The Royal Treatment
By J.D Freshenmeyer
Margot screamed loud enough that birds in a nearby tree flew off in a panic. “GAHHH. What is this?” She spat a mouthful into the grass and all over the assistant’s shoe.
“Bottled water,” he answered, almost as a question, like he wasn’t sure himself.
“Is this store brand?” she demanded.
“Where else do you ge—”
She threw the bottle on the ground. “You’re so far beyond fired it’s not even funny, you know that?”
“I don’t work for you. I work for the agency.”
“Can we just get on with this while there’s still daylight, please?” Alan, the director, called out. “I don’t think anyone wants to have to come back for a second day of this.”
“Ugh, fine. Pick that up,” she told the assistant. “Let’s be good to nature, alright?” She walked off, and on the way—dumped her robe in the arms of a second assistant. Her agent wasn’t getting a Christmas bonus this year. And unlike the idiot that didn’t know the difference between bottled and filtered water, he was very much in her employ, and therefore fireable. Oh, who was she kidding? Her manager Carson would probably still be working for her long after they were both dead and in the ground.
He was a shrew, and certainly lived up (if that was the right word) to their reputation. Whatever he lacked in manners and people skills, he more than made up for in business instinct. He’d actually given up the habit of cheap cigars—at her insistence, but remained staunch in his other habits of atrocious fashion and cheap cologne. His wardrobe consisted of about three rainbow checker-pattern suit jackets (though it could have just been the same one, she couldn’t tell), and he smelled like room deodorizer.
The other girls sitting under the tarp thought her little freakout was hilarious. “Guess she’s a spitter after all,” one of them said.
Margot gave them the facial equivalent of a middle finger, looking directly at Genevieve Almont (an antelope). “Good one. If your brains were in your head instead of your fat ass, maybe you’d be on the cover instead of page six.”
“Oh, you can stay there,” she said back. “Gotta give your step-dad something to jerk off to on the can.”
“You come up with that one while you were staring up at the ceiling in your fold-out bed in that one-room apartment you’re all crammed into?”
There was a look of absolute horror on her face. Yeah, that shut her up. Margot had done her research. She had dirt on every one of these nobodies. She knew who dyed their fur, whose parents’ marriages were on the rocks, who was on what medications. Enjoy page six, you sorry-looking bitch.
“Margot, please,” Alan said.
“Fine. Where do you want me?”
“In front of the camera would be nice.”
“And you want me to kneel in that?” she asked, pointing to a patch of grass.
Alan gave her a look through his pink-tinted square sunglasses with a slightly cocked head. He was a cheetah, but how, as a fashion director, he was oblivious to the fact his pink shirt didn’t work with his yellow and black spots was anyone’s guess.
She decided not to push her luck any further. While she absolutely deserved to be on the front page, who actually got there came down more to internal politics and a popularity contest. She had to stay in his good books, at the very least.
Margot was 13, and had been modeling since she was 8. Her career had started on a whim, after she saw a pretty snow leopard in a magazine while she was waiting at the doctor’s office. She’d turned to her mother and told her “I want to be in magazines, too.” And bottomless wealth, like it did with most things, had made it happen. That wasn’t to say she’d just coasted and hadn’t put in the work. She’d grinded her ass off and climbed over countless other wannabees to stand at the top of the pile.
They were in a forest clearing. Trees, grass up to your ankles, blue sky. You know what nature looks like. The theme of the shoot was “A return to our ancestors.” In practice, this meant Margot Harcourt, supermodel, celebrity, household name, was reduced to kneeling in the dirt in a brown, two-piece cave bikini in the middle of nowhere. While bugs touched her, and her less talented, more gravitationally disadvantaged—friends? No. Coworkers? Sources of shade? Sat around making unoriginal comments while they waited for their meager time to shine.
