Ratchet Part 3 (Patreon)

The morning after Monica’s supposed panic attack was warm and bright, but she still felt shaken. She knew in her gut that something was wrong and wanted desperately to talk about her dream with Owen, but not in front of his mother. This was an especially big problem at the moment because the woman was absolutely glued to her son and wouldn’t give them a moment’s peace. For his part, Owen seemed completely oblivious to his girlfriend’s attempts to get his attention outside of platonic, regular conversation. Monica had attempted several times to pull him off to the side or get close to his ear to whisper that she wanted to talk to him about something but despite her best efforts, she just couldn’t find an opportunity to spit it out without Lovelie being within earshot. In the end, she had completely failed and resolved to just try again later that evening.

The moment she walked out of the bedroom, Monica was blasted with the smell of greasy, meaty, and flavorful home cooking from Lovelie’s kitchen. Ne-ne was sitting on the couch in the same exact clothes she’d worn the previous day, periodically glancing up from some asinine, generic tv show. Monica had half expected all the characters to be black or for it to be some 90s film quality level of grainy, but apparently the long arm of Netflix bypassed her stereotyping and made her feel a little bad for thinking it. Keisha was still in her bedroom and hadn’t yet made herself known to the world while Owen and Lovelie could be heard chatting and clinking around in the kitchen. Monica had attempted on several occasions to offer help or make herself useful, but every time she did she would be shoo’d out by either her boyfriend or his mother.

“You’re a guest. Guests don’t work.” Lovelie would say, flicking her wrist back and forth while the other sipped red-orange sauce off of a wooden spoon.
When she tried to ask Owen how she could be of service, he would just smile and walk her back out into the living room, telling her things like “It’s okay, baby girl. You had a hard night so just sit down and relax. This is your vacation and you deserve the rest.”
She’d just about asked him if the two of them could talk in private later about the feelings she was having, but the moment she started, she caught sight of his pudgy sister staring at her again with those same big, eager eyes. At first Monica had just thought that the younger woman was just excited and fascinated by the skinny, rich-looking white girl that herb brother had brought home to his family, but the longer she stayed, the more Ne-ne’s expression seemed scrutinizing and almost….predatory. It seemed like every time she wasn’t actively looking over at Ne-ne, the girl was eyeballing Monica with varying levels of conspicuity. The wary blonde was now feeling unnerved and uncomfortable, but in her attempts to not come off as rude, she continued to ignore the feeling.

With Owen having returned to the kitchen, Monica was left alone in the room with Ne-ne, who was either staring blankly at the tv or staring rapturously at her. There was only the tiniest sliver of a moment as the busty blonde reluctantly sat down on the couch at Ne-ne’s behest that she glanced down the hall at Keisha’s door. It was cracked open just the slightest bit and Monica’s blood ran cold as she saw the single eye of Owen’s other sister peeking out at her before the door shut again so quietly that no one else seemed to notice. The tv continued to drone on as the sounds of sizzling, stirring and running water persisted from the kitchen, but Monica was all nerves. She felt watched. In fact, she felt so strongly in that way that she felt herself suppressing the very thought.

“They’re watching me.” She thought over and over again before attempting to justify it.

“You’re being crazy.” She told herself. 

“They’re just socially awkward” She reasoned.

“I’m imagining things.” She justified. Or at least attempted to justify. If there was one thing that Monica had learned growing up in a household where both parents were horror movie buffs, it was that people only said things like “I’m just imagining things” when they were certain that they were NOT just imagining things. A further glance over at Keisha’s door confirmed her suspicions. The anxiety-ridden blonde glanced nervously over the side of the couch at the doorframe in the hallway, her eyes darting back and forth between the bottom of the door and the television in hopes of keeping Ne-ne from noticing that she was aware that something was happening. 

She looked over again at the hall, watching in a sort of delirious haze as her brain tried to make sense of the light flicking on and off over and over again from beneath the  door to Keisha’s bedroom. Monica looked over her shoulder towards the kitchen and saw no sign of Owen or his mom, and Ne-ne was still preoccupied by the tv. 

“Hey, where’s the bathroom?” She asked, intentionally louder than she normally would have in order to alert the girl behind the door that she was receiving whatever message she was sending and excused herself upon getting the directions. It was a clever move, she thought, but then the doubts began to creep in again. She sat on the toilet, fully clothed, waiting for a reasonably believable amount of time to pass before coming back out again. But the wait and uncertainty was gnawing away at her. What if it wasn’t a signal? What if it was just Keisha being weird in her room or fucking with some kind of lamp setup? She immediately dismissed the latter idea, knowing full well how stupid it would be to try and screw in a lightbulb or plug and unplug electrical devices with them on, but she still couldn’t escape the fear that she was wrong about the light.

