the bakery, and she’d cook her a warm, heavy meal. Something that left her stomach achingly full and kept her pinned in her seat while she massaged her waist in lazy circles.

The pounds started coming on slowly, and at first targeted her chest and hips— the first five or ten pounds anyway. The next fifty or sixty ended up in less flattering places: her face, her arms, but most of all, her waist and her stomach.

Her stage dresses grew tighter, but she quickly dismissed it— being so naturally and effortlessly slim and gorgeous, it didn’t really occur to her. It took increasingly more makeup to define her face and make its increasingly puffy appearance more presentable. Her sharp and pretty features were becoming saddled with fat— the harsh spotlight went from highlighting an angular jaw and prominent cheekbones to highlighting the chubby beginnings of a double chin and chipmunk cheeks.

Soon, the dresses stopped fitting altogether: an embarrassing evening where a dazzling orange number got caught while a costume assistant attempted to slip it up past her waist. She tugged, trying to push in her developing pot belly as the costume assistant asked, with increasing frustration, if she could “suck in a little more.”

The show was cancelled, a backup act on stage that night, and all her dresses and costumes needed tailoring— unknowingly a final warning from her boss, still hopeful that she could turn it around.

Why didn’t she? Was the food that good?

At 20 lbs, she was fired. They didn’t want to go up another size for her, and she wasn’t talented enough to justify the cost. Besides, they could get another pretty face through the door at any time. Now, if she lost weight, maybe she could’ve come back and asked for her job back.

But she didn’t.

With no job to add structure, she settled into a routine of increasingly idle snacking, alongside trips to the bakery and meals by Maria. She drank a good bottle of wine a day if she could help herself, and Maria usually had one on hand. When she felt too lazy, sometimes she’d stay inside, thinking of taking a break, before Maria had knocked on her door and left her a bursting box of treats for her to munch on while she scanned the fridge for leftovers.

She started spending more time with Maria. A drunk kiss after dinner turned into an explosive night together, and from then on, she was there a lot more often, even joining her at the bakery sometimes for her to try things. The apron Maria would tie around her waist had a little less string at the back each time she put it on. Her overfed little helper.

Maybe she’d grown too tired of the control— the perfection. Out on her own, so fiercely independent, beautiful and with good money from a flashy job. Too much time spent basking in compliments and admiration, free drinks and gifts. During various flings and several one-night stands, she’d always naturally been in control— being so beautiful she was used to such power over men.

But Maria didn’t care.

She laughed when she couldn’t suck in her gut enough to button a pair of jeans. She’d chuckle and pat her exposed belly after she’d eaten too much dinner and drank too much wine, head staring up at the ceiling, leaning back as her tight shirt slipped up over her overfull, tight-as-a-drum gut, sloshing from all that she’d stuffed it with. Only ten minutes later she’d be in handcuffs on Maria’s bed, eating from a box of brownies she made and moaning all night.

She began to get fatter, her belly getting rounder, legs getting thicker and hips getting wider. Her proud chest got fuller. She stayed inside more unless it was to be at Maria’s or the bakery.

Maria would sometimes pinch an exposed love handle and call her tubby. She’d introduce her as that former singing talent whose faded face and figure could still be seen on posters around town.

More nights were spent on Maria’s couch or at her table, groaning as she massaged her full belly, or had Maria do it for her—before she raised an éclair or cupcake to her lips, or even another spoonful of oily, heavy pasta that she might not have finished.

Her clothes became increasingly loose and forgiving until she simply started to spend more time in old bikinis or stretchy lingerie, less constraining on her swelling frame.

At around 45 lbs, Maria decided to announce that she’d gotten a girlfriend—randomly—while she struggled to digest an immense lasagna Maria had given her for dinner, red-cheeked and embarrassed. Although they were never official, she thought she had something with Maria that went beyond being stuffed at her apartment and spending passionate nights with one another.

Maria’s girlfriend, Emilia, was a gorgeous blonde from France or someplace— and she was introduced to her while she worked at the bakery one afternoon. Maria even gave her belly, all too outlined in the right apron, shirt, and pants, a healthy pat, calling her her “taste tester.” Emilia said she’d heard about her, and how she liked herself a treat, and jokingly asked for a recommendation before pulling her into a hug. She felt her belly press into Emilia’s slender body, and felt her toned arms and slender fingers wrap around her squishy back.

That was three months ago. She had to move out of her spacious apartment near the town center when she couldn’t afford it, into this shoebox.

She still went to the bakery when she could be bothered, but spent more and more time at home lately—doing nothing but scrolling on her phone, looking at old photos, eating, and drinking. Like she had today, she thought, as she gazed at the mostly finished box of large pizza and half-empty bottle of red wine.

And Maria still sent treats to her apartment.