It wasn’t just raw talent that put her leagues above them (though it certainly helped), it was the genetic blessing her parents had gifted her. She was a wolf, ostensibly, with a bit of fox from her mother’s side mixed in. Her mother’s white coat, and her father’s black, had mixed and given her a beautiful cookies-and-cream patchwork pattern. Her bright blue eyes were a bonus. Her resting look of contempt, though, that was all hers.
Her parents were in France right now. Margot had declined their offer to go with them. She already dealt with enough people in her life that labored under the mistaken belief they were better than her. She didn’t need a country full of them. No, she’d stayed to do a photo shoot. One her manager had told her was nature themed, but assured her it would all be fake and done indoors on a set.
Margot got on her knees in front of the cameraman, while Alan watched from his chair and gave instructions. “Alright, babe, picture this. You’re lost in the woods. You’re alone, you’re scared. This is all new to you.”
She did as he asked, putting on her best ‘where am I, what’s happening’ face, as the camera clicked away.
“Good, good, love it. Alright, now you’re not scared anymore. Nature doesn’t own you, you own it. Give me confident. Give me warrior woman.”
She just did the look she gave people when they were in front of her in line at the bank.
“Perfect, you’re front cover material. Alright, now you’re gazing into the horizon. It’s a whole new world out there to explore.”
As they continued, Margot saw a single grayish storm cloud forming in the sky. She gave it a withering look and it seemed to shrink.
When they were done, Margot returned to her seat away from the others—with her initials on the back, and started flipping through the latest issue of Sports Central, where she was a double spread feature. She was lying on a basketball court, naked, with a basketball between her legs, and holding one more to cover her chest.
“Alright, Claire-bear, come on up,” Alan said. “Claire-bear” was in fact an orange-furred bunny.
Margot looked over the top of her magazine. New girl. Pretty cute, honestly, with a bit of pudge around her waist that she carried well. Business was business, though. Couldn’t let any of them get too cocky. As the bunny made her way nervously over to the camera, Margot called out “Hey, new girl. They’re not using a wide-angle today, so suck in the gut, alright?”
She flinched at that, like she’d touched a car door and gotten a zap of static electricity. Margot could see tears forming in the corners of her eyes.
“Ignore her, sweetheart,” Alan said. “You look great.”
Her eyes stayed firmly locked on Margot, though, who gave back a contemptuous smirk. The job was done. She was doubly satisfied as she saw the poor girl actually do it. Huffing in her stomach muscles trying to give herself something resembling a toned physique.
Yeah, good luck, babe. Maybe if they only get you from the neck up.
“Careful your scrawny ass doesn’t blow away in the wind.”
Margot looked over with an expression that could have melted a hole through a steel plate. Who the hell just said that? Genevieve was buried in her phone and desperately trying not to make eye contact. She’d obviously learned her lesson. It was Trish Winters grinning like she wanted a fight. She was a fox with an admittedly nice rack, which was the only thing she had going for her as a model. She’d be washed out of the industry and doing hardcore porn by the time she was 18—Margot would have bet money, but for now, she apparently wanted to be a problem.
Margot didn’t look up from her magazine. “Your fur looks kinda dull. You wash yourself in the bathroom at the gas station?”
Trish got louder. “Take a good look, girls. We’ve got a walking advertisement for why we need to fight anorexia. Because when you don’t eat, your brain gets starved of oxygen. And you end up as stupid as Margot here. She couldn’t even write her own name, let alone get this job without daddy’s money.”
Margot peeked over her sunglasses. “You mind? I’m trying to get some sun here and your fat gut’s blocking it.” She raised the magazine back up to hide her smirk as Trish was about to lose it. Why’d these bitches even get on the field if they didn’t wanna play.
Trish stood up from her chair. “You stuck up, stupid little—”
Margot didn’t flinch, staying seated. “Yeah, yeah, little compared to what, your dump truck of an ass? Didn’t you break a chair down at the Cheesecake Hut a little—”
“Enough,” Alan shouted. Though in his lispy, effeminate voice, he wasn’t exactly a commanding figure. He rubbed his eyes. “Everyone take ten. I don’t care where, just...go in different directions. He looked at Margot, “you, that way.” He pointed at the treeline. “God, I can already feel a migraine coming on.”