It didn’t matter, she reasoned. Her time was up.
She opened the door and then flushed the toilet, making sure to allow whoever was outside to hear that she was coming out. She walked down the hall slowly, timidly watching the now lightless doorframe for any clues or signals as to what might have been going on. Unable to wait any longer, Monica sighed and continued down the hall only to scream in surprise as the door suddenly swung open and Keisha stormed out with her usual scowl plastered onto her face. The angry young woman stormed out of her room, slamming right into Monica as if she wasn’t there, then acted surprised that it had happened.

“Damn nigga! Watch where you’re fuckin going, BITCH!” She raged, then stomped out of the house, slamming the door as she went.

Monica was startled and unsure of what to do, rattled by the sudden hostility and the jarring shoulder shove she’d just received. She stood in the entrance to the hall with her heart pounding and mouth hanging open long enough for Lovelie to come out and tut several times, her red-orange and spicy-looking wooden spoon still in her hand. 

“That girl needs to get her damn head on straight.” The older woman said disapprovingly. “I’ve half a mind to whoop her ass once or twice one ‘a these days.”

“Really?” Ne-ne asked, a skeptical eyebrow quirk changing her expression for the first time from excited interest to casual disbelief. “How you gonna do that? She already grown.”

Lovelie shook her head. “Well if she so damn grown already then she gonna have to take that bratty ass attitude out my house or her grown up ass gon’ be looking for a new place to live! SEE if she can find a place that charges less than her own mother does!”
Monica looked around awkwardly, still wary pf doing anything unsightly in front of Owen’s family and terrified that she had misread the situation entirely or worse, ruined a chance to improve it.

“Monica baby, you just sit down for a minute, breakfast will be ready in ten.” Lovelie said and walked into the kitchen, her matronly hips swaying and jiggling under her casual leggings.

Plopping down on the couch, Monica defeatedly pulled out her phone to pass the time. Reaching into her pocket however, she found what originally felt like a dollar bill, only to pull it out to inspect it and realize that it was a simple piece of plain notebook paper with a frayed edge with a hastily written phone number and the words “Text me!!!” scrawled onto it. She looked around the room, trying to remain as discreet as possible while typing in the number. Her manicured nails shook wildly and the scared girl’s nails were clattering against the keypad so much that she was almost certain that Ne-ne was going to notice, but she remained mesmerized by the tv and oblivious to the world around her.

Monica sent the message. It was nothing more than a lonely question mark but before she could expound on her confusion or confirm that the number did indeed belong to Keisha, a response came through.

(1)

“Monica.

Do not eat anything my mom gives you.
Do not act unusual or do unusual things.
You can’t leave, but you don’t have to do what she wants.
Tell me when the dreams start.
Delete these messages after you get them just in case.”

Monica felt a cold shiver run down her spine upon reading the last line and immediately began typing her response. “They already have.”

There were several agonizing minutes before the icon on the bottom of Monica’s screen changed from “sent” to “read,” and even then there was no immediate reply, leaving the poor girl to agonize over the rest. Why wasn’t she allowed to eat anything? How was she supposed to get through the weekend without any food? Even worse, what did Keisha mean when she said that she couldn’t leave? 

Owen walked out of the kitchen and set down a large basket of long, grilled sausages before returning to the kitchen, only to come out again carrying an equally large basket of freshly made and fragrant bacon. Stacks of pancakes sat upon the platter he set on the table as he hummed happily, his mother setting plates and silverware neatly in front of each chair. Monica’s eyes nearly bulged out of her head as she stared at the massive feast set in front of her by Owen and his mom. Her phone buzzed in her hand, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin.

“DO. NOT. EAT. ANYTHING.”

As Monica read the message, she could hear the clatter of dishes cease and Lovelie telling Owen to wash his hands from the kitchen.

“Alright, breakfast is ready! Now eat up. I don’t want any leftovers when this is over.” She called to the couch, prompting Ne-ne to jump up faster than her bulk should have allowed and waddle quickly to her place at the table. Monica drearily, dizzily wandered over, still reeling from the whirlwind of events that had taken place since her arrival in L.A. 

Owen began piling food on his girlfriend’s plate without even so much as an attempt at asking for her consent to do so. As he did, she felt a heavy wave of hunger wash over her, and despite the explicit warnings against it, Monica felt herself ogling the food with a pitifully lusty expression. An expression that Lovelie happily noted.

“Looks good, huh? Well, don’t worry baby. You just dig in, no need to wait for me. I’ll have plenty by the end.” Lovelie said, grinning so sweetly that had she not already been warned earlier, Monica probably wouldn’t have even noticed.

