Sweet Torture
by
Kira Saito
Sweet Obsession
Everything about it was intoxicating: the shape, the smell, the texture, the way it gave me a hug when I most needed it. It assured me that all was well in the world even when wars were raging and people were dying. It never judged me or criticized me for being fat or not pretty enough. It haunted my dreams in the form of never ending fountains, streams, flowers and hills that stretched on for miles and miles.
Sadly, I wasn’t referring to parental love or approval. I was referring to chocolate. It was exactly 5:00 a.m., and it was beckoning me from its well hidden place in my walk in closet. The rich, dark Belgium chocolate my dad had brought back from his latest trip to Europe was robbing me of some much needed sleep. As my chubby feet made contact with the icy floor, all I could think about was how good it would feel to devour the rest of the box.
Throwing any restraint I had out the window, I grabbed the silver, metal box from its resting place and sat on my comfy, queen-sized bed. Before opening it, I eyed the intricately carved box with its Christmas theme and admired its sheer beauty. It was definitely worthy of carrying what rested within it. Slowly, I opened it and ran my plump, manicured finger over a perfect, star shaped chocolate. I lifted it in the air and brought it to my full lips. Waves of ecstasy washed over me as it slid down my throat and made its way to my generous stomach. Without even thinking, I grabbed another one and then another. One by one, the chocolates disappeared. I fell back into my warm duvet and entered into a sleepy coma that was filled with delicious dreams of seductive chocolate.
Sweet Torture
“Miss Claudia, you’re going to be late for school. You have final exam today, you cannot miss it.”
Vlada, our Russian housekeeper always had a way of snapping me out even the most glorious dream. “I’m up Vlada!”
“Breakfast is ready Miss Claudia,” she shouted from outside my bedroom door. “Mr. James made your favorite, chocolate Belgian waffles.”
“I’m just getting dressed,” I responded. The sound of chocolate Belgian waffles instantly perked me up. I scrambled out of bed and dashed into my private bathroom. The reflection that greeted in the gilded bathroom mirror was a little terrifying. The side of my mouth was streaked with chocolate and my mousy, brown hair was oily, and tangled into some kind of weird bird’s nest. Thankfully, my beady, green eyes looked well rested. I slipped out of my silk night gown and hopped onto the silver scale that rested next to the deep, ceramic bathtub. Afraid of what depressing number the scale would scream at me, I prepared for the worst. The number I heard was way more tragic than I had expected. Living on Park Avenue and attending a private school where a Blair Waldorf type character ruled over all of us minions was hard enough, but being a chubby sixteen year old was even harder. I knew that it was my own fault. My mom, who was no more than a hundred pounds always had me on some kind of ruthless diet. Last month, it was the cayenne pepper cleanse, the month before was cabbage soup. My dad, on the other hand, appreciated my respect for fine chocolate and often snuck me back boxes of chocolates whenever he travelled. If my mom ever found out about our little secret, I’m pretty sure she would divorce him. You see, on the Upper East Side, being miserable, but thin and pretty was much more desirable than actually being happy and average. Thankfully, my parents were spending Christmas in Aspen, and I was alone with the house staff who tended to spoil me when they were away. Out of pure pity I’m sure, being the only child to slim and insanely rich parents was much harder than most people assumed.
After cleaning myself up as best I could, and squeezing my body in to St. Emile’s unflattering navy skirt and white blouse, I was more than ready to attack the Belgian
by
Kira Saito
Sweet Obsession
Everything about it was intoxicating: the shape, the smell, the texture, the way it gave me a hug when I most needed it. It assured me that all was well in the world even when wars were raging and people were dying. It never judged me or criticized me for being fat or not pretty enough. It haunted my dreams in the form of never ending fountains, streams, flowers and hills that stretched on for miles and miles.
Sadly, I wasn’t referring to parental love or approval. I was referring to chocolate. It was exactly 5:00 a.m., and it was beckoning me from its well hidden place in my walk in closet. The rich, dark Belgium chocolate my dad had brought back from his latest trip to Europe was robbing me of some much needed sleep. As my chubby feet made contact with the icy floor, all I could think about was how good it would feel to devour the rest of the box.
Throwing any restraint I had out the window, I grabbed the silver, metal box from its resting place and sat on my comfy, queen-sized bed. Before opening it, I eyed the intricately carved box with its Christmas theme and admired its sheer beauty. It was definitely worthy of carrying what rested within it. Slowly, I opened it and ran my plump, manicured finger over a perfect, star shaped chocolate. I lifted it in the air and brought it to my full lips. Waves of ecstasy washed over me as it slid down my throat and made its way to my generous stomach. Without even thinking, I grabbed another one and then another. One by one, the chocolates disappeared. I fell back into my warm duvet and entered into a sleepy coma that was filled with delicious dreams of seductive chocolate.
Sweet Torture
“Miss Claudia, you’re going to be late for school. You have final exam today, you cannot miss it.”
Vlada, our Russian housekeeper always had a way of snapping me out even the most glorious dream. “I’m up Vlada!”
“Breakfast is ready Miss Claudia,” she shouted from outside my bedroom door. “Mr. James made your favorite, chocolate Belgian waffles.”
“I’m just getting dressed,” I responded. The sound of chocolate Belgian waffles instantly perked me up. I scrambled out of bed and dashed into my private bathroom. The reflection that greeted in the gilded bathroom mirror was a little terrifying. The side of my mouth was streaked with chocolate and my mousy, brown hair was oily, and tangled into some kind of weird bird’s nest. Thankfully, my beady, green eyes looked well rested. I slipped out of my silk night gown and hopped onto the silver scale that rested next to the deep, ceramic bathtub. Afraid of what depressing number the scale would scream at me, I prepared for the worst. The number I heard was way more tragic than I had expected. Living on Park Avenue and attending a private school where a Blair Waldorf type character ruled over all of us minions was hard enough, but being a chubby sixteen year old was even harder. I knew that it was my own fault. My mom, who was no more than a hundred pounds always had me on some kind of ruthless diet. Last month, it was the cayenne pepper cleanse, the month before was cabbage soup. My dad, on the other hand, appreciated my respect for fine chocolate and often snuck me back boxes of chocolates whenever he travelled. If my mom ever found out about our little secret, I’m pretty sure she would divorce him. You see, on the Upper East Side, being miserable, but thin and pretty was much more desirable than actually being happy and average. Thankfully, my parents were spending Christmas in Aspen, and I was alone with the house staff who tended to spoil me when they were away. Out of pure pity I’m sure, being the only child to slim and insanely rich parents was much harder than most people assumed.
After cleaning myself up as best I could, and squeezing my body in to St. Emile’s unflattering navy skirt and white blouse, I was more than ready to attack the Belgian
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