She dropped her magazine on the ground. “Fine.” She stood up, grabbed her robe from the assistant holding it, and strutted off in the direction of the woods. Past the craft services table without even glancing at it.
“Stay in sight of the clearing, for God’s sake,” Alan said.
Margot acted as if she hadn’t heard him.
When she was far enough into the woods she couldn’t see the clearing, Margot pulled out her pink, rhinestone-studded phone with the little panda key-chain.
No Signal
“Agghhhh.” She flung it into the bushes, folded her arms and pouted for a bit. You could get cell service on a space station, but not in the woods? Then she remembered she had a couple of unflattering angles of Marissa Crosby (another model, a skunk) bending over to tie her shoelaces in a skirt. She was gonna give the pictures to a tabloid. She didn’t even want any money for them.
“Aw, where the hell did that go?” She started kind of, but not really, rooting around in the bushes. She didn’t actually want to touch any of it. The thought occurred to her to bring Alan over and just have him call her number so she could hear it ring, when she smelled something. What was that, caramel? It smelled like a caramel latte.
Most people wouldn’t have been able to smell it. But being a hybrid, Margot had an incredibly sharp nose. She could smell everything, for good or bad (often bad). Sweat, bad perfume, nervousness. Nothing got past her.
Suddenly she felt like she was on an airplane. Margot had a fear of flying, and since she was a model, she flew a lot. To deal with it, she took questionable downer pills that made her feel like she was outside her own body. She didn’t even realize she’d started walking in the direction of the caramel scent. It felt like everything would be fine. There was nothing to worry about. Bugs landed on her, branches scraped her arms and legs, she lost her sandals and didn’t even scream when her bare feet touched dirt and sank ankle-deep into puddles of mud.
How long she walked for, she didn’t know, and never worried about. Even as the clearing disappeared hopelessly behind her, and the covering of the treetops grew so dark she couldn’t tell if it was day or night. Her white silk robe—with her initials in gold trim on the back—snagged on a tree branch and a chunk ripped out. Leaves and twigs and flecks of mud got all over it. Her salon-perfect black-and-white-streaked hair was a frazzled mess as she walked headlong through thick clumps of bushes and underbrush. Towards the smell of caramel.
It got stronger and stronger as she walked on. So thick in the air she could taste it in her mouth. Her stomach grumbled. She hadn’t had caramel in, god, she couldn’t even remember how long. It might have alarmed someone to hear a 13 year old opine on the good old days of eating candy, but you didn’t stay competitive in this business by stuffing your face with sugar. Even with her parents’ net worth of...pretty much all of it, no one was gonna pay her to roll herself down the runway.
Not that Margot noticed, but as she continued, the ground under her feet became softer, more marsh-like. The trees were coated in a thick, sticky substance that wasn’t sap.
She didn’t run screaming in terror as she emerged from the trees into a clearing and came face to (leaves?) with the source of the smell.
It was a plant. A plant about as wide and tall as a gas station. A towering bud in the center slowly opened and closed like a mouth, showing a bright red, almost pink inside. The ground was sludge. Clumps of moss and pond scum grew in murky, knee-deep water. Thin beams of sunlight pushed through the canopy, otherwise it would have been pitch black.
Protruding from the main body of the plant, tendrils as thick as ropes slowly moved through the water, stroked along the treeline perimeter, periodically entering the mouth to spray deposits of nutrients.
Margot waded through the water towards it, ruining her silk beyond repair. When she was close enough to reach out and touch the plant, she stopped instinctively and waited.
A tendril snaked around her leg and lifted her by it as if she weighed nothing (which she pretty much did). It held her dangling upside down, her robe falling off—leaving her only in the faux caveman bikini from the photo shoot. Her long hair hung in her face like a curtain and she parted it with her paws. Without warning, the plant started gently bouncing her up and down. If she’d eaten anything in the last three days, she’d have thrown it up.
