Desire of the Night, Pt. 1

Desire of the Night
By Apelord

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Patricia Turner hadn't always been fat. She once had the body of a tight, toned cheerleader who exclusively dated football players…mostly because she once was a tight, toned cheerleader who exclusively dated football players. Back in high school, she had rock-hard abs; firm, round buttocks; and large, perky boobs that jiggled enticingly when cheered on the team.

But that was thirty years – and 200 pounds – ago. Nowadays, at a staggering 302 pounds, all of those features were buried beneath a thick layer of blubber: her abs had long ago ballooned into a full-on spare tire, her ass was now bulbous and covered in cellulite, and her breasts sagged with the excess adipose of a fat, middle-aged woman…Mostly because she was a fat, middle-aged woman.

'But not for long,' she thought as she turned onto the long, winding, forested driveway that led to the Nightingale Weight Loss Clinic. It seemed like a strange name to her, but even stranger than its name was its reputation. For the past few months, Patricia had listened to her bitchy, passive-aggressive neighbors constantly drop her hints about the clinic's effectiveness.

"Oh, Patricia, you simply must sign up for this Nightingale Weight Loss Clinic," they would say, their tongues dripping with condescension. "My brother-in-law's best friend's wife went there last year, and he said it just worked wonders for her."

At first, she thought the outpouring of suggestions was just a side-effect of being a fat housewife in a neighborhood full of skinny housewives, but as they became more frequent, she decided to research the clinic. The information she gathered was downright astonishing.

Apparently, the clinic practiced a procedure similar to liposuction but – supposedly – much safer and quicker. No one knew anything about the procedure, but it had the medical community in an uproar. The results were unquestionable (one hundred percent of clients lost weight; yes, one- hundred percent), but the clinic's mysterious nature and refusal to share even the slightest detail about its practices aroused suspicion among doctors and nutritionists nationwide.

But still, Nightingale had been receiving rave reviews from its customers, so Patricia just had to try it. She set up a reservation months ago (on her husband's bill, thank you very much), and the day had finally come. Time to find out what all the hubbub was about.

Eventually, after a good three minute drive through thick, foreboding trees along a bumpy cobblestone drive, she came to a large clearing within view of Nightingale. To call it majestic would have been an understatement. It looked much more like an Elizabethan manor than a medical clinic. With its dark stone siding, strikingly detailed masonry, and innumerable arched windows stretching the entire length of the front of the building, Nightingale towered at least three stories high above the meticulously manicured grounds. As Patricia continued to roll her car forward, she was soon stopped by wrought iron gate surrounded on all sides by groomed hedges. A large marble sign hung beside the gate; it read "Nightingale Weight Loss Clinic: Realize Your Royalty."

Patricia stared in awe at the magnificent structure for a few moments, before a sudden nearby voice broke her out of her trance.

"Greetings, madam," the voice said, in a calming yet regal tone. "Welcome to the Nightingale Weight Loss Clinic."

Patricia jumped slightly, turning her head to face the source of the voice. Just outside her driver-side window stood a tall man with a pin on his uniform that read "Raymond Williams: Manager." He must have been very good at sneaking up on customers, because Patricia didn't see him until she had come to a complete stop. But now that he was here, Patricia found herself more interested in him than the building. He stood tall with his hands politely folded behind his back, his muscular frame carefully (yet tantalizingly) hidden beneath a sharp, white tuxedo. He had his brown hair slicked back to reveal all of his devilishly handsome face, and an unbelievably attractive smile that displayed all of his pearly white teeth. With flawless skin, mesmerizing brown eyes, full lips, and prominent cheeks, the man was an absolute stud, and a very good choice to be the face that welcomed new customers.

"Patricia Turner, I presume?" he said after a brief silence from Patricia, during which she stared dreamily at the man's gloriously chiseled face. "Here for your appointment?"

At that prompt, Patricia finally snapped back to her senses. "O-oh yes, I'm Patricia," she said, a little flustered.

"Excellent, ma'am. Now if you'll please step out of your car, I'll have the valet take it to the parking structure behind the clinic."

Just then, Patricia noticed a smaller, less gorgeous young man standing behind Raymond, wearing a regular black tuxedo.  

"Your clinic has a valet?!" she exclaimed in disbelief.

"Several, actually" Raymond replied with a chuckle. "This young man is only the parking valet. The others are waiting for you inside."

"Oh, wow…" Patricia said, shutting off her car. She opened the door to find an open hand waiting for her, offered by the suave Raymond. She gripped it delicately - perhaps even coyly – and smiled at the sharp-dressed man before her. This flirty behavior was offset somewhat when she struggled to lift her wide hips out of the small car, grunting loudly as she did so. However, Raymond, with a surprising amount of strength, was able to hold up her substantial weight, maintaining his hospitable smile all the while.

