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This is a thank you for 1000 views of the story I'm Addicted To You. It is technically a sequel to There Is Such A Thing As A Free Hit too. Thank you and godspeed.

“You’re addicted to me” I whisper into your ear as you walk with me hand-in-hand back to your place. And I mean every word of it. Each time I push you away, you pull me back. Insatiably. Undeniably. You need one more hit of my perfume, one more buzz from my tender touch. Every hour of every day you spend without me, is just a prelude to spending time with me. If that isn’t addiction, I don’t know what is.

“I am moreish” I add, smirking mischievously like malevolent minx I am. You should hate this smirk, you would on anybody else. This knowing sense of danger, this smug sense of recklessness. But, for whatever reason, you love it. I’ve conditioned you to love it. It’s Pavlovian. Every time you see it, you know a thrill is due. Because this smirk is my I-want-to-fuck-you smirk, and you want me to fuck you too.

“You know that I’d do anything for you” you say, biting your slender lips as you do. And you mean every word of it, don’t you? You know it, and I know you know it. You’d jump off a bridge for me. You’d take a bullet for me. I am your alpha and omega and there is no depth to which you wouldn’t plunge to satisfy me. To coax another one of them smirks from my lips. I have you exactly where I want you. At last.

“Anything?” I say, knowing full well it’s true, but wanting to hear you say it anyway. Proof that I have you ensnared. Trapped. Like a wild animal about to be made food. Ready to be killed. You’re opening the door and I can see from your face that you have such high hopes as to what ‘anything’ could include. You hope ‘anything’ means fucking me, don’t you? Don’t worry, it does. And so much more.

“For you, dear, anything. Cos you mean anything tooo meee” you sing, puncturing the brewing frisson with a spot of Lionel Bart. You always were a sucker for the musicals. But it throws my concentration and, goddammit, my smirk is now something more open-mouthed. A smile. A laugh. Something friendly. Something warm and loving. I only have unfriendly intentions and then you go and do that. You love me when I’m hot, and you love me when I’m cold. I can’t have you loving me when I’m warm. This isn’t that type of relationship. No. We have plans for you. Colder, hotter plans.

“Would you please have some more?” I reply, so very intentionally mixing up my Oliver songs. To disarm you. To make you laugh. I wish I didn’t like it when you laugh. It makes what’s coming so very difficult. And you forgive me. You can’t help it. So many relationships would have been immolated at that point. Can you imagine being in a relationship with a woman who mixes up songs from Oliver, your friends would have said. Can you imagine being in a relationship with a woman, full stop. And you’d have all laughed at the ludicrous thought of it. But look at you know. My, my, things have changed.

“You know, I’ve dumped men for less” you say, emphasising men as if you hold them to a different standard. But you’re not gay. No. No, I’m different. I’m a parasite in your brain, a cancer around your spine. You’re not homosexual, you’re mesexual. And so, when you smirk like you hold power in this, I know it to be false. You are mine and you have nowhere to hide. We bundle clumsily into the living room, ready to turn it into a fucking room.

“It wasn’t a mistake” I say, as I make my move. No, not that move. The big one. The one that’s been months in the planning. Developing. Conjuring. When I finally make you mine. “I just wanted to ask you the question. You said you’d do anything for me. Well, I’d like to test that out.” I say, biting your neck as I drag your dress to the ground. It’s the elegant power of me that turns you on the most. I’m tall, sleek and nothing on me budges. My arse doesn’t move, my abs are like granite. Everything is hewn. As you would expect from a model. And, as I sidle your dress down to your ankles, you can’t think of a thing that you’d say no to. Which is just what I want.

“Try me” you say, unbuttoning my blouse, and then my trousers. You want to see my ashen flesh, to feel its silky milky textures. You want its perfection. It’s imperiousness. It’s flawlessness. It’s superiority.