“Sto-o-op,” she pleaded. Her voice sounded like it was coming through a desk fan.
As this was going on, there was a commotion from somewhere in the woods. A desperate crashing of hooves and growling as one beast chased another.
The sudden jump-scare momentarily jolted Margot out of her stupor. For the first time in the last half hour, she was thinking clearly. She didn’t have time to comprehend the barely comprehensible situation she was in, though, before another tendril forced itself into her mouth. Like a baby calming down the moment a bottle touches its lips, Margot sank back into her empty-headed feeling of contentment. A stream of sweet, sticky syrup was being pumped into her mouth. No, it wasn’t syrup. It tasted like it, but the consistency was more like milkshake.
The vine holding Margot by the leg slowly lowered her down onto a waiting, outstretched leaf the size of a king-size bed. It was soft, spongy, like memory foam. Had anyone lucid been watching, they would have seen the most extraordinary event in the history of botany. As Margot lay there, her belly filling and growing tight with that delicious, unknown substance, two things happened. A smaller, more agile vine—with the grace of a surgeon, gently brushed her hair out of her eyes. A second vine dove into the muck, and emerged clutching her battered, mud-soaked silk robe, which it shook vigorously, before placing in the center of the plant to dry.
In real time—her starved, undernourished body began to soften and expand. The definition she had pushed herself to the brink to achieve quickly disappeared. Gone first were her abs, tens of thousands of crunches made irrelevant. The gap between her bony thighs, a flavor-of-the-month trend from yesteryear, closed in on itself. Her breasts that had once been barely noticeable grew from a B, to a C, and into a D cup within minutes. All the while, Margot lay there, in a state of tranquility she had forgotten was even possible. The feeding vine pumped away, while others stroked her fur, quickly swatted insects before they could land. It was the weirdest spa day she’d ever had.
In the span of ten minutes, Margot had been fed somewhere in the region of 100,000 calories that had digested and melted into fat just as quickly as they had entered. On her already small frame, it was especially noticeable. She tapped the vine. It withdrew and she let out a deafening belch, before she gave it a pat and it dutifully reentered and resumed the flow. She could have laid there forever, drinking herself into who-knows-what state, and probably would have, if the plant hadn’t had other ideas.
The vine in her mouth pulled out, leaving a sticky trail of bright orange syrup behind it. She reached her arms up in a weak attempt to catch it, but was in such a post-meal stupor—she didn’t have the strength to even stand or talk. She wasn’t left alone for long, though.
A pair of vines slid down her bra, and each wrapped themselves around one of her breasts. They were a little too forceful with the newly-grown tissue and she winced a little. Sensing this, they immediately loosened their grips. Another vine made its way down her panties, being careful not to rip them.
All at once they went to work. Giving her breasts and nipples a gentle squeezing that gradually got more intense, while between her legs, the other vine lathered her entire vaginal area with a slimy, lubricant substance before it entered her.
There was no pop. No bleeding or sting of pain. While she’d never actually done it with a guy before (and had no real interest in doing so), she’d used her vibrator on an almost daily basis for the last two years as a form of stress relief. And had probably broken her hymen at some point while horseback riding and never noticed. None of it had prepared her for the real thing (Could a sentient plant be considered the real thing?)
Margot felt like she was melting, as wave upon wave of dopamine flooded through her body. The initial burst of pleasure was so sudden and intense that for another moment—she was snapped out of her trance. Sensing this, the plant immediately crammed the feeding vine back into her mouth and pumped at double speed, sending her safely back into a docile haze before she could form a coherent thought. Another vine sneaked up from underneath, tickling her rapidly softening bottom. It teased around the entrance of her hole, and Margot let out a muffled “Mh-mmh.” It backed off, almost apologetically. Even in this state, no one was putting anything up her butt.
