Tulum, Mexico: A Feast of Fools

The clinic was pristine, all white marble and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the turquoise sea. Lauren had expected something clandestine, but the opulence reassured her. Of course, she thought, only the best for me.

Doctor Diaz, crisp lab coat starched to surgical stiffness, greeted them. “Hola, Ms. Aldridge. We’ve been… anticipating you.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Lauren clicked her four-inch Louboutins against the marble, already impatient. “Skip the pleasantries. When do we begin?”

A glance flickered between Diaz and Damien too practiced to be accidental. Lauren caught it. Her spine prickled, but she smothered the feeling. Paranoia, she told herself. You’re paying them. You're untouchable.

"As per the email, your instructions were to have no food or water upon waking up," Doctor Diaz replied, "if you did as instructed we can begin the first portion today."

Her stilettos clicked with every stride as Doctor Diaz led her to a sleek, windowless chamber dominated by a sarcophagus of white steel. "First, we'll require a full-body scan to customize your treatment. The process takes roughly five hours," he explained.

Lauren nodded impatiently, but a flicker of unease cut through her arrogance. She was a little caught off guard by the five-hour timeframe. She'd assumed she'd be in and out by lunch. She looked at Damien for reassurance, gripping his hand tightly.

"You must remove everything, meaning clothes, jewelry, and yes, underwear. They will interfere with the scan. You'll find a robe in the changeroom," Doctor Diaz said, motioning to a door.

Lauren arched a brow but complied. She had nothing to hide or so she thought, but the robe was thinner than expected, barely thicker than tissue paper. The changeroom’s mirrorless walls felt intentional, denying her the reassurance of her own reflection.

At 10:47 AM, a nurse helped her onto the scanning platform, fitting her with blackout goggles. “Don’t move. Don’t speak. The machine will start in around ten minutes. I'll come to get you for a short break at the halfway point.” That was the last thing Lauren heard before the nurse sealed her ears with snug, noise-cancelling wax earbuds, a procedure Lauren found odd. Why deafen her for a simple scan? But she dismissed the thought as the wax muted the world, plunging her into a void where only her own thoughts remained. The platform was cold as ice, the thin paper gown doing nothing against the chill.

For a while, nothing happened. Nothing at all. Just the rhythmic thud of her own heartbeat. Then, vibrations as the machine hummed to life. Blue light traced her body in slow, methodical strips, pausing longest at her augmented curves. The machine never touched her, yet she felt awkward and exposed in the paper thin gown; the 40Ds she’d bought, the waist she’d sculpted, the ass she’d financed, every detail laid bare under the machine's unblinking gaze.

By noon, sweat pooled uncomfortably in the hollow of her throat, the warm air inside the chamber thick with the sterile tang of metal. Her stomach cramped, a sharp twist of hunger that was becoming impossible to ignore. Did the clinic overlook something as basic as food and water? Or was deprivation itself part of the design, another quiet test of endurance?

At 1:09 PM, the vibrations from the machine came to a halt. She jolted at the touch of cold hands helping her sit up. The goggles stayed fastened around her eyes, but the earbuds were removed. A figure, she assumed was the nurse, wiped down her sweaty body. It was odd, but she dismissed it as part of the clinic's peculiar, luxurious service.

Then, a familiar smell followed, Damien's woody bergamot cologne. He placed a kiss on her clammy cheek. "Doing great, beautiful," he whispered.

Before she could form a word, a different set of earbuds were wedged back into her ears, these ones seemingly more effective at blocking sound. She was laid back down, plunged back into silence before the machine vibrated to life again.