“Get fat for me” I say, and I gasp a little as the words finally leave my mouth. The words that have hung on my lips since I met you. Since I escaped the hospital, came down to London, followed Dr Malcolm’s instructions and met you. I throw you down on the settee and allow a little giggle to slip out. But then I lean over you like a lion over its prey. You don’t have time to be shocked. Everything sounds like a turn-on when my breath draws close. You should have asked why, why I want you fat. But you want to be ravaged so much that you don’t want to sacrifice the moment. This is not the time for inquisitions, this is the time for carnal flesh and lithe limbs. It is a time for belonging and owning and being owned. Being possessed. So you have no choice but to give the answer I want to hear. I need to hear.

“Yes, Ebba. Yes, yes, yes” you groan. After all, you’d do anything for me.

I feel you wake up. I pretend to sleep. I like the power of knowing your dread. Your doubt. Your confusion. Your conflict. I know the dilemma. I feel it. You crave me, yearn for me. My presence is what you live for. You get up in the morning solely with the intention of spending more hours of your fleeting existence – and it’s going to be more fleeting that you’ll ever know – swimming in my presence. Waking up next to me is the reason you smile. Waking up next to me is the reason you are. I have that over you now.

But your looking at me. I can feel your eyes burrowing. And you hear those words echo in your head. I want you to get fat for me. You’ve spent all your life being beautiful. The most beautiful girl in every room that you enter. For your parents, your agent, your job, yourself. For me. You crush it at the gym. After all, that’s where I found you. At Charon Gym. You sculpt. You tone. You whittle away every layer of fat from your dancer’s body. The body of an ingénue. Of a future star of the stage. You run until you glisten, until your breasts heave, until your breath gets away from you. You look in the mirror to see the consequences. The striking shape, lithe curves running down a tanned torso. You always hope it’s enough, you always fear it isn’t. That fear will hold you in good stead my dear.

Because last night I fed you. For the first time. I fed you all the things you had previously considered taboo. Verboten. Out of bounds. I fed you cupcakes. He told me you liked them. Apart from the brown ones. But I made you eat them anyway. Because it’s like that now. You need to realise that it’s like that now. You lay down on this bed and crumbs tumbled from your mouth. For the first time since childhood. Cupcakes. You never had the luxury of luxury before. Never indulged in indulgence. We need to correct that. What’s the point in 180 degrees if you never turn that way? So you ate them. You ate them and you enjoyed them and you enjoyed me. Your head spun in my presence. My beauty. My limbs. My long spindly limbs. Like a spider laying its eggs in you. You obeyed and you loved it and you blamed me for that.

“What are you doing up?” I pry, with mischief in my eyes. I know what’s keeping you up. The doubt. The confusion. But don’t worry, my dear. I’ll vanquish those doubts. Eviscerate that confusion. Soon there’ll be nothing but you, me and your addiction to us.

“We need to talk about last night” you say, standing and looking at me. I can see you melt a little when our eyes connect. That addiction again. I see your strength, your resolve wilt in an instant. I don’t respond. I don’t need to. I just stare at you, allowing my eyes to pierce you into submission. You will submit. You always do. You look away because you know that they’re succeeding.

“What about last night? You didn’t like it?” I say, knowing full well you did. I get up now. I tower above you when I stand. My height, my grace, as I stride towards you. I never flinch, never cede. That’s what I have to remember. To never flinch, never cede. That’s how Dr Malcolm did it. I have you in the palm of my hand, don’t I? I’m not sure you could wrestle free even if you wanted to. It’s all going to plan. And it’s going to plan deliciously. Dr Malcolm’s going to be so proud.

“I did. Of course I did. But this… I have a career. You know that. You know how my agent is. Harriet’s a stickler for this kinda thing. I can’t risk that. Even with Leona’s theatre as progressive as it is. My career? My career can’t stand it. Musicals are for beautiful girls. Skinny girls. I’d do anything for you, you know that. I’d do anything for you...”

“...but you won’t do that?” I reply. Meatloaf. Meatloaf is the undoing of you. And it will be in the future too. I walk up to you, and put my hands on your shoulders. I tower over you. I’m 6ft1 in flats, you’re 5ft5. I transcend beauty. I am perfection. What chance do you have?