Not that she cared, or was able to care, but she was at least conscious of her expanding body. She felt heavy, sluggish, weighed down. From her lying position, she could see her belly rising, the view of her feet disappearing literally before her eyes as it inched further and further upwards. She couldn’t see the rest of herself, but it was all coming along at the same speed. The little biceps she’d cultivated through all those curls with the bright pink 10 lb dumbbells were long gone. Or they might have still been there, just now buried under a layer of fat. Her sharp cheekbones and cold, hard facial features had taken on a much more warm and pleasant softness. No one would have taken her seriously if she’d scowled at them at this point.
Her butt, a personal source of dissatisfaction for its flatness and just boring, unimpressive shape, had filled out into a wobbling cushion. Margot had never allowed herself to eat enough to discover this, but her body tended to a natural pear shape. At her height, and with this much fat packed onto her little frame, a waddle would be inevitable.
It ended up being Margot herself who stopped the fun, at least for a moment. At some point, her boobs had grown big enough that the cheap costume bra couldn’t contain them anymore and burst open. This made it hard for her to breathe, like having pillows over her face. She tapped the feeding vine again, and it withdrew, then the one between her legs. She quickly repositioned herself into a sit (which the plant assisted by bending its leaf upwards into a backrest for her to lean against), then allowed both to resume. Which they did with gusto.
There was no pause between orgasms. Just one toe-curling explosion after another. Each one better than the last, as her body became more sensitive with each new pound added. Which by this point was at least two a minute. Her panties followed her bra soon after, bursting at the seams and letting a tidal wave of newly grown fat spill out in every direction. Margot wouldn’t notice until much later, when she was examining herself in the mirror, but her black and white fur had never looked more full and glossy. Whatever that plant substance was, it was better than any product you could buy in stores.
The next time Margot asked for a time out, she let out a belch, then surprised herself by following it with a yawn. After at least two dozen orgasms, her body had finally decided that was enough.
She let out another yawn and stretched her flabby arms over her head. Alright big guy, or gal, I think I’m gonna call it quits.
In truth, the hypnotic caramel scent had worn off over half an hour ago. Margot had been in control for at least a quarter of her time spent with the plant. Of course she’d take that secret to her grave.
Sensing she was done, the plant lowered a different vine to her eye level, this one ending in a bright purple flower. It opened and she sneezed as a spray of fragrant-smelling pollen was blown into her face. Margot was sleeping peacefully within seconds.
Was she horrified by this experience?
No.
Because it had given her a gift better than anything she could have asked for. An excuse. A way to gorge herself like an utter pig in a way she’d always wanted to. Oh it wasn’t her fault, it was the plant. She was a helpless victim of circumstance. Yes, she’d racked up a debt that would be a pain in her (now large) ass to pay off. But it was worth it. She’d take a month off from the spotlight, make up some excuse and hole up in her summer home while she downed fat burners like candy and ate celery cubes dipped in water for flavor. She’d be back in shape in no time. Assuming that gunk the plant filled her with didn’t have any weird side effects. Like she started growing vines of her own or got pregnant with its gooey little plant baby.
When Margot woke, there was a leaf draped over her naked body like a blanket. She felt fresh, rejuvenated, glowing like after a mud-bath treatment. The plant was motionless, its petals closed and vines nowhere to be seen—and seemed to be sleeping itself. Little streams of sunlight were still filtering through the growth, so it couldn’t have been that late. Unless she’d slept a full 24 hours.
In a pile next to her was her battered, torn-to-pieces white robe. It was dry at least, but caked in crusted mud and bits of debris. It smelled like you would imagine.
She gently lifted the leaf covering off herself, stood, and took the robe anyway. There might have already been search parties looking for her, and she didn’t much like the idea of running into them naked. Especially in her current state. She slipped it on, being as quiet as possible so as not to disturb the plant. Was this what a one-night-stand felt like?
She hiked the robe up as she lowered herself down into the swamp water, not wanting to ruin it a second time, and made her exit from the clearing.
So long, plant. I’ll have my dad fund some pro-environment groups in your honor.
