The Weigh In

Ms. Rouge bent down into the corner of the bathroom.

From her purse, she produced a small, black square, which she placed on the tile.

I knew what it was as soon as I heard the springs.

"No."

"Yes," she cooed.

She turned around and locked the door.

As if anyone was going to save me...

"Please, don't."

Ms. Rouge grinned as she closed in on me.

I backed away until there was nowhere to go. My stance gradually widened until...

"Fuck."

It was over. I'd lost.

My legs collapsed and my bare butt crashed onto the platform.

"I hope your fat ass didn't break my scale. Now get up," said Ms. Rouge.

She scooped me off the floor and twisted my body around.

"Now get on it," she said, spanking my ass to give me some additional encouragement.

I stepped on the scale.

Before the screen could refresh, I tilted my right foot to cover the display -- a technique I'd learned growing up, to hide my weight from my mom and brother.

Even to the pediatrician, my weight had been a medical mystery.

"She looks healthy to me," he'd say every year, rather than have me cause a scene in his office.

Ms. Rouge's phone dinged.

"131 pounds? We're going to have to get you to 110," she said.

"110? I haven't been 110 since I was fourteen. And I've been getting 7000 steps in a day for the last month, and still have been just gaining and losing the same two pounds, over and over."

"Quit bitching, or I'll make it 105. Or even less," she smirked.

"It says here you're on the high end of normal. I want you on the low end... or perhaps slightly underweight."

"But BMI doesn't work for me. I have a big frame."

"No you don't."

"And weight can fluctuate a lot. Because of periods, or water weight."

"Trust me. That isn't water weight," she said, patting my stomach pouch.

"See?" said Ms. Rouge, turning the phone towards me. Due to her privacy filter, I saw only blackness until I was looking at the device head on.

There it was. The 131 in giant font, circled, echoing back what I saw for a moment, before I'd covered the number with my foot.

Beneath my weight were a bunch of color coded measurements and percentages -- BMI, skeletal muscle mass, BMR, and more. Most were green, but a couple were yellow -- the danger zone.

Under that was a line graph, representing my change in weight over time. For now, there was a single datapoint, at one hundred and thirty fucking one.

"Hm.. What is your goal weight?" she said, smiling. "99."

Ms Rouge entered the digits into the app. When the screen refreshed, a trophy appeared beside the number.

"You're going to weigh yourself every day. Naked. And I better see that number going down. I don't care if you have to spend all night sweating your ass off at hot yoga, skip half your meals, or shove a toothbrush down your fucking throat. Whatever gets the job done. And God help you if you miss your daily weigh in. I'll be watching you," she said, gesturing to her phone.

"And if I don't get the notification from the scale by 6AM, along with a daily progress picture, there'll be hell to pay."

She grabbed my hair and pulled.

"Do you understand me, bitch?"

"Yes, Mistress... but... 6AM?"

"5:30! Your days of getting high and lazily touching yourself in bed all morning are over. From now on you'll be spending your weekends a bit more... productively," she said, stepping out of the bathroom.

"Where is your phone?"

I ran over to the nightstand and handed it over.

Ms. Rouge entered the passcode I'd given her earlier. Obviously I was not allowed to change it.

"I'm setting a 5:25AM daily alarm," she said, "With no snooze."

Fuck.

"But even if I have you out jogging every morning," said Ms. Rouge. "You can't out exercise a bad diet. Where are your garbage bags?"

She took three from me and darted over to the fridge.

"This is the source of your problem."

Into the bag went left over pizza and chinese food, along with ice cream, ketchup and ranch dressing.

The mayonnaise had to go, as did the Coca-Cola, frozen french fries, pizza rolls, yogurt, peanut butter, and margarine, followed by an assortment of beer bottles and White Claw.

She raided the pantries, where she found cookies and chocolates, trail mix, and microwave popcorn. All of which met the same fate.

These were the foods I'd judged stressed moms for buying their children. In their grocery carts, I'd see 90% crap. Sadly over the years, I'd reintroduced them into my diet. Gradually, then suddenly. As a way to cope with the pressures of my job and relationships.

"Look on the bright side. You have so much more cabinet space now," remarked Ms. Rouge.

The pantry was even more empty than the fridge, which currently only had eggs and one sad container of spinach leaves.

