Fattened up in a Velvet Cage

Chapter 1 - Arthur to the Rescue

The world has always been a place of sharp edges and empty spaces for Elara. Her childhood was a collage of chipped paint on the walls of a cramped apartment, the gnawing ache of a stomach that was never quite full, and the shrill, tired anger of a mother who saw her as just another mouth to feed. Love, in her home, was a currency earned by being quiet, by being invisible, by not needing anything. She grew up believing she was a burden, a ghost haunting the edges of her own life.
She was working a double shift at a diner, the smell of fried onions clinging to her hair, when Arthur walked in. He was older, with kind eyes that crinkled at the corners and a suit that probably cost more than her family’s rent for a year. He didn’t just look at her- he saw her. He asked her name and listened, truly listened, as if it were the most important word he’d ever heard.

That was the beginning of the flood. Arthur didn’t just court her, he inundated her. He called it "making up for lost time," for all the years she’d been neglected. Flowers arrived at the diner. He’d pick her up after her grueling shifts, a warm car waiting to spirit her away from the cold bus stop. He brought her food and shakes.

Not just food, but feasts. At first, it was simple things, a gourmet burger to replace the cold toast she usually had for dinner. Then, it escalated. He’d cook for her in his sprawling, immaculate kitchen. Creamy pastas, rich stews with tender meat that fell off the bone, decadent chocolate cakes dusted with powdered sugar.
"You're too thin, my love," he'd murmur, stroking her hair as he placed another serving on her plate. "The world has starved you. Let me feed you. Let me take care of you." Her body held on to all the fat it could- not used to all these calories and not knowing when she’d get her next meal.

Every meal felt like an apology for the life she’d lived. Every bite was a balm on the old wounds of neglect. She’d never known such attention, such unwavering care. She quit her job at his insistence. He moved her into his beautiful home, a place of soft rugs and quiet warmth. He bought her new clothes when her old ones grew snug- soft, flowing dresses in silks and velvets that had no restrictive waistbands.
The pounds settled on her softly, like a blanket. At first, she welcomed them. They were proof of his love, of her new life of comfort and security. She was no longer the hungry, haunted girl with ribs like a washboard. She was soft, cherished.

The change was insidious, a slow tide rising so gradually she didn't notice she was drowning. She stopped going for walks because she’d get breathless. He’d just smile and say, "That's alright, darling. I'll bring the world to you." The world shrank to the size of his house. Her days became a gentle rhythm of waking, eating the magnificent breakfast he’d prepared, moving to the plush sofa to read, eating a multi-course lunch, napping, and then waking for an even more elaborate dinner. Her arms softened, her boobs grew heavy- resting on her stomach that pushed out almost to her knees. Her thighs were thick and separated due to her large stomach resting in between.

The realization came not as a lightning bolt, but as a slow, creeping horror. One afternoon, a small silver locket, one of the few things she had from her grandmother, slipped from her neck and skittered under the coffee table. She leaned forward to get it, a simple, thoughtless motion. And she couldn't.

Her belly, large and soft, pressed against her thighs, physically blocking her from bending over properly. She tried to shift, to get on her knees, but the effort left her panting, her heart hammering against her ribs. The sheer weight of her own body was an anchor, rooting her to the sofa. The locket lay there, glinting in the afternoon sun, a world away.

Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the warm fog of contentment she’d been living in. She looked down at herself, at the breadth of her thighs, the swell of her stomach, the arms that had lost all their lean definition. She was a stranger in her own skin.

When Arthur came home, he found her crying silently. He saw the locket on the floor. "Oh, my sweet girl," he cooed, his voice thick with an adoration that now sounded perverse. He knelt, his joints cracking, and retrieved it for her. He didn't ask why she was crying. He didn't seem to notice her distress. Instead, he looked at her, his gaze sweeping over her form with a profound, almost reverent satisfaction. "You are magnificent," he whispered, his eyes gleaming. "More beautiful than ever."

In that moment, she understood. This wasn't just care. This wasn't just love. This was a project. He hadn’t been feeding her; he had been building her, sculpting her into this immobile, dependent creature. He hadn’t freed her from her old life; he had just built a more beautiful, comfortable cage and fattened her for it.Now, she is trapped. Getting out of bed is a monumental effort. Walking to the bathroom leaves her winded. The thought of running, of escaping, is a physical impossibility. The idea of returning home, to the cold scorn of her family, is a different kind of prison, one she isn’t sure she could survive. They would mock her, their cruel words sharper than any hunger pang she’d ever known.

So she stays. She sits in the velvet prison he built for her, surrounded by a luxury that feels like chains. Sometimes, she looks in the mirror and tries to find the girl she was, but she’s buried deep beneath the woman he created.
In the evenings, he still brings her dessert on a silver tray.. a slice of cheesecake, a bowl of mousse, a piece of pie. He sits beside her, spoon in hand, his eyes full of that terrifying, possessive love. And with the ghost of her terrible past on one side and this monstrous present on the other, she opens her mouth. She doesn't know if she has the strength to turn it all around, or if she even knows how to begin.