Margot had no concept of where she was, but figured she’d probably come in a straight line, and so just headed north. Someone would find her eventually.
In reality, had she waited five more minutes, someone would have. Though maybe it was best they hadn’t. As she trudged North, less than a stone’s throw away, a troop of scouts were heading South.
The leader at the head of the column stopped and turned around. Holding up one hand, he asked loudly, “Alright, one more check. Does everyone have their nose plugs in?”
A dozen or so restless 12 and 13-year-olds all muttered yes. A panda boy shot his hand up. “What about if I pull Dillon’s out?”
“What about if I kick you in the nuts?” Dillon said back.
“What about if you both shut up and give me a vacation,” their leader said. “Now, does everyone have their binoculars? This is as close as we’re getting.”
Bags were unzipped and rooted through. Some unsurprisingly didn’t have theirs and would have to share.
They all crouched in the undergrowth a safe distance from the clearing, and observed the plant. The scout leader was hit with a flurry of excited questions.
“What is it?”
“What’s it doing?”
“What happens if we get too close?”
“Is it from another planet or something?”
“That,” he told them, “is called the Mother plant. Named for its absolutely fascinating method of self defense. While most plants ward off predators by being poisonous or coated in spikes, the Mother takes the complete opposite approach. Using a powerful pheromone to hypnotize its enemies, it lures them in and treats them like royalty.”
“What does it do?”
He braced himself for a lot of idiotic giggles. “It sexually pleasures them.”
Right on cue, the troop descended into cackling hyenas. God, why didn’t he just take the job at his uncle’s furniture store?
“How does sex protect it from predators?” Shane, a curious fox with big wire-rimmed glasses, asked.
“Well, sex is only one part of it. It also secretes an addictive, sticky substance extremely high in nutrients. A belly full of that, and predators get sent away satisfied. Why would they even need to eat the Mother plant? You know, this species isn’t found anywhere else in the world except for this forest. And yes, actually, there have been rumors and speculations it may have come from outer space. So who knows, you might be looking at a genuine alien. So take plenty of pictures.”
“What does it smell like? Whatever you called the thing it sprays out.”
“Pheromones. And that’s another interesting detail. They might not actually smell like anything. Samples have been tested on people, and everyone reports smelling something different. It might just be tricking your brain into thinking it smells whatever you like most.”
Everyone was recording. Suddenly they were all very interested. And, of course, a few idiots were daring each other to get closer. There was also more than one budding pervert among them, imagining what it would be like to get caught by the plant. For some, this trip would turn out to be a very formative experience.
Margot stumbled onto the trail pretty quickly, and from there it was just a straight hike back to civilization. Her only complaint was that with nothing but a torn robe on, she was a bit cold, even with her fur insulating her from most of it. Some shoes would have also been nice. There was a bit of plant goo left on her cheek. She wiped it off with a finger and licked it clean.
Mmmm. Tasted like orange filling.
It took a while for her to get used to moving with the new weight. Everything jiggled and wobbled. Her belly had become her center of gravity and pulled her forward. Her thighs rubbed as she walked, she could feel her butt bouncing with every step. She stopped to jiggle her boobs a bit—and liked how heavy they felt as they slapped against her chest. She did the same with her belly, which she could now lift in both hands. It felt like a big squishy stress toy. She poked a finger into one of her newly developed love handles and was surprised at how soft it was.
It was the strangest thing. She’d spent so long fighting tooth and nail to never become fat, it had never even occurred to her that if it did happen, it might not be the worst thing in the world. And indeed, she was finding it wasn’t. Maybe it was because it had happened all at once. She weighed herself ritualistically every morning, and the sight of a single pound gained would ruin her day and send her into crisis mode. But now, having gained (honestly she had no idea. A lot), there was no fear. No sense of a loss of control. It was like tearing off a band-aid. Now that it was done, there was nothing else to worry about.
The only possible hiccup was her career. If a tabloid got a picture of her as she currently was, she’d never live it down. She instinctively pulled her robe tighter around her.
