Kara
My legs refuse to fucking move. I can hear the announcement for the contestants to go out onto the stage, but it’s as if I’ve grown roots here behind the curtain. Every pore of my body feels filled with fucking lead.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I lost the weight. I gained the muscle.
But there’s no escaping who I once was.
Suck it up princess, I try and tell myself and take a deep fucking breath. One foot in front of the other the way you’ve practiced. Off you go.
I try to imagine what the boys would say. Probably something like, Fuck it, Kara, you’re hot, suck my dick, babe.
It’s not a bad idea, but it’s not exactly, y’know…helpful right now.
Neither of them would let me get away with hiding in my dressing room, though. Both of them would reassure me and shower me with compliments, I bet.
Come on, Kara. I try a little mental nudging.
It’ll probably take more than a nudge. Right now, I feel heavier than ever. The images that Evian sent to my dressing room are impossible to shake off from my mind—and now, I feel fatter than ever. At the worst possible moment, too.
Inside, I’m just a fucking shadow of the woman I was when I won Miss Sexy USA.
I miss that bitch. She was hot. She was confident.
And she wouldn’t have let Evian get to her like this.
I miss Chase and Eric, too. I don’t need a man to make me feel good about myself…but right now, I’m at a fucking low point. It certainly wouldn’t hurt to have a little pick-me-up.
Fat feet. Fat knees. Fat thighs.
Fat, fat, fat. It’s all I can think about right now.
I need to walk perfectly across that stage in just a few moments, and I don’t know how the fuck I’m going to manage it.
Fat does not walk. Fat wobbles. Fat rolls.
Why don’t you fucking try rolling out onto stage then? a nasty little voice taunts. I don’t know where the fuck it came from, but it sounds awfully like my ex-boss. I need to quash it before it gets the better of me.
There’s no fucking way I’m going to be able to walk the entire length of the catwalk poised and with elegance and confidence.
I mean, like, how many face plants have I had already? I don’t need another addition to the Kara Gilmore Blooper Reel.
I need to stop thinking about falling.
I take a step out onto the stage.
Any second, I’m sure I’m going to face plant into it. It’s going to fucking hurt, too. Chase and Eric aren’t going to be able to catch me this time, and my lack of grace under pressure isn’t going to charm the crowd if I keep fucking beefing it every time I walk on stage.
We’ll always catch you, they told me once. That’s what they fucking said—and they’ve been doing it good every time so far.
To my own surprise, I’m still on my feet. It takes great fucking effort to push those negative images out of my head. They’re persistent and try to worm their way back in.
I need a lifeline. I need something to fill my head with so I can keep every bad thing I’ve ever thought about myself out.
Something…or someone.
Maybe a couple someones for that matter.
I search among the hundreds of onlookers, but the spotlights make it hard to see.
I’ll just have to hold them in my mind, then. That’s what love is, right? Whether they’re right beside me, a thousand miles away, or somewhere in a faceless crowd watching me have a mental breakdown on live television wearing nothing but stiletto heels—they’re still in my heart.
And in my pussy, too, apparently—because just as the spotlight raises, I spot them in the crowd like tropical islands in a big, scary ocean. They’re both smiling and they both only have eyes for me.
Eric even gives me a dignified thumbs up.
I feel my lips slowly curl into something near a smile.
Keeping my eyes firmly on them, I shove the negativity out of my head. As I focus on Eric, I imagine I’m walking toward him.
As I do so, he’s pulling his fucking massive cock out of his pants and wrapping his fingers around it. His eyes are begging me to come closer, to get a fucking good look and make sure I don’t miss a fucking thing.
With each step, my poise and confidence grows. Gone is the feeling of fucking jelly in my knees, gone is the fear of falling, and gone is the image of a flabby walrus with my face rolling down the catwalk and squashing the entire front row.
Instead, I grow taller, my shoulders held back and my step more nimble. I don’t take my fucking eyes off Eric or his cock I’m imagining right now.
We practiced this walk over and over again. I can do this. I can do this.
I repeat this mantra like over and over until I’ve completed the first part of the fucking pageant.
There’s no time to have a breather or take a break, though. The contest goes straight into the weightlifting section.
I watch the other perfect, oiled, glistening bodies and bite my bottom lip. I know I can do this. I’ve done this a thousand times before—naked, clothed, on a dick, whatever.
But all that shit with Evian and my photos made me feel so fucking weak. I’m having a hard enough time lifting my fucking spirits right now, let alone weights.
I mean, just look at the other competitors, right? They don’t have tiger-striped stretch marks slashed across their ass and thighs. They’ve probably never been more than five pounds over their ideal weight in all their perfect fucking lives.
You’ll never be anything but fat, Kara. I’m pissed that I can still hear Evian’s voice in my ear. Like, who the fuck does that cunt think she is, telling me what I can and can’t do? Lucy has coughed up hairballs with better personalities than Evian Sprague.
But rationalizing it is one thing. Going through with the next portion of the pageant is another.
Tiny sweat droplets run down my spine and the gap between my tits. I’m nervous and angry—and honestly, kind of hungry. I either want to eat something, punch something, or curl up into a ball and not exist for a while.
Instead, I fucking stand there with my tits out and wait for my turn to hopefully not fuck up.
When my name is called, I stumble out onto the stage. Instead of the beautiful squat the girl before did, my knees knock together as I go to bend down.
Shit.
My heels have come off the ground, and if I shift my weight a smidge to the left I think I’m going to fucking fall. It was cute the first time. Fall over again, and I’ll be pushing my luck.
Before I even lift the bar, I can see myself getting crushed by it, like I almost did the night I met Chase and Eric.
They were there to catch you then, I remind myself. They’ll be here to catch you again.
Valuable seconds tick by. There’s no fucking way I can do this.
I’m not a weight lifter. I’m not gorgeous. I’m not any of the things the other competitors are.
But just as I’m ready to give up, deep within me, something stirs.
An image. It’s faint at first, but when I focus, I can imagine it clearly.
It’s Chase, helping me through my squats—just like the old times.
He’s standing behind me, hands on my hips, guiding me through the movement.
I force myself to relive the many times I’ve done this move with Chase.
I can do this. I can actually fucking do this!
The fantasy shifts. Instead of Chase positioning my hips, his massive fucking cock is under me. I picture myself squatting onto his fucking dick.
I concentrate on the way my muscles contract as I slowly go down. Only to ninety degrees, which is just enough to have him push all the way into my fucking tight pussy.
Gently, using all of my muscles in my quads, I push upward. I ignore Fantasy Chase’s protests—because like, obviously he would be left begging for more—and keep going until I’m upright again.
When I hear applause, I snap out of my imagination and am transported back to the contest.
I’ve done it. I’ve really fucking done it.
When I find Eric and Chase in the crowd, I catch their eye. They both give me the thumbs up sign, and I feel like running over and throwing myself at them.
I don’t, of course, because that would be like, super unprofessional of me and stuff.
But I think about it.
Oh, I think about it hard.
Fuck Evian. Fuck all the people who thought I couldn’t do this.
Getting fat might have been a curve ball for my career…but it also got me here, didn’t it?
Without those years of dieting and starving, Atkins, keto, fasting and worse, I wouldn’t have met Chase and Eric. I wouldn’t be competing in an international nude beauty pageant. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be the woman that I am today.
Whatever this pageant throws at me next, I’m fucking ready.
Bring it.