“It’s not won’t. It’s can’t” you plead. But I hear vulnerability in your voice. Weakness. Something to exploit. You are at my mercy once more as your arms shimmer into the softest touch as they glide down my arms. I can feel your hairs standing erect.

“Get fat for me” I say. And there’s no give in my voice, no doubt. I’m not persuading, arguing or contesting. I’m not even ordering. I just say it matter-of-factly, like there is not escape. Like this isn’t a negotiation but rather just the nature of things. It’s the line I’ve been practising for months. Hiding insecurity and aggression. Practise, practise, practise. I want you to get fat for me. You are my addict. And addiction is hard to kick when you’re not at rock bottom. And when you’re with me, you’re on top of the world.

“How fat?” you ask, with a gulp. With fear. With a desire to back off. To cower in my presence. Helplessly. And I hide my sigh of relief. I did it. I pulled it off. Stage 1 complete. I have you on the line. I’ve reeled you in. You’re mine now. Now the fun can start. Now is the bit I’ve dreamt about since before I existed.

“As fat as I want” I state. And now my hands are slowly, gently, kindly, pinning you against the wall. And slowly, gently, kindly I start kissing your neck. That slowness, that gentleness, that kindness gradually evaporates. And now it is something more forthright, more fearsome and we are in the throes of one another and you have signed a verbal contract with me to be fattened. A deal with the devil. And this devil wants you fat.

You stand on the scales without fear for the first time in your life. I expect 119lbs. For one pound extra is a number you’ve ran from your entire life. And you will run from it again. But in the opposite direction. The needle teeters towards… 126lbs? No, that’s not right. That’s not what Dr Malcolm said. No, something’s wrong. You start off at 119lbs.

But I don’t have time for such worry. I have to loom in your presence. Allow my soul to swallow use as if it were a vacuum. Swallow it like a black hole. Inescapable. I need to take your breath away, to send tingles through your body.

“Cupcake?” I ask. Except it’s not really a question, is it? No need to answer it. Just eat it. Just put that sugary confection in your mouth and swallow. It’ll be your fourth cupcake in twelve hours, more than in the previous 12 years. 27 year olds don’t get to eat cupcakes. My 27 year olds do though.

You’re sitting on the settee in your gym gear. How very normal of you. What is less normal for you is that the gym clothing hasn’t felt your perspiration for a week now. What is less normal is that there are muffin crumbs down it. What is less normal is that you don’t mind.

Your friends have noticed that you’ve not been at the gym for the past week, and they have bombarded you with invitations. We need to fix that. They send Whatsapp messages about spin class on Thursday with Zara, Google chat messages about aqua aerobics on Friday, texts about Zumba on Saturday morning. All unanswered. You only answer to me. Just as I only answer to Dr Malcolm. We only ask if you’ve got room for some more.

And it’s not just your social circle that you’ve been circumnavigating. Your parents keep calling. We need to stop them doing that. You’ve been dodging your weekly meet-ups. I know you love them, I know you do. But you need to love me more. For this to work, you need to love me more.

Your agent, that Harriett Mendoza from Astraea, has also been trying to get into contact with you. An audition for Les Mis. And Les Mis is your favourite. Fantine is everything you’ve ever aspired towards. But you have to love me more. You have to throw even that dream away. For me. That dream job has to feel like a nightmare excursion because it means less time with me. This needs to be the power that I hold over you. I’ve done everything Dr Malcolm did, so you should be mine now. I insist you don’t reply to her. I insist that, on my modelling wages, you don’t need to scrounge for jobs. You don’t need to scrounge ever again. Everything will be made available to you, whatever you want, whenever you want it. Just as long as whatever you want is what I want you to want. And I want you to want more. Who needs a job? Who needs friends? Who needs family? Who needs any of that when I’m your heroin?

So there you are. Sitting on the settee, staring at the big fucking television on our wall. Dipping your hand into and tub of Pringles, and then dipping them pringles into a tub of salsa, and then dipping all of the above into your mouth. I expected greater resistance from you. To put up a grittier fight. But you’re not fighting and I think I know why. Because you’re getting fat for me and there’s nothing you can do. So, when I come into the room with a treacle sponge tart for a dessert to a meal you haven’t eaten, I know you’ll smile. And I’ll do that dickish smirk – that Dr Malcolm dickish smirk – coupled with my strident gait and poise. Suddenly the room will feel warmer, for I am incendiary. I am why you’re not fighting. Why would you want to fight me?

It’s now been three weeks since I told you to get fat for me, and I am mauling you on the sofa. My fangs are out tonight, my dear. My claws too. I am an animal and you are my carcass. I clasp you tight and road as you lie back and submit. You don’t want to cry for help, but even if you did, you couldn’t. Your breath belongs to me now, you see. All of you belongs to me.

And I’m only getting hungrier for you. I can’t help it. I don’t have Dr Malcolm’s restraint. His distance. I want you too much. I like this too much. I am at your mercy too much. I need to regain composure. Because you need to be the hungry one, and oh you are. The first dividends on our investment are bearing fruit. I smirk. You know the one. The smug one. The one that acts as a prelude to sex. To being fucked. Because sex isn’t what we do. We don’t have sex. We fuck. I smirk, then I fuck you. And you just have to open that mouth of yours, that sweet angelic mouth of yours, and eat something, for that smirk to appear. Maybe you have me around your finger after all.

The fruit of our labour can be seen more clearly on the scales than on your body, though your definition has melted like ice cream in the sun. Though your stomach tips forwards when you sit. And I so rarely give you reason to do anything other than sit down. But the real prize was when you stepped on the scales and we saw 137lbs. Your highest ever weight. You tell me that. Highest ever weight. I’ve done this to you, and you let me. And now you’re letting me some more. And there should be a nagging doubt as the numbers go off script. But we’re addicted to this and to each other and our vision is narrowing on our impulses and experiences. We are now just the highs we elicit from each other.

Your phone rang as we work on each other. As it becomes less tender and more punishment. You just lean back and let it happen. Let me happen. I toss the phone away before you can read caller ID. I have my own vibrations to inflict upon you. And you just let it happen.

It wasn’t your parents. Though you only speak to them by phone. You lie and say you’re busy. You lie to them for me. But it wasn’t them. And it wasn’t your agent. And it wasn’t your friend. It was just LCB. Whoever that is. I should be concerned. Because nobody rings you anymore. Your friends don’t because they know the answer. They ask gym and you reply no. I am the only exercise you get now.

“Maybe we should rent elsewhere?” I ask, my eyes softened and my smile not that smirk. We are lying in bed, naked, and our bodies are still recoiling from the session we’ve just had. You were getting lost on me, deeper and deeper into the forest of my words you’d go and now you can’t see anything of what was before. Truth be told, I’m feeling a little lost too. So, maybe we should move is what I ask. To get us back on script. Back how it was when Dr Malcolm did this.

“Yes” you reply, your eyes getting caught in mine, and I never let them go. You can taste me on your lips and you can feel on your body where I’ve been. Every part of you, every tract of nerves, every sensory wiring across your body was tingling with sensations that you were beholden to. It was these sensations that you answered to. So maybe this is why you said yes straight. Because these sensations are the god to which you pray, and the altar, and the priest. So, I don’t even have to make my case. I don’t even have to call it eloping. Or talk of prying. Of other such warning signs. But I make arsenic taste like almonds and you say yes to a one-way ticket to me. I’m clearly even more addictive than Dr Malcolm because I don’t even have to persuade you.

“Let’s celebrate” you suggest, of your own volition, with romantic intent. “Let’s celebrate with a weigh-in and then maybe a feeding?” You ask me. You took the words right out of my mouth. Must have been while I was kissing you. You’re supposed to be my damsel in distress and I’m supposed to be your prince charming and the dragon from which I save you. Your agency unnerves me. Your subservience titillates.

“Weigh in. Feeding. Champagne” I barter. Because it should be on my terms. Because I call the shots. Because I am the captain of this ship. Because champagne is for celebrations and I want to celebrate your dependence on me. That I am your ventilator and you need me to breathe. I am your iron lung, my dear.

The scales are pulled out for the first time in a month and I can see you nervous for the first time. Nervous, though you’re not sure what for. Do you want progress or regress. You’ve spent your whole life wanting to see smaller numbers on those scales. Did it really feel right to crave a larger one? To which the answer is yes, my dear. Yes it does. Forever and ever. Amen.

Regardless, the scales never lie. They just tell you what they weigh and these ones are telling you that you weigh 158lbs and that’s way too much. These numbers are moving too fast and I’m not getting chance to appreciate them. And yet I’m thrilled. Exhilarated. Are you? You should be. 158lbs makes my little sparrow overweight for the first time in my life. It takes my breath away. Does it take yours too? I am so proud of you. I whisper in your ear and tell you so. And the compliment is your encore, it’s your stage bow, it’s your rapturous applause. Who needs Fantine, I tell you. We can toast this achievement in bed. I shall toast some croissants first. This should be fun.

But there’s a knock at the door.

Something’s wrong. Because there shouldn’t be a knock at the door. This is the part where we have sex. Where we fuck. Where we cherish them rapidly accelerating numbers, tumbling upwards like gravity’s upside down. Where I explore your newfound pudge. The pucker in your sides from the tucker in your mouth. The gentle jiggle of enjoyment. Your legs used to be for dancing, thin enough to be sprightly but strong enough to do hard work. They are now cuts of meat, and I look at them with the same appetite. And I’m starving for them. Your arse? Once a gym goer’s butt, firm, tight and dense. But the firmness has eased, the tightness softened and the density ratcheted down, and shape is slowly ceding to size. And then there’s your stomach. Oh, that’s becoming to my liking. Once cut and intruding inwards, now it sinks outwards by degrees regardless of posture or position. Your breasts were once firm and compact, though arguably small, have now grown and let itself go also. Gravity is coming for them too, next. Your face. Your once crowning beauty, now muddied with fat, with softened angles and sanded down definition. From wafer-thin and waifish to wafer-eating and waffle-eating. Your gym tights are now too tights. You have too much below for them to satisfy. Your tops all ride up now, and I reward each one with a smirk. And a bite to eat. These moments are mine. I am due them. And someone is knocking on the door to take them away.

“Calliope!” the voice calls out. For that is your name. Dr Malcolm never cared for it. For names in general. But I always like it. Calliope. It sounded exotic. Glamorous. Glamour that I was peeling off you like it was dead skin. But a woman’s voice was calling your name and now I am confused.

I walk to the door. Slow. Ready to kill. I open the door and open my mouth to smile. And I am confronted with a woman only a few years older. Maybe 4. And no less beautiful, though perhaps no less partial to pudding from the way that her skirt shrieks as it contains her padded rump. Her beauty is a different type to yours. Yours if youthful and modern, friendly and familiar. Hers is classical. She might not jiggle like she’s Rubens’ but she smiles like she’s Da Vinci’s.

“Oh, you must be Ebba! Calliope’s told me so much about you. Why, aren’t you a pretty sod? Is she in? This Fantine role is perfect for her and I know it’s her dream role, and we really need an answer by tonight” this woman says, like your dream role isn’t a cream roll. But why is she here? This isn’t the plan. It’s just me and Callie. Nobody else. She’s mine and only mine. A fly caught in my web. Is this woman another spider?

“Who are you?” I ask, and my anger is hard to hide. She’s ruining it. This is my moment with you. The things I will do to you. From here to Canada to Australia. I will do things that would make you gasp. Gasp for more. And more. I will reduce your vocabulary down to just that fucking word. So you only know how to say ‘more’. That is my plan, that is what I’m doing so who the fuck is this woman knocking on our door talking about Fantine?

“Oh, I’m the lady that runs the theatre you girlfriend performs at. Leona Clefton-Brown, pleasure to meet you”