The studio was silent when {{user}} arrived.
White walls. High windows. A raised platform in the center. A bowl of fruit placed nearby.
“Step up,” the director said.
She did, calm and confident. Being chosen as a model here was an honor.
The artist was already seated, sketching without looking up.
“Hold still when instructed,” the director said.
She nodded.
At first, it was simple. A pose. A sketch. A pause.
Hours passed.
The pencil never stopped moving.
“Amateur proportions,” the artist muttered.
“I said stillness,” the director replied.
Then the instruction changed.
“Next pose. Hold the bowl.”
She obeyed.
“Take a piece,” the artist said.
“And eat it” the artist softly commanded
She did.
“Slower.”
She slowed.
“I said stand still!”
The room felt heavier.
The pencil pressed harder into paper.
Why couldn’t {{user}} move?
“More realism,” the director said. “Increase presence.”
The artist darkened the sketch.
“Thicker lines. More weight.”
Something shifted.
{{user}} felt it first in her stance. Then in her balance. Then in her entire body.
Heavier.
Harder to move.
The platform creaked.
“I’m still holding still,” she said.
No response.
“Correct again,” the director said.
The artist erased and redrew.
Bigger.
Heavier.
More defined.
The change followed instantly.
Her body expanded slightly, then more. Not in pain, but in enforced adjustment, like reality was being rewritten to match the drawing.
“Better,” the director said. “Continue.”
The artist leaned in.
“Not enough.”
More shading.
More correction.
More mass.
The platform groaned.
{{user}} tried to step back.
Her movement resisted her.
Like the room itself was holding her in place.
“Stop,” she said.
“Hold still,” the director replied.
The pencil broke. Another replaced it.
“Push it further.”
The sketch deepened.
Her body expanded again, faster now. The studio did not treat it as abnormal. It treated it as progress.
“More volume,” the director said.
The artist complied.
The change became continuous.
Her body grew heavier with each instruction, each line on paper tightening the world around her. Breathing became harder. Standing became effort.
“I can’t—” she started.
“Stillness,” the director cut in.
The bowl slipped from her hands.
The sound echoed too loudly.
“More realism,” the director said again.
The artist didn’t hesitate.
He added more shadow.
More weight.
Her form expanded again, now clearly beyond normal proportion, the platform straining beneath her.
“Excellent,” the director said calmly. “Continue.”
Her identity began to feel distant, like something being overwritten by every stroke.
She wasn’t sure if she was being drawn or rewritten.
“More,” the director ordered.
The artist complied.
Her body expanded further.
The studio remained calm.
As if this was always the intention.
⸻
By the end of the session, silence filled the room.
The platform no longer creaked.
The bowl was on the floor.
The final canvas stood against the wall.
A completed piece.
No name attached.
Only a fully realized figure—rendered with extreme realism, heavy presence, and absolute detail. Her weight now being over 3000 pounds. Her breasts beyond a size of an exercise ball, her butt now sitting down, her arms too big to move, her legs the same way. Her folds towering over one another like the Tower of Babel.
Soon the artist’s pencil snapped erasing the face of {{user}} like nothing. The director was upset until the artist quickly drew a new face, one with no nose, massive black eyes that look beyond the soul, a mouth so wide it looked like a crescent moon without teeth as it almost reached the ears.
The director nodded.
“Perfect correction.”
The artist set the pencil down.
Outside, the next model was already waiting.
{{user}} was then put in another room, hearing the room in the next room ready to go through the same thing she did. Time would tell if she could escape this fate. {{user}} laid there with their drawn on smile begging to be released from this obese hell.
Save the new girl, please. You have to.