It was getting dark when she finally ran into someone. Or more accurately, their flashlight in her eyes.
“Aghhh, get that thing outta my face, please.” She put up a paw to shield herself.
It didn’t occur to her at that moment that she’d never once said ‘please’ in her entire life.
“Margot Harcourt?” A voice asked.
“Yeah.”
“Guys, I’ve got her,” he called out.
“Are you alright? You’ve got like 200 people looking for you. You need food, water, anything?”
A foot massage would have been nice.
“No, I’m fine. Just cold.”
He offered her his jacket, which she declined. They weren’t far from the clearing, it turned out. Only a 15=minute walk. When they got there, Margot saw the guy hadn’t been kidding. The whole place was swarming with activity. There were tents, emergency vehicles, she could hear helicopters somewhere overhead. Big, towering floodlights had been set up.
She felt...weird, seeing all of it. Was it guilt? That so much effort had been spent to find her. Just because she’d chosen to wander off. She never felt guilty. Certainly never turned her nose up at being doted on like this. Maybe she really did need to lie down.
As they entered the clearing, there were cheers and celebrations. Margot was swarmed with emergency responders and rescuers—offering her bottles of water, foil blankets, oxygen masks.
“I’m fine, completely fine,” she yelled over the noise. “I just wanna go home and go to sleep.”
Sitting under one of the tents, wrapped in a big wool blanket—sipping a Styrofoam coffee cup and looking like he was the one who’d just spent hours lost in the woods, was Alan. When he saw her, his face lit up like a Fourth of July party.
“Margot,” he cried—dropping his coffee and rushing over to hug her. “Oh my god, I didn’t know what happened. You know what your parents would have done to me if I lost you for good?”
She knew perfectly well.
“I’m glad you’re okay,” another excited voice said. It sounded familiar.
“Claire?”
It was her. The new girl. She joined in on the three-way hug with Alan. “We were so worried about you.”
Margot couldn’t believe it. Why on Earth would this girl care after she’d been so awful to her?
“Claire was with the first search team,” Alan said. “She spent hours out there.”
“Thanks,” Margot said quietly. And she meant it.
“Honey, are you having an allergic reaction?” He asked. “You feel a bit...puffy.”
With that, the asshole in her came roaring back. She pushed him away and stormed off in the vague direction of anyone who could give her a ride home. “Make another comment about my weight and I’ll sue you personally,” she said over her shoulder. “And can someone get me something to wear? This thing stinks like swamp water.”
As she was walking away, Alan put his paws together and framed her butt in a square. He tilted his head to the left, then the right. “Hmm... hold on, babe,” he shouted after her, “I think we might have something here. Lemme get a couple of quick pictures.”
The room was packed wall-to-wall, and the excitement in the air could have powered a city. Anyone who was anyone or had ever been anyone was there. Fashion critics, obviously, but also celebrities, influencers, politicians. High society all under one roof. And all here to see her. Quite a few of the women looking noticeably more plump and filled-out than you would expect for this sort of crowd.
The red velvet curtain opened and Margot strutted out to a blinding flash of camera shutters and excited cheers. People were on their feet applauding as she walked down the reflective black runway. She was rocking a matte-black two-piece bikini with gold fleur-de-lis patterns and matching loose-fitting gold jewelry. Her facial expression never changed. She kept the appearance that she was better than all of them and all of this. Her signature look of contempt and above-it-allness. It was an act, though. Part of her brand image. In that moment, she was the happiest she could ever remember being. She hadn’t felt her genuine sense of anger and elitism since that day in the forest 6 months ago.
As she turned and made her way back, Claire passed her wearing a fiery-red skin-tight one-piece that was riding almost all the way up her fat, furry butt, and a pair of white sunglasses. She’d put on about 40 pounds since the forest incident. As they passed, they high-fived and the room went nuts. Margot had taken Claire on as her apprentice (a funny idea considering Claire was a year older than her), and she’d turned out to be a natural talent. They’d kind of become a tag-team. Sharing front covers, appearing in commercials and advertisements together.