In the absolute silence and darkness, time quickly lost all meaning. It could have been ten minutes or ten hours; there was no way of knowing. As her mind wandered, starved of stimulus, it conjured a memory so vivid she could almost feel him, the smell of his rich, unmistakable scent of woody bergamot. It felt real, but that was impossible. A whisper cut through the silence: "Beautiful." So close she flinched. Panic tightened in her chest. What was happening? Was she hallucinating? Or just losing her mind? She promised herself she'd hug Damien after this. The thought was shattered by a violent growl from her stomach that seemed to echo through the chamber. The sudden pang of hunger made her gasp, making her also acutely aware of her thirst. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She'd kill for a sip of water.

At 3:53 PM, the machine's vibrations stopped once more. Lauren lay frozen. Only when the goggles were peeled away did she realize it was over. Light stabbed into her vision like shards of glass as she recoiled with a gasp, her eyes flooding with reflexive tears. The earbuds were removed from her ears as the sound overwhelmed her senses: the nurse's muffled voice, the hiss of the machine powering down, her own ragged breathing. Everything felt uncomfortable after hours of darkness and silence. Her muscles screamed as she tried to move, stiff as rusted hinges. The damp robe clung to her skin, and a metallic taste coated her tongue like she'd been biting down on foil for hours.

Doctor Diaz studied the holographic results, her body rendered in glowing blue cross-sections; his expression unreadable, hovering between clinical detachment and something uncomfortably close to hunger. “Fascinating,” he murmured, zooming in with a few swift taps, the hologram's cool blue light was suddenly drenched in pulsing waves of ominous red.

“What's wrong?” her voice cracked like parched earth.

He immediately tapped the screen again, restoring the image to its calm blue state. A fraction of a second too late. “Nothing concerning,” he said smoothly, but the afterimage of the violent red glow was burned into her eyes. What had it highlighted? “Merely… remarkable baseline data.” He turned to Damien. “We’ll need a week to prepare. In the meantime, take care of our VIP guest and enjoy our resort.”

“A week?” Lauren's vision swam. Several hours without food or water had reduced her to a shivering, hollowed-out husk.

Damien slid an arm around her waist, his grip just shy of painful. “Think of it as a vacation." His thumb stroked the prominent ridge of her hip bone through the paper-thin robe. The touch should have felt intimate, but it lacked warmth. "Sun, sand… and me.”

Lauren swayed, her knees bucking slightly. She'd like that. The scan had hollowed her out, left her trembling with exhaustion and low blood sugar. "Fine," she conceded, “But if I don’t see results, this ‘paradise’ of yours will be a lawsuit.”

The doctor bowed slightly. “Naturally, Ms. Aldridge.”

As they exited towards the changeroom, Lauren leaned heavily on Damien's arm. "Food. Now," she demanded.

"Clothes first," he replied, kissing her damp forehead. "Can't have you seen like this."

In the changeroom, Lauren wrestled with her designer ensemble like a drunk college freshman: the silk slithering through her trembling fingers, the zipper catching twice on her sweat-slicked skin. Three attempts to fasten her bra left her panting. As she emerged, her reflection in the hallway mirror shocked her: smeared makeup, sweat-darkened roots, a hollow look in her eyes that no amount of powder could disguise.

Damien stood waiting with a chilled bottle of "PesoPleno." The crimson label boasted obscure Spanish phrases, its label hiding "estimulantes del apetito" and "ralentizadores metabólicos" in tiny print.

"Drink," he ordered, tilting it to her lips. The shake coated her tongue with heavy vanilla-chalk thickness, but Lauren gulped it greedily. She’d never consumed anything so vile so gratefully. Something about the formula made her swallow faster with her body overriding her revulsion, forcing **** swallows.

"Easy princess," Damien chided, wiping dribbles on her chin with his thumb. The gesture was almost tender. "You'll make yourself sick."

The shake settled her empty stomach like wet concrete, but the sugar rush temporarily propped her sagging posture. Her vision sharpened just enough to notice Damien tucking a second bottle into his jacket.