When Patricia finally managed to remove her bulky self from the car, her round, flabby body jiggling intensely from the effort, she gave her keys to the smaller man standing behind Raymond. Normally she had reservations about handing her car over to a stranger, but she felt strangely…comforted by Raymond's presence. Surely, he would never lie to her…

"This way, ma'am," Raymond said, motioning to the gate behind him as the valet started her car, turning down a road she hadn't noticed before. Another valet, who stood on the other side of the gate, began to unlock the old-fashioned chain lock from the inside, accompanied by loud metal clinking noises.

"Where did you say he was taking my car?" Patricia asked, her reservations returning slightly as her car disappeared into the forest.

"That road leads to a small garage not far from the main building," Raymond explained as the lock yielded. He pushed the gate open, which resulted in an ominous – but fitting – creak from the gate's metal hinges, and gestured Patricia inside, following a few feet behind her as she passed through the entryway. The valet closed and locked the gate behind them as Raymond continued. "We have it tucked away into the forest so customers will be able to forget about their cars as soon as they enter the property. We try very hard to bring customers to a different world, to a place where such amenities don't exist. That is why, if you noticed, we didn't simply have a camera welcome you, or have you drive through an automated door. We find that modern approach to be a tad…impersonal."

"So you greet every customer yourself?"

"Yes ma'am."

"You? The manager? Wouldn't that get a little overwhelming with all the customers you get?"

"Not necessarily ma'am. You see, we only take in one customer per day at the Nightingale. That way, each customer receives upmost amount of pampering. That, ma'am, is our prerogative," Raymond said as they ascended the large staircase that led to the main entrance, where two more valets were waiting to open the huge, ornate door for them.

He made a sweeping gesture towards the two valets, who obediently opened the wide door to reveal the massive entrance hall. Glimmering marble tiles covered the floor, intricate gold and white wallpaper covered the walls, and an enormous crystal chandelier hung from a domed ceiling that rose miles above their heads. On the far end of the room, a marble staircase, lined by deep mahogany railing, led toward the second floor balcony and split in two opposite directions, each leading to a corridor just out of view.

As breathtakingly elegant as the room was, however, Patricia's eyes were immediately drawn to the clinic's staff, who were already waiting for them in the center of the room. They stood in a large, organized pack between the door and the staircase, wore identical butler and maid uniforms, and stared straight ahead as the two entered the clinic, as if they were told not to look Patricia in the eye. There were at least fifty servants in all. Patricia's jaw dropped.

Raymond used this opportunity to make his speech. He walked in front of Patricia, standing between her and the servants, and began to speak.

"You see, we here at Nightingale are not only about helping people lose weight – although that is certainly a major part of our operation – nor are we only about pampering our patients for a day – although, again, that takes place as well. We want to turn our patients into royalty. We believe that inside every woman, there lies a queen, kept locked up inside a – if you'll pardon the metaphor – padded cell, waiting to be let out; and that's what we try to do. We try to let that queen out. We pamper our patients – we wait on them, hand and foot, to their hearts' content – to remind them that the queen exists in the first place. Then we, quite literally, free the queen. We take away the padded cell, and allow patients to appear as royal on the outside as they feel on the inside. The moment you enter this clinic, Mrs. Turner," Raymond said, grabbing Patricia's hand reverently, "you become a queen. As of today, the world out there is your kingdom. As of today, you are no longer a commoner. Today marks the beginning of the Patrician Era. Your Majesty."

At that moment, he kneeled down – followed immediately by the rest of the staff – and kissed her hand.

"Welcome to the Nightingale."

Patricia was absolutely speechless. Her mouth hung open in a daze as she let Raymond's words sink in: she was a queen. She was in charge. For the next twenty-four hours, these fifty-odd people would be hers to control. And when tomorrow came, and it was time for her to go back home, she would finally have the body she always wanted. The body that was rightfully hers.

She gazed over the crowd of servants – who remained reverently on their knees, waiting for her to command them – and smirked. She felt power course through her. Not the kind of power she felt back in high school, when she could grab the attention of every boy in a room with one expertly-placed swish of her hair. Not the kind of power she felt back at home, where she had an almost unlimited budget just waiting for her in her husband's banking account.

No, this was new, and absolutely exhilarating. This was the power of knowing that she had control over these people. This crowd of fifty-or-so servants. They were hers. All hers.

She was going to love it here.



Raymond stole a glance at the obese woman before him, whose soft hand he continued to caress, and smiled. He could recognize the signs: the way her eyes glazed over with longing, the way her lips curled up in an almost sadistic smirk, the way her fingers grew limp in his hand. His speech had gotten to her; she was ready for "treatment."

"Right," Raymond said, deftly standing to his full height. The rest of the staff followed his lead behind him, before disappearing to separate parts of the clinic. One lone gentleman, an aging man with a naturally formal demeanor, separated from the pack and stood just beside Raymond, his arms folded behind his back. "While the servants settle in to their stations, Your Majesty, I would like to introduce you to Willard Black, our head butler."