Still, like a nun holding onto her faith in the face of temptation, the blonde resisted the urge to eat, panting at the mere sight of such an appetizing meal and small pots of various aromatic sauces, including whatever it was that Lovelie had been stirring previously. Her stomach lurched in protest against her inability to eat, and she became increasingly aware of how many eyes were on her. She could FEEL every person at the table staring at her and with the pressure, Monica’s anxiety spiked in a way that she found unexpectedly convenient: she was crying. The reason for her tears was absolutely the mounting terror over whatever was going on in the tiny, creepy little house in the L.A ghetto, but having been used to panic attacks in the past she found herself elated that there was a physical manifestation.

“Baby, what’s wrong? You alright?” Owen asked caringly, a suspicious tone tinting even his voice.
Monica played her hand as best she could. 

“I’m so sorry.” She allowed herself to sob.

“I’m hungry.” She said, only to have the words echo I  her mind heavily. (HUNGRY….) A voice resounded in her head that was powerful, but distant and only vaguely female. Monica was slightly dazed, but continued her gambit regardless in hopes that this too would work to her benefit.

“I want to eat, but I feel so dizzy. I don’t want to be a bad guest or insult you but I’m so nauseous and I’m so dizzy that my body just….isn’t letting me do it. It’s not that I’m not grateful. I want it. I just…CAN’T for some reason.” She gushed, letting herself break into a full, wet cry.

Lovelie stared at her for an imperceptible moment before breaking into a kind smile and walking over to pat the crying girl on the back.

“It’s okay baby. You’re probably just still all jostled from last night. You ain’t gotta eat all this right now. Tell you what: I’ll make you a plate and save this for later. I ain’t gonna let you waste away on MY watch, but I’m not gonna force a poor sick girl to eat a ton’na grease first thing after she passes out and wakes up in the morning. Let’s get you back to bed and you can tell me what you think about my cooking later.” She said, half helping and half ordering the crying blonde to her feet and walking her to the bedroom.

Without any shame or attempts at consent, Lovelie began stripping Monica’s shirt off her and pushing her towards the bed to lay down. Even as the younger woman started to protest, Lovelie was already halfway through a snappy “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before” speech and tucking her in. Lovelie walked over to the window and used a nearby chair to throw a blanket over the preexisting blinds to darken the room. She walked back over to the bed with a stern expression on her aged, but pretty face that Monica instantly recognized as one an irritated mother would wear when deciding how to catch a lying child. It made her nervous.

(2)

“Alright. Rest up, get some sleep. I’ll have my boy come get you when it’s time.” Lovelie said without a hint of the caring smile she wore earlier at the table. “Don’t try to go nowhere before then.”

Lovelie looked down at the terrified woman and smiled again. Monica felt in every way like a child looking up at an authoritative adult, feeling not unlike she did when she was staring at the woman from her dreams. Lovelie wasn’t growing taller nor the room larger, but Monica felt small and weak. Helpless and trapped.

“Now…” Lovelie said, sighing sternly after. “Dòmiiiii…..”

Monica didn’t understand the last word the woman had said, but as she watched her hand wave over her eyes, sleep came instantly and heavily, burying her in tiredness.

Her sleep was restful, she could feel herself thinking. She was aware of how deep the slumber was, but contemplated even then in the darkness of her perfect relaxation the authenticity of that thought. If she was having such a restful sleep, why was she able to consciously think about it? Was it really that good a nap? Had she really been that tired? Maybe she was just exhausted from all of the crying. She hadn’t been doing it long, and it was more anxiety than actual sickness.

She could hear the sound of waves crashing in the distance and the air grew chilly and wet. It reminded her of the beach, but warmer than any she’d ever been to. Even when she would make the drive down to Jersey in the summer for the odd day of fun with some friends, the beaches tended to have a cool wind blowing over them. The sand would be hot, sure, but the wind and water would be cold and she would end up sticky and itchy underneath whatever she threw on to stay warm. Even then she would end up sunburnt without fail. 

Monica wrapped her arms around herself to stay warm, unable to find her blanket as a cool breeze wafted by, causing her to shiver slightly. Opening her eyes, she found herself lying outside again, this time under the warm light of a gazebo. She lay naked on a small bedroll with a single, cushy pillow while the waves lapped at the nearby shore under the light of a luminous full moon. It was another dream, she realized, and began to wonder if this one was going to be like the last one as she lifted herself lazily off the ground and stepped onto the cool sand. It was a refreshing feeling really. She buried her feet in it and let the granules run between her toes with a softly giddy smile before taking a stroll along the moonlit beach. Monica walked happily and lucidly, feeling the stress lift away from her body like a gentle steam. Even as she recognized how realistic the dream was and compared it to the one she’d had only the night before, she couldn’t manage to feel worried or upset about it. She was where she was and simply allowed herself to exist in that space. It was nice.

