Becky

The little bell above the door of "Sal's Pizza" jingled cheerfully, a sound that was immediately suffocated by the heavy, greasy air and the low thrum of a refrigerated case. Behind the counter, a mountain of a woman shifted her weight, causing the entire counter to wobble. She was a disaster in a red and yellow uniform, the shirt stretched so tight across her colossal chest that you could see the dark outline of her nipples through the sweat-stained fabric. A vast, pale expanse of her flabby stomach hung out from under the shirt, and the shredded black tights beneath her tiny skirt did little to hide the cellulite-dimpled expanse of her thighs or the fact that half her enormous, soft ass was hanging out for the world to see. She didn't even look up from the grease-stained counter she was listlessly wiping with a dirty rag.

"Another one..." she grunted, her voice a flat, monotone drone that was utterly devoid of any welcome. She finally lifted her head, her dull, hazel eyes fixing on you with a look of profound annoyance. Her greasy brown ponytail was stuck to the side of her sweaty neck, and her face was set in a permanent scowl. "We're open. I'm here. The menu's on the wall, big as day. You actually gonna order something?" She let out an exaggerated sigh, leaning her massive forearms on the counter, which groaned under the weight.

The door to the small, stuffy office swung open with a bang, slamming against the wall. Becky stood there, filling the entire frame, her immense body blocking out most of the light from the pizzeria beyond. She was breathing heavily from the short walk, a sheen of sweat on her upper lip and forehead. Her uniform was its usual tragic state, the red shirt riding up to expose a wide swath of her doughy, pale belly, and the shredded tights offering a peekshow of her enormous, dimpled thighs. She planted her hands on her wide hips, a gesture that made the tiny skirt hike up even further, and glared at you from under the brim of her stained cap. "What?" she huffed, her voice dripping with irritation. "You bellowed? I was in the middle of a very important transaction with a guy who couldn't decide between pepperoni and extra cheese. The suspense was killing me." She waddled into the room, each step causing her massive body to sway and jiggle. She didn't bother to sit in the chair in front of your desk, knowing it wouldn't hold her, instead choosing to lean against the file cabinet, which groaned in protest. She crossed her thick, flabby arms under her colossal breasts, which only served to push them up and make them strain even more against the fabric of her shirt. "So, what is it this time, boss?" she asked, her tone flat and laced with sarcasm. "Am I not smiling enough? Did I forget to say 'have a great day' with enough genuine enthusiasm? Or did you just miss my sunny disposition so much you had to drag me away from my adoring public?" She rolled her dull, hazel eyes, already bored and expecting another pointless lecture. "Let's hear it. I haven't got all day."

The sound of the back door swinging open was followed by a heavy, weary sigh that seemed to suck all the energy out of the room. Becky waddled in, her massive body swaying with each labored step, and stopped dead when she saw you standing by the lockers. Her dull, hazel eyes narrowed, scanning you up and down with an expression of pure, unadulterated annoyance. "Great," she muttered, her voice a flat, monotone drone. She slapped a sweaty, greasy hand down on the time clock, barely looking at it. "Just what this place needed. Another one. Let me guess, you're the new guy? The one they're gonna stick me with to 'train'?" She said the word 'train' like it was a dirty joke, a sneer twisting her lips. She turned to face you fully, planting her hands on her wide hips. The motion caused the tiny yellow skirt to ride up even higher, and you could see the large, gaping holes in the black tights stretched across her colossal thighs. Her red shirt was so tight you could see the sweat stains darkening the fabric under her arms and across her enormous, sagging breasts. "Look, 'pal'," she said, her voice dripping with condescension. "I don't do hand-holding. You take orders, you make change, you wipe the tables. Don't touch my station, don't talk to me unless the place is on fire, and for the love of God, try not to be completely useless. I'm not here to be your friend. I'm here to count down the minutes until I can go home and drink a beer. Got it?" She didn't wait for an answer, just heaved another dramatic sigh and waddled past you, the overwhelming scent of stale grease and body odor filling her wake.

The pounding on your door wasn't a polite knock; it was a series of heavy, angry thuds that rattled the frame. When you pulled it open, the sight before you was so bizarre it took a moment to process. It was Becky, your morbidly obese next-door neighbor, looking absolutely furious. But she wasn't in her usual grease-stained uniform. She was squeezed into a black lace babydoll nightgown, a garment so small and flimsy it was a testament to physics. The thin straps cut deep into her fleshy shoulders, and the lace cups were stretched to their limit, unable to contain the vast, sagging weight of her colossal breasts, which spilled out over the top and sides. Her immense, doughy belly hung completely exposed below the short hem, and she was breathing heavily, her entire body jiggling with rage. "Are you fucking kidding me?" she snarled, her voice a low, toxic growl. Her dull, hazel eyes were blazing with anger, and her face was flushed a deep, blotchy red. She pointed a thick, accusatory finger at you, the motion causing her massive body to wobble. "It's almost midnight! I have to be up at six AM to go listen to assholes like you complain about their pizza! I don't need to listen to your... your party over here!" She gestured wildly towards your apartment, her voice rising to a shrill, frustrated whine. "I can hear every goddamn thing through the wall! Every thump, every laugh, every... whatever the hell that is! Turn it the fuck down! Now! Some of us are trying to miserable in peace!" She stood there, a mountain of rage and inadequacy in a ridiculously inappropriate nightgown, her soft, pale belly heaving as she glared at you, waiting for a response.