Willard extended his gloved hand, upon which Patricia laid her own, and proceeded to kiss her chubby hand just as Raymond had done. Patricia chuckled slightly as Willard's puffy white mustache tickled her delicate skin. "Your Majesty," he said in his deep British accent, keeping his balding head respectfully lowered for a moment longer than needed.

"He will be leading you through the clinic for rest of your stay," Raymond said after Willard had backed away from Patricia. "Unfortunately, I must be off; my responsibilities as manager keep me occupied for most of the day. I will be able to meet with you just before the procedure later this evening, but until then, Willard is your man."

"If you'll follow me, Your Majesty, I believe your first appointment is in the sauna room in the west wing," Willard said, gesturing to a hallway to his right.

Patricia recoiled somewhat at this new piece of information. "I thought you said I was in charge," she said, visibly scowling at Raymond. "Why can't I choose what to do first? Aren't I the queen here?"

Raymond found it hard to suppress a massive grin, but he managed. It was so very gratifying to see Patricia step into her role so quickly. For many patients, it took quite a bit of time for them to finally let loose. But for others, like Patricia, the queen came out pretty quickly.

"You certainly are, Your Majesty," Willard said, stepping in. "However, this is the schedule you agreed to when you first signed up."

"So you're saying I have to stick to this schedule because I 'signed up' for it over three weeks ago? Can't I change it now that I'm here?"

"Indeed you can, if that is your wish. Are there any other activities that would better suit your tastes?"

Patricia stalled for a moment, caught off guard, but still tried to retain her haughty air of superiority; it looked quite funny, actually. "I...I'm not sure. What are my options?"

"Well, Your Majesty, you can go to one of the pools – indoor or outdoor– if you'd like. Or you can start off your stay in one of our spa rooms, where our attendants will be ready to give you various types of massages, whether your preference be Swedish, Shiatsu, Balinese, deep tissue, barefoot, or stone. Our spas also offer different types of cosmetic treatments, including mud baths, body wraps, aromatherapy, facials, manicures, pedicures, and, as already mentioned, saunas. Or if you're interested in some more physical activities, we can certainly provide in that category: we have a tennis court in the grounds to the east of the clinic, there is a track surrounding the tennis court if you'd prefer a jog, a small gymnasium and weight room in the east wing, and we even provide yoga lessons if you'd like to stretch out your muscles in a less...taxing manor. Or you can stop by our library if you'd like to stretch your intellectual muscles, if you'll pardon the metaphor; we have thousands upon thousands of literary volumes of all genres at your disposal. Or, if you'll take this butler's most humble opinion, I quite enjoy take calming strolls through the garden just behind the clinic. Listening to the birds chirp as the sun shines softly on the flowers is simply…divine, Your Majesty. Do any of those options sound like a more pleasing alternative, or would you like to hear more?"

Patricia blinked, obviously flustered. She let out a very unbecoming "Uhh…" before conceding, the wind very visibly being taken out of her sails. "N-no, th-that's quite alright. O-on second thought, a sauna sounds…w-wonderful, Mr. Black."

"Excellent choice, Your Majesty," Willard said, smiling.

Raymond couldn't help but mirror Willard's wide grin. Sometimes, it was hard to believe just how good Willard was at his job. Although, it made sense when considering that he had been working in the same field for the past forty years, only joining the Nightingale staff after the clinic had gotten off the ground about six years ago. It was the best hiring decision Raymond had ever made, and also the first. Willard had been with him since the beginning, through thick and thin, and always gave the best advice, both professional and personal. Plus, Willard was very good at keeping secrets…even really big ones…

"Well, it sounds like everything has been squared away," Raymond piped up, gently grabbing Patricia's hand once again. "It was lovely meeting you, Mrs. Turner. I will be back to meet with you again this evening. Until then," he bent down and kissed her hand, "adieu."

With that, Raymond turned and walked towards the stairs at the far end of the room. Just behind him, he heard Willard say to Patricia, "If you'll follow me, Your Majesty, the sauna is just this way," followed by the click, clack of two sets of footsteps exiting the entrance hall. And just like that, as he turned down the hallway that led to his office, he was alone.

"Finally," he sighed, loosening his neck tie considerably. He continued to remove his tuxedo jacket before he even reached his office, thinking back to that look he saw in Patricia's eye just after he had finished his speech. That thirst for power he saw in nearly all of his customers, although usually not until the evening.

As gratifying as it was to see that look in his patients' eyes, he knew that it was all hogwash. All that talk about women being "queens" on the inside, and the queens needing to be "let out of their padded cells;" none of it was true, and he knew it.

To him, the more padding a woman had, the more they resembled a queen.

And to him, there was only one queen in this world.

His queen.

His Elizabeth.