“Better?” Damien asked, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

Lauren nodded, too drained to question his surprisingly firm grip on her wrist. As they began the short walk to the resort, her stomach let out a loud, unmistakable rumble. Damien chuckled, sweeping her up into his arms before she could protest. Caught off guard by his sudden assertiveness, she stiffened for a second. The words "put me down" were on the edge of her lips, but as he cradled her tight against his chest like a trophy he'd won, she decided just this once she'd allow it. The audacity of it flattered her. It was an unexpected feeling, surrendering herself completely to his control. He carried her straight past the hotel restaurants without a glance, his mouth brushing her hairline as they waited for the elevator, each touch a brand of possession.

With a soft chime, the penthouse suite doors parted, unleashing a decadent aroma that made Lauren lick her lips. It was the kind of rich, indulgent scent she normally denied herself but secretly craved. Whiffs of roasted garlic, smokey cheese from quesadillas, a sizzling arrachera, and churros exhaling cinnamon, amongst other flavours. Her stomach growled violently in response.

With a chuckle, Damien set her down. Her legs buckled from exhaustion. Seeing this, he grabbed her waist to propel her forward, his firm grip leaving crescent moon indents on her silk-clad hip. The dining table was a shrine to excess, loaded with several silver domes hiding steaming platters, ice buckets cradling magnums of '99 Kurg and 1921 Reposado Tequila, and a whole suckling pig sat glazed to obscenity.

"Sit," he instructed, pulling out her chair with exaggerated chivalry. Lauren collapsed into it, her designer ensemble constricting like a second skin.

One by one, Damien lifted the silver domes with a showman's flourish, revealing steaming enchiladas swimming in mole, birria consommé swirling with rendered fat, a tower of crispy carnitas. Other platters were filled with deep-fried gorditas glistening with grease, alongside enough tacos, burritos, and enchiladas to feed a small banquet. Lauren's mouth watered, a traitorous reaction she'd spent decades suppressing, but several hours without food had left her willpower weakened. Her fingers twitched toward the nearest fork, but Damien intercepted her wrist.

"Let me," he said, loading a gold-rimmed plate like a sacrificial offering. His tongs piled three al pastor tacos onto her plate, the juices soaking through the tortillas. "Open."

Lauren obeyed. The first bite of marinated fatty pork and charred pineapple ignited a wildfire in her gut. She whimpered, barely chewing before swallowing.

"Good girl," Damien purred, already replacing the empty space on her plate with cheesy enchiladas. "Again."

By the fourth plate, Lauren's vision blurred somewhere between rapture and panic. Her figure-hugging skirt dug into her flushed skin, her stomach mildly bloating and visibly straining against the seams from the onslaught of food. Yet she kept eating, passively accepting whatever Damien fed her next. "It’s just the stupid clinic," she rationalized to herself, licking carnitas grease from her thumb. "Anyone would be starving after hours of scanning."

The PesoPleno's chemicals worked silently, amplifying every salty, greasy note until her hunger became something instinctual and gluttonous. Each surrender to Damien's fork brought a rush of shame… and a secret giddy rush. She would never admit how much she enjoyed the flavours in her mouth, oblivious to the soft popping sounds of thread giving way along the sides and back seams of her silk skirt.

"I can't—" she gasped as Damien wedged a chocolate-dipped churro between her lips.

"Shhh," he soothed, dabbing her sauce-smeared lips with a napkin even while his other hand simultaneously drizzled more crema across her enchiladas. "I know what you need, my love. Don't think. Just enjoy. This was all for you."

Her designer skirt, which had fit perfectly just hours ago, groaned in protest, the fabric stretched to its limit. Another couple stitches snapped at the back of her waist, its faint pop muffled by the clatter of cutlery. The zipper at the back strained visibly, the metal teeth pulling apart under the tension until, with a low metallic zzzzzip-crack, the slider jammed, hopelessly misaligned and leaving a gaping slit open. Lost in a fog of induced gluttony, Lauren registered none of it. Her world had narrowed to the relentless pace of Damien's fork, the unmistakable pressure of her own sweaty thighs clamping together with every bite, and the deceptively soft touch of his fingers wiping the grease around her lips.