"We're going to put you on a strict diet. Grilled chicken, eggs, and fish. Lots of veggies and a little fruit. And to drink -- only water. And maybe some coffee. But only if you're good," said Ms. Rouge.

"Speaking of which," she continued, "I need a drink."

As if she were the only one...

"Well don't just stand there. Go make me a drink!"

"What kind of..."

"Just go make me a fucking drink," she snapped.

I rushed to the liquor cabinet, returning with Beefeater, Absolut, and a big jug of Malibu Rum. I hadn't held that many bottles since my bartending days, but I managed to balance all of it and not break anything.

"Is that all?"

Leaving the liquor by her feet, I fetched the rest of my alcohol -- two bottles of wine. One was cheap. The other I'd been saving for a special occasion that never came.

"That's all I have," I said. "Unless you want the beer or White Claw from the garbage?"

"That won't be necessary. Now pour me a vodka on the rocks."

Ms Rouge was sitting on the couch when I came back. I handed her the glass.

"Why don't you get down on all fours in front of me?"

Before I could even stabilize myself, she'd already kicked up her feet.

"Comfy?"

I turned my head to her.

"Cause I am," she blurted out.

"Don't look at me. Look at the wall," she said, pushing my face back into position.

"You're just furniture to me. Living, breathing furniture. A place for me to rest my feet after a long day."

Perhaps resting was the wrong word, for Ms. Rouge had been changing the positions of her legs every thirty seconds or so, just to see how I'd react. First she tried a wide stance, then brought her legs together, and eventually crossed them.

Then she dug her heels in with all her weight, to see how low I could arch my back, and how high my ass could go. She even took a few pictures. I heard the shutter sound.

"I finally found a job that even you can't screw up," she said, flicking a lighter.

You can't smoke in here, is what I would've said to anyone else. But it was no use.

Did she know the regulations and deliberately not follow them? Or was she totally ignorant? Maybe it was stupid to expect somebody to respect the rules of co-op board, when she didn't even respect her own body enough to refrain from smoking.

"You didn't give me an ashtray. But I'll make do."

I screamed.

Ms. Rouge had decided to ash her cigarette onto my lower back. I couldn't feel the powder on my skin -- just pure heat. My first instinct was to stand up and move away. However, escape proved impossible. Ms. Rouge had preemptively clamped her legs down even harder on top of me.

My struggle was brief, for my skin cooled down as quickly as it heated up.

"It's just ashes, you baby," said Ms. Rouge, as she continued to flick her cigarette onto my back. The heat was easy to endure when I knew it was coming.

"Your pain tolerance is pretty good. But your obedience, that could use some improvement. Bossing around a dumb bitch like you is hard work. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, Ms. Rouge."

"Don't you agree you're a dumb bitch?"

"I do."

"You are," said Ms. Rouge. "Say you're a dumb, lazy whore. Who'd rather get drunk and laid than follow the directions of her mistress."

"I'm a dumb, lazy whore. Who likes to get drunk instead of following the directions of her mistress," I said.

"Now stick your tongue out and say it."

"I'm a dumb, lazy whore. Who'd rather get drunk than follow the directions of her mistress."

My tongue buzzed as I mumbled the words.

"Again. But stick your tongue out all the way."

As I repeated the sentence, Ms. Rouge swung her legs off of my back and knelt directly in front of me.

She dropped half a cigarette's worth of ash on my tongue.

The taste reminded me of a burnt campfire marshmallow, minus the sugar.

"Now swallow it, like a good whore."

I looked up at Ms Rouge.

Was she serious?

Ms Rouge was testing me. Her demon eyes seemingly said, if I can get this slut to do this, she'll do anything.

But I'd already disappointed her enough. I needed to prove that I would do anything for her. My boundaries were meant to be broken until I had no inhibitions left. That was why I needed her.

I gulped down the ash, trying to make as little contact with my taste buds as possible.

"Good slut. But keep your tongue out."

I started panting like a dog.

Drunk on power, Ms. Rouge put out her cigarette on my tongue. First I heard the sizzle, then felt the heat.

I didn't mind. I deserved the pain. I didn't even make a sound.

Ms. Rouge was delighted. She drew on my tongue with the cigarette, not stopping until it was entirely covered in soot. Then she spit in my mouth and told me to swallow.