A lot had changed since then. She had eventually told Alan, Claire, and her manager Carson the truth about the plant. The feeding part, at least. The other details weren’t relevant. They had a game plan within hours and it was up and running within days. Alan was like a sculptor seeing the statue in a block of marble. His ideas were coming faster than everyone could write them down.
First, she took a month out of the spotlight. Long enough to get people wondering and talking. Then, with no fanfare, she appeared on the cover of Fashion Monthly, all 211 pounds of her. Leaning against a palm tree on a beach with the caption “Big and beautiful is in this season”
Naturally the press had had a field day. She was getting talk show and interview offers to the point her inner-circle of conspirators had to turn off their phones.
She ended up going on Up All Night With Angela Groves, where she got the questions you’d expect.
“So the big, and pardon the pun, question everyone’s asking is ‘what happened?’ and where do you go from here?”
“Well, Angela, the truth is, this was an experiment. Sure, I can act confident, but I didn’t feel like my body gave off the same message, you know? I wanted to prove to everyone out there that whatever your size, you can look great and feel great. So I ditched the diet, ate what I wanted, and the results speak for themselves.”
And with that, they were off to the races. The access press had done what it existed to do and ran with the narrative. The public had followed suit. The rest was history.
Oh, her parents’ reaction. Barely worth mentioning. “Whatever makes you happy, dear.” They’d been more interested in their breakfast than their daughter’s new career path. Suited her fine.
After the show, Margot was relaxing on the couch in her dressing room—still in the bikini she’d been modeling. She was eating a box of powdered donuts with one hand, and scrolling through the results for her name on social media with the other—to see what people were saying about her. Hey, she was still allowed to be a little vain, right?
She could smell him before he was even down the hallway and the door burst open. Always the same cheap cologne, no matter how much money they made. Or rather, she made him.
“Margot, honey, you killed ‘em out there.” Carson was followed into the room by her publicist, Alexa (a Cavalier cross something or other). He waved his iPhone like she didn’t know what it was. “This thing’s ringing off the hook. And trust me, kid, I’m from back in the day when phones really were on hooks.” You could practically see the cartoon dollar signs in his eyes. “We’ve got shows booked from now till oranges grow in Alaska. Talk shows, brand deals. You seen the hashtags?”
She had. #BigbeautifulSummer had been trending for weeks. With girls of all ages wanting to look like her and showing off their own weight gain progress. She’d partnered with a fitness company to sell 1000 calorie chocolate bars. Except they weren’t just going to bodybuilders. Skinny girls that wanted to be fat, and fat girls that wanted to be fatter were buying out supplies as fast as they came in.
“And you know what else,” Carson continued, “It ain’t just girls buying magazines with your picture in ‘em no more. Them fetish weirdos you see online? They can’t get enough of it.”
Always the charmer. But he was right. Half the comments under her posts were girls saying “Oh my gosh, your belly’s so cute. I wish mine looked like that.” And the other half were guys in their 30s offering her a thousand bucks to sit on their faces.
Margot finished the last few bites of a doughnut and started on another one. She brushed a sprinkling of powdered sugar off her belly. “Any more good news?” She asked Alexa. Who in the last few months had absolutely been earning her paycheck and then some.
The beleaguered pooch scrolled through her iPad, “ Uh, yeah. You’ve got a speech at Pine-Ridge High school tomorrow about body positivity, Sweetco wants your input on the new breakfast cereal, Sleek magazine wants a soundbite about what you attribute your success to—”
Margot stopped her at that one. Alexa didn’t know about the plant, but Carson was about to burst out laughing. She made a face at him saying “you better not.” He reached into his pants pocket and put a handful of hard candies in his mouth, but little giggles still made it through.
She readjusted her bra to fit her boobs back in—which were spilling out. “Tell them, hmm...tell them hard work and long walks in nature. And see if you can find me another box of donuts,” she added,” this one’s almost finished.”