Somewhere between the eighth taco and a deep, involuntary moan of fullness, a sliver of clarity pierced the haze.

"Stop… I really can't—," she slurred, pushing feebly at his wrist.

"Just one more bite. For me?" he coaxed, his smile a flawless performance that never touched his eyes. He held up a forkful of cheesy enchilada that glistened with heavy crema. "You need to keep your strength up. Relax and let me pamper you, beautiful."

The rich, heavy aroma was a collar around her neck, its pull intensified by Damien's charming smile. All this ensured any resistance was futile. Lauren's jaw fell open in surrender as Damien **** another forkful into her mouth. She chewed slowly, the effort monumental. Her eyelids fluttered, feeling heavier with every chew. The rich food, the champagne, and the shake's metabolic decelerators blended into a sedative cocktail, pulling her closer towards unconsciousness.

Lauren fought hard to stay awake, but her usually strong will had dissolved into exhaustion. She continued to obediently accept several more bites, her numb compliance fuelled by a strange desire to please him.

Finally, she reached her absolute limit. She slumped back, eyes closed against the chair, a trail of crema and grease dripping onto her blouse. Damien watched, his expression shifting from loving admiration to a cold, calculating gaze.

"Lauren? Babe?" he whispered, giving her shoulders a gentle shake.

Only a soft, sleepy whimper escaped her grease-smeared lips.

"You must be exhausted, falling asleep while eating," he cooed, his voice laced with feigned concern. Satisfaction curled his mouth as he stood, not bothering to clean her up.

He scooped her into his arms like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. Her head rolled against his shoulder, her body a lethargic, overfull weight.

He carried through the opulent suite and laid her gently on the vast king-sized bed, carefully arranging the silk pillows beneath her head.

"Let's get you out of these uncomfortable clothes," he murmured, his voice a low, deceptively caring whisper. His hands first settled on her stomach, caressing the bloated curve like a good luck charm before moving to the buttons of her stained blouse. His touch was precise and gentle as he undressed her. After sliding it off, he carefully rolled her onto her side. His eyes methodically scanned over the skirt, lingering on the array of popped seams and the broken, gaping zipper with an approving smirk. He tugged the jammed slider down the zipper and eased the tight skirt over her hips and off her limp body, leaving her in her now-straining lingerie.

"That should feel a little better," he whispered, his fingers tracing the angry red lines the constricting skirt had left. The swell of her belly stretched her lacy panties tight, the elastic waistband digging into the soft flesh of her hips, imprinting its lacy pattern into her skin. He then made quick work of her bra, tossing it aside. He took a moment to appreciate the sight. Soon, her powerful, curated body would be a distant memory.

From her suitcase, he retrieved a packet of makeup remover wipes. "Try not to move while I clear this off your face," he whispered, tenderly wiping away the smeared makeup. Next, he produced a small, unmarked vial from his jacket pocket, the special serum from Doctor Diaz. He dampened a face towel with the green liquid and thoroughly applied it on her perfectly shaped eyebrow, her upper lip, and her armpits, ensuring a thin layer remained to slowly absorb into the skin.

With the mysterious serum applied, he slipped an oversized tee over her head. Stepping back, he assessed his work: the soon-to-be fallen goddess of Celestia, reduced to this state by his design.

"Sleep well, beautiful," he whispered, planting a soft kiss on her forehead.

Satisfied, he pulled his phone from his pocket. The screen's glow lit his face as he began to document his work. The silent shutter clicked again and again, capturing every angle: a close-up of the angry red marks carved into her skin, the distended curve of her stomach under the thin tee, the faint trail of drool trickling out of her greasy, parted lips and onto her chin. He panned the camera down to the ruined skirt pooled on the floor. Only when every detail was catalogued did he lower his phone to type a message to an unknown contact.