(3)

Despite not having a particular destination in mind, Monica calmly contemplated her lack of willingness to explore the jungled areas nearby or to move towards the water at all. Her legs simply carried her towards a singular destination of her own free will. She saw something in the distance and rationalized that she must have been heading there the entire time. She watched as the warm lights of another structure not unlike the one she woke up in grew ever closer, and the figure of a person sitting on the beach soon became clear. There was a black girl sitting on a large, orange and white pad of a pillow in what looked like a tribal take on a bikini that showed off her fat, supple looking body. Monica approached, unsure of what she was planning to do or say and the woman for her part simply gazed out into the open ocean. The girl was heavy and smooth-skinned, with big thighs and back rolls that looked to be the result of decadent living. She was adorned with an African looking headdress and a pair of hoop earrings, with a brown band wrapped around her arm and digging in ever so slightly into her skin.
The girl turned and looked at Monica as if she’d always known she was there and stared through her with luminous grey eyes.

(4)

“Feed me.” She whispered, though the sound rippled through the air and impacted Monica, shaking her out of her blissful daze.

Suddenly, she became aware if herself and where she was, concerned not only about her naked body but at the implications of what being in this place meant. Her heart began to pound in her chest and the old, familiar feeling of nervousness seeped into her like a horde of rats through a newly opened door. She gulped, feeling the dryness in her throat as the woman spoke to her again.

“Feed….me…..” She commanded, and as if on cue, Monica turned her head towards another nearby gazebo. There was a table in the center and upon it were baskets full of fish and meats, breads and pastries. There were baskets of cheese and fruit, each one reminiscent of the ones Lovelie had served breakfast on that morning. To Monica, it felt like an eternity ago that she was sitting on the couch with Ne-ne, her nails dinging up her phone screen with her inability to stop them from shaking. She grabbed a basket and walked it over to the woman, her awareness of herself flickering in and out. She wanted to run. To escape and flee, but instead of committing to save herself, Monica felt her thoughts become distracted over and over. Every time she remembered the urge to run and save herself, the thought would vanish from her mind and she would find herself kneeling before the fat girl and offering another heavy, rich morsel to her lips to be greedily wolfed down.

“Eat…” The woman commanded softly, and it took every ounce of the blonde’s willpower to avoid obliging her. Instead, Monica committed herself to the previous task. Whenever she walked back to the table and reached for a new basket of food that called to her, she admonished herself for salivating over it and walked it back to the fat girl with the endless appetite. She ate willingly and eagerly, happily gobbling up anything Monica held up to her lips and visibly savoring the flavor. The blonde walked back and forth helplessly, unable to convince herself to stop even as her legs grew tired from kneeling down and standing back up again. 

“Feed me….” The woman would call, and once again Monica would return to the table to shove more food into the fat girl’s mouth. While the black girl seemed completely unaffected by how much she ate, Monica could feel herself tiring as her own bikini strings dug ever more into her plump thighs. Her heavy necklace weighed her down and bounced slightly painfully with every upward heave from the ground to her feet. Her hair fell into her face, her headband failing in it’s duty as she grew more sluggish and disheveled from the work. She felt her thighs ache and quiver with every step as her belly jiggled and sagged, tugging downward painfully with every footfall. 

(5)

It was only when the last platter of bread and cheese remained that Monica could muster the presence of mind to feel relieved at the imminent conclusion of her labor. When she turned to bring the last of the food however, the girl was gone. There were no sounds or footprints in the sand save for those that Monica left herself. She stood there, dumbfounded and even annoyed that she’d been toiling away so hard for someone just so they could disappear.

It was only then that she became aware of her body. She felt the necklace pressing and sticking to her skin as tassels swayed gently across her fattened thighs. She looked down at herself and wanted to scream, but didn’t. She wanted to rage and cry and panic at the sight of her pale, round, podgy belly, but simply couldn’t bring herself to do it. The feeling wouldn’t come. Instead, she wandered to the pillow that the black woman had been sitting and plopped herself down, still holding the tray of food that she’d mindlessly intended to feed her. She could feel how fat she’d become. How full her stomach felt. But no matter how much she tried to be upset, the only thing she could feel was contented and luxurious. Monica sat, blankly enjoying the sound of the ocean and the cool breeze once more while halfheartedly forcing her brain to analyze and make sense of what was happening to her. She felt snackish somehow, and chastised herself for wanting to eat again after such a heavy meal, only loosely aware that she hadn’t been the one to eat it. Still, she felt full. Full as if every ounce of food had made it’s way into *her* body instead of the greedy fat girl’s, leaving her with the fattening consequences of the ephemeral binge.
She wanted to scream. To cry or run or stomp her feet. She wanted to call for Owen or to pull out her phone and ask her mom for help, but she didn’t.
She simply sat on the beach, placid and serene as she stared out over the moonlit ocean, sighing with pleasure at the taste of the perfectly baked and seasoned bread.