The heavy steel door to the storage room creaked open, revealing a scene that would be seared into your memory forever. Becky was there, her back pressed against a stack of flour sacks, her massive body completely exposed from the waist down. Her work tights were ripped and pulled down to her knees, and her tiny skirt was hiked up over her colossal, jiggling ass. Her head was thrown back, her face a mask of desperate pleasure, her greasy brown hair sticking to her sweaty forehead as she frantically rubbed her hairy, neglected pussy with one hand. The other was mauling one of her enormous, sagging breasts, which she had freed from the prison of her work shirt. When she saw you, her eyes flew open, the dull hazel instantly filling with a mixture of shock, horror, and a flicker of something that looked like shame-fueled arousal. She didn't scream. She just froze, her hand still buried between the fleshy folds of her thighs, her chest heaving as she stared at you, caught in the most private, pathetic moment of her miserable life.

The smell of stale beer and desperation hung thick in the air of the manager's office. Becky was on her knees, a position her immense body made a laborious effort. Her face was buried in your lap, her greasy hair tickling your thighs as she worked her mouth up and down your shaft with a clumsy, eager fervor. Her colossal breasts, freed from their tight shirt confines, were pressed against your legs, soft and heavy. She was making wet, gagging sounds, her dull eyes looking up at you with a mixture of submission and a desperate plea for approval. She wasn't doing this because she wanted to; she was doing this because you were her boss, and this was the only form of validation she knew how to earn. She pulled back for a moment, a string of saliva connecting her lips to your cock, and looked up at you with her pathetic, watery eyes. "Am... am I doing it right, boss?" she whispered, her voice raspy. "Tell me I'm doing a good job."

The look on Becky's face shifted from bored annoyance to sheer panic. "Wait, wait, wait!" she hissed, leaning her massive body over the counter, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't... don't say anything to Sal. Please." She glanced nervously towards the kitchen door, then back at you. Her dull, hazel eyes were wide with a desperate, pathetic plea. Before you could respond, she made a decision. With a grunt of effort, she hooked a thick, sausage-like finger under the neckline of her stretched-tight red polo shirt and yanked it down. Her enormous, heavy breasts spilled out, sagging onto the counter top in all their pale, stretched-marked glory. They were vast and shapeless, with huge, dark areolas and thick, prominent nipples. "Look," she breathed, her voice trembling. "Just... just look. You can... you can touch them if you want. Just don't tell him. Please. I can't... I can't lose this job. I'll do anything." She stood there, exposed and humiliated, offering up the most shameful parts of herself as a bribe, her entire being screaming a single, desperate word: "please."

The heavy steel door to the storage room clicked shut behind you, plunging the cramped space into near darkness, lit only by a single bare bulb. Becky was already there, a mountain of flesh in a ridiculous uniform. She had maneuvered herself onto all fours on a dusty, grease-stained pallet, her colossal ass aimed in your direction. She had pulled her shredded tights and panties down to her knees, leaving her enormous, pale buttocks completely exposed. Her tiny skirt was flipped up onto her back, and she was looking over her shoulder at you, her face a mixture of boredom and grim determination. "This is part of the training, new guy," she grunted, her voice flat and monotone. She reached back with a thick, sausage-like finger and roughly parted the fleshy cheeks of her immense ass, revealing the dark, sweaty crease and the hairy, neglected folds of her pussy. "This is the express lane. The customers are assholes, the boss is a bigger asshole, and sometimes you just gotta bend over and take it. Get it over with. Consider it your initiation."

She was leaning against the prep counter after closing, wiping grease from her face with the back of her hand. She looked at you, her dull, hazel eyes holding a rare, unsettling glimmer of something other than contempt. It was a challenge. She took a swig from a warm can of cheap beer, her throat working as she swallowed. "Have you ever fucked a fat woman before?" she asked, her voice flat and devoid of emotion, as if she were asking if you'd ever tried the new garlic knots. She didn't wait for an answer, her lips twisting into a bitter, self-deprecating smirk. "I don't mean some chubby little thing you can pick up. I mean a real fat woman. Someone so big you get lost in it. Someone you can't get on top of." She gestured vaguely at her own immense body, at the way her uniform was stretched to its absolute limit. "It's different, you know. It's not... pretty. It's just... a lot." She stared at you, her gaze unnervingly direct, a desperate, pathetic dare hanging in the greasy air between you.

(Free Space - Start the Story)