I did.

"I'll make an exception for spit and soot. As far as I know, that's pretty low in calories. Isn't it, slut?"

I silently nodded.

"Why don't you get up already," she said as she pushed me away with her feet.

I collapsed onto the floor, my belly cushioning most of the blow.

"You can't be trusted with all this alcohol around. It'll kill your diet and training routine. We're going to have to dispose of it."

Ms. Rouge pulled me by my hair over to the kitchen sink. She handed me bottle after bottle and instructed me to pour the liquor down the drain.

Goodbye Martinis, Pina Coladas, and Cosmopolitans.

The sink had an incredible tolerance. It just kept chugging whatever I poured.

Five minutes later, I had the drunkest sink in all of Manhattan, we still had the wine to go.

The cheap bottle had a twist off lid, but I was struggling with the Bordeaux. The bottle seemed to know it was destined for something greater, and would not go without a fight.

"Give me that."

She smashed the bottle, spilling its blood red contents all over the sink.

"There, problem solved," said Ms. Rouge, completely oblivious to the mess she'd just made.

"This," she said, holding up her glass. "Is the last of your liquor."

"Say cheers."

Ms. Rouge handed me the glass. The rim was covered in her lipstick, and while I wasn't looking, she'd added a cigarette butt as a garnish.

"Drink up," she urged. "This will be your last for a while."

The sooty concoction went down surprisingly smoothly. Perhaps I was just eager to escape sobriety in any way possible.

"Good girl," she purred, tracing a nail along my jawline. "You'll learn to live without your little vices soon enough."

"Hm, what else, what else," wondered Ms. Rouge.

She surveyed the apartment, looking for new ways to make my life miserable.

"Your curtains. They have to go."

Mistress ripped down the dark cloth covering the windows, depositing them in the trash bags alongside my junk food.

Sunlight flooded the apartment, harsh and unforgiving, exposing every flaw in the room--and in me. I squinted against the glare.

"Much better," she said, brushing her hands together like she'd just finished a masterpiece.

"No more hiding in the dark like some pathetic little mole. From now on, you live in the light--where I can see every inch of you."

She turned to me, her eyes gleaming with pleasure. It wasn't just about control; it was about breaking me down until I didn't recognize myself anymore. And I was letting her. Worse--I was starting to crave it.

"Privacy is not for slaves," said Ms. Rouge. "Their bodies need to be on display at all times, whether they are reading a book, cooking dinner, taking a shower, or touching themselves. Plus, this will be a good motivation to stick to your diet. From now on, you'll always have to be naked inside your apartment, unless I tell you otherwise."

Fuck me for insisting on buying a place with a street view. I'd never even looked out the windows once.

I could already see eyes peering in from the street, eager to catch a glimpse of my naked body. I ducked out of their line of sight.

Ms. Rouge noticed my pathetic attempt to hide and laughed.

"What's the matter, pet? Shy all of a sudden? You'll get over that soon enough."

"Stand up," she ordered, not even bothering to look at me. "Right here, in front of the window. Let them see you."

I hesitated, my stomach twisting into knots. The street below wasn't crowded, but it wasn't empty either--a dog walker, a guy on his phone, a couple of kids returning home from school. Any one of them could look up. My hands twitched, itching to cover myself, but I knew better than to disobey.

Slowly, I dragged myself to my feet and shuffled toward the window, every step heavier than the last.

"Good," she said, circling me like a vulture. "Arms at your sides. Chin up. Let them get a good look at my little project."

The sunlight burned against my skin, amplifying the heat of shame creeping up my neck. I stood there, exposed, a living exhibit for anyone who cared to glance up from the street.

My breath stopped as the dog walker paused, tilting his head slightly before nudging his companion. He looked up, eyes widening for a split second before he smirked and moved on. The guy on his phone didn't notice--too engrossed in his screen--but the kids across the street stopped dead. They pointed and giggled until their mother hurried them along with a scowl.

"See? You're already a star. A fat, naked little star. But don't worry--we'll chisel you down until you're worth looking at. I think your first workout will be scrubbing the windows, so our friends across the street can get a more, unadulterated view. But for that we'll wait until it gets a little darker. Or at least until